In  fair  o'er the boldest Wits
Inshrin'd on high the sacred  sits,
And sits in Measures, such as  Muse
To place thee near him might be fond to chuse.
How might he tune th' alternate Reed with thee,
Perhaps a  thou, a  he,
While some old  o'er the Vulgar wise
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'sf the Prize.
Rapt with the Thought my  seeks the Plains,
And turns me Shepherd while I hear the Strains.
Indulgent Nurse of ev'ry tender Gale,
Parent of Flowrets, old
Here in the cool my Limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy Poplars whisper o'er my Head,
Still slide thy Waters soft among the Trees,
Thy Aspins quiver in a breathing Breeze,
Smile all thy Vallies in eternal Spring,
Be hush'd, ye Winds! while  and  sing.