To the cool Bosom of a peaceful Shade,
By some wild Beech, or lofty Poplar made,
When Ev'ning comes, we secretly repair,
To breath in private, and unbend our Care:
And, while our Flocks in fruitful Pastures feed,
Some well-design'd instructive Poem read.
Where useful Morals, with soft Numbers joyn'd,
At once delight, and cultivate the Mind:
Which are by her to more Perfection brought,
By wise Remarks upon the Poet's Thought.
So well she knows the Stamp of Eloquence,
The empty Sound of Words from solid Sense;
The florid Fustian of a Rhyming Spark,
Whose random Arrow ne'er comes ne'er the Mark,
Can't on her Judgement be impos'd, and pass
For Standard Gold, when 'tis but gilded Brass,
Oft in the Walks of an adjacent Grove,
Where first we mutually engag'd to love;
She'd smiling ask me, whether I'd prefer,
An humble Cottage on the Plains with her,
Before the pompous Building of the Great,
And find Content, in that inferior State?
Said I, the Question you propose to me,
Perhaps a matter of Debate might be;
Were the Degrees of my Affection less,
Than burning Martyrs to the  express.
In you I've all I can desire below,
That Earth can give me, or the  bestow;
And blest with you, I know not where to find
A second Choice; you take up all my Mind.
I'd not forsake that dear delightful Plain,
Where charming ,  and  reign;
For all the Splendor that a Court can give,
Where gaudy Fools, and busy Statesmen live.
Tho' youthful , when his Birth was known,
Too fatally related to a Throne,
Forsook , and his rural Sports,
For dangerous Greatness, and tumultuous Courts,
Yet Fate should still offer its Pow'r in vain,
For what is Pow'r to such an humble Swain?
I would not leave my , leave my Fair,
Tho' half the Globe should be assign'd my Share.