lovely Landscapes you survey,
And peaceful pass your Hours away,
Refresh'd with various blooming Sweets;
I'm sick of Smells and dirty Streets,
Stifled with Smoke, and stunn'd with Noise
Of ev'ry Thing — but my own Boys;
Thro' Rounds of  doom'd to run,
And very seldom see the Sun:
Yet sometimes pow'rful Fancy reigns,
And glads my Eyes with sylvan Scenes;
Where Time, enamour'd, slacks his Pace,
Enchanted by the warbling Race;
And, in Atonement for his Stay,
Thro' Cities hurries on the Day.