Som time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Roab'd in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight,
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land,
And the Milkmaid fingeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his fithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Ruffet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where the nibling flocks do ftray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows trim with Daifies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it fees
Boofom'd high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps fom beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrfis met,
Are at their favory dinner fet
Of Hearbs, and other Country Meffes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dreffes ;
And then in hafte her Bowre fhe leaves,
With Theftylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann'd Haycock in the Mead,
Some times with fecure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks found
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer'd fhade;
And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday,
Till the live-long day-light fail,
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht, and pull'd she sed,
And by the Friars Lanthorn led
Tells how the drudging Goblin fwet,
To ern his Cream-bowle duly fet,
When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
His fhadowy Flale hath thresh'd the Corn,
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend.
And stretch'd out all the Chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
Ere the firft Cock his Mattin rings.
Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Winds foon lull'd asleep.
Towred Cities please us then,
And the bufie humm of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prise,
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend,
There let Hymen oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such fights as youthful Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod ftage anon,
If Jonfons learned Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
And ever against eating Cares,
Lap me in foft Lydian Aires,
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting foul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of lincked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden foul of harmony.
That Orpheus felf may heave his head
From golden flumber on a bed
Of heapt Elyfian flowres, and hear
Such ftreins as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite fet free
His half regain'd Eurydice..
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.
Part of an Entertainment prefented to the Countess Dowager of Darby at Harefield, by fome Noble Perfons of her Family, who appear on the Scene in Paftoral Habit, moving toward the feat of State, with this Song.
OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What fudden blaze of Majesty
Is that which we from hence descry
Too divine to be mistook :
This this is fhe
To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Heer our folemn search hath end.
Fame that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise,
Lefs then half we find expreft,
Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant ftate fhe fpreds,
In circle round her fhining throne,
Shooting her beams like filver threds,
This this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddes bright,
In the center of her light.
Might she the wife Latona be,
Or the towred Cybele,
Mother of a hundred gods;
Juno dare's not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparalel'd?
As they com forward, the Genius of the Wood appears, and turning toward them, fpeaks.
Gen. Stay gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,
I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes,
Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood, fo often fung,
Divine Alpheus, who by fecret fluse,
Stole under Seas to meet his Arethufe;
And
ye the breathing Roses of the Wood,
Fair filver-bufkin'd Nymphs as great and good,
I know this quest of yours, and free intent
Was all in honour and devotion ment
To the great Miftres of yon princely fhrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful fervice will comply
To further this nights glad folemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft amidst these shades alone
Have fate to wonder at, and gaze upon :
For know by lot from Jove I am the powr
Of this fair Wood, and live in Oak'n bowr,
To nurse the Saplings tall, and curl the grove,
With Ringlets quaint; and wanton windings wove.
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