Now Friends conversing my soft Hours refine,
And   revives in mine:
Now to grave Books I bid the Mind retreat,
And such as make me rather Good than Great.
Or o'er the Works of easy  rove,
Where Flutes and Innocence amuse the Grove:
The native  that on  Plains
First sung the lowly Manners of the Swains;
Or  Muse, that in the fairest Light
Paints rural Prospects and the Charms of Sight;
These soft  bring  along,
And  void of Sorrow, turns to
Here beauteous  for all the Year remain,
When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.