Ah! lovely treacherous maids!
To quit unseen my votive shades,
When pale disease, and torturing pain
Had torn me from the breezy plain,
And to a restless couch confin'd,
Who ne'er your wonted tasks declin'd.
She needs not your officious aid
To swell the song, or plan the shade;
By genuine Fancy fir'd,
Her native Genius guides her hand,
And while she marks the sage command,
More lovely scenes her skill shall raise,
Her lyre resound with nobler lays
Than ever you inspir'd.
Thus I my rage and grief display;
But vainly blame, and vainly mourn,
Nor will a Grace or Muse return
Till LUXBOROUGH lead the way.