For my  let them be
What may with the Time agree;
Warm, when  does retire,
And is ill-supply'd by Fire:
But when he renews the Year,
And verdant all the Fields appear;
Beauty every thing resumes,
Birds have dropt their Winter-Plumes;
When the Lilly full display'd,
Stands in purer White array'd,
Than that Vest, which heretofore
The Luxurious Monarch wore,
When from  Gates he drove,
To the soft Retreat of Love,
all burnish'd House,
And the dear  Spouse.
Cloath me, Fate, tho' not so Gay;
Cloath me light, and fresh as
In the Fountains let me view
All my Habit cheap and new;
Such as, when sweet  fly,
With their Motions may comply;
Gently waving, to express
Unaffected Carelesness:
No Perfumes have there a Part,
Borrow'd from the  Art;
But such as rise from flow'ry Beds,
Or the falling  Sheds!
'Twas the Odour of the Field,
rural Coat did yield,
That inspir'd his Father's Pray'r,
For Blessings of the Earth and Air:
Of Gums, or Pouders had it smelt;
The Supplanter, then unfelt,
Easily had been descry'd,
For One that did in Tents abide;
For some beauteous Handmaids Joy,
And his Mother's darling Boy.
Let me then no Fragrance wear,
But what the Winds from Gardens bear,
In such kind, surprizing Gales,
As gather'd from  Vales,
All the Flowers that in them grew;
Which intermixing, as they flew,
In wreathen Garlands dropt agen,
On  and his Men;
Who, chear'd by the victorious Sight,
Trebl'd Numbers put to Flight.
Let me, when I must be fine,
In such natural Colours shine;
Wove, and painted by the Sun,
Whose resplendent Rays to shun,
When they do too fiercely beat,
Let me find some close Retreat,
Where they have no Passage made,
Thro' those Windings, and that Shade.