O , 'till that Day appears,
Which must decide our Hopes and Fears:
Would  calm her present Rage,
And give us Play-things for our Age:
Would  wash her Hands in Milk,
And twist our Thread with Gold and Silk:
Would She in Friendship, Peace, and Plenty,
Spin out our Years to four times Twenty:
And should We both in this Condition,
Have conquer'd Love, and worse Ambition;
(Else those two Passions, by the way,
May chance to show us scurvy Play:)
Then , then should We sit down,
Far from the Tumult of this Town:
I fond of my well-chosen Seat,
My Pictures, Medals, Books compleat:
Or should We mix our friendly Talk,
O'er-shaded in that Fav'rite Walk,
Which Thy own Hand had whilom planted,
Both pleas'd with all we thought We wanted:
Yet then, ev'n then one cross Reflection
Would spoil Thy Grove, and My Collection:
Thy Son and his, e'er that, may die;
And Time some uncouth Heir supply;
Who shall for nothing else be known,
But spoiling All, that Thou hast done.
Who set the Twigs, shall He remember,
That is in Hast to sell the Timber?
And what shall of thy Woods remain,
Except the Box that threw the Main?