Then haste, my Friend, to yonder  Bowers,
Where Peace and Silence crown the blissful Hours;
In those still Groves no martial Clamours sound,
No streaming Purple stains the guiltless Ground;
But fairer Scenes our ravish'd Eyes employ,
Give a soft Pleasure, and a quiet Joy;
Grief flies from hence, and wasting Cares subside,
While wing'd with Mirth the laughing Minutes glide.
See, my fair Friend, the painted Shrubs are gay,
And round they Head ambrosial Odours play;
At Sight of thee the swelling Buds expand,
And op'ning Roses seem to court thy Hand;
Hark, the shrill Linnet charms the distant Plain,
And  replies with softer Strain;
See those bright Lilies shine with milky Hue,
And those fair Cowslips drop with balmy Dew;
To thee, my Fair, the chearful Linnet sings,
And  warbles o'er the Springs;
For thee those Lilies paint the fertile Ground,
And those fair Cowslips are with Nectar crown'd;
Here let us rest to shun the scorching Ray,
While curling Zephyrs in the Branches play.
In these calm Shades no ghastly Woe appears,
No Cries of Wretches stun our frighted Ears;
Here no gloss'd Hate, no sainted Wolves are seen,
Nor busy Faces throng the peaceful Green;
But Fear and Sorrow leave the careful Breast,
And the glad Soul sinks happily to Rest.