The cream-pot first she fill'd with liquor,
Fit for the thorax of the Vicar.
Nay  himself, the skies protector,
Would call such liquor heav'nly Nectar.
So, in a grot, I've seen enthron'd
Some river goddess, osier-crown'd,
Pour all her copious urns around.
Hence plenteous crops our harvests yield,
And  laughs thro' all the field.
A pan of milk, unskimm'd its cream,
Did next receive the bounteous stream;
The bounteous stream in bubbles breaks,
And many a curious eddy makes.
O stop, dear nymph; alack! forbear;
Spoil not our cheese! our butter spare!
What will poor Gooddy  say,
To see her milk all turn'd to whey?
The nymph was deaf, the noise was loud,
And who hear less than those that shou'd?
So in an aqueduct I've stood,
And heard aghast the headlong flood:
What tho' with  lungs you call,
I hear you not, I'm deafness all.