Behold, says ARCHIMAGE, the envy'd height
Of human grandeur to the gods ally'd!
Behold yon sun of pow'r, whose glorious light,
O'er this rejoicing land out-beaming wide,
Calls up those princely flow'rs on ev'ry side;
Which like the painted daughters of the plain,
Ne toil, ne spin, ne stain their silken pride
With care, or sorrow, sith withouten pain,
Them in eternal joy those heav'nly beams maintain.