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Never speaking, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak, The Delight of old and young, Tho' I speak without a Tongue. Nought but one Thing can confound me, Many Voices joining round me; Then I fret, and rave and gabble, Like the Labourers of Babel. Now I am a Dog, or Cow, I can bark, or I can low, I can bleat, or I can sing, Like the Warblers of the Spring. Let the Love-sick Bard complain, And I mourn the cruel Pain; Let the happy Swain rejoice, And I join my helping Voice; Both are welcome, Grief or Joy, I with either sport and toy. Tho' a Lady, I am stout, Drums and Trumpets bring me out; Then I clash and roar, and rattle, Join in all the Din of Battle. Jove, with all his loudest Thunder, When I'm vext, can't keep me under; Yet so tender is my Ear, That the lowest Voice I fear; Much I dread the Courtier's Fate, When his Merit's out of Date, For I hate a silent Breath, And a Whisper is my Death. I am a echo