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Behold! my Lord advances o'er the Green,
Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen:
But soft—by regular approach—not yet—
First thro' the length of yon hot Terras sweat,
And when up ten steep Slopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Just at his Study-door he'll bless your Eyes.
Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen:
But soft—by regular approach—not yet—
First thro' the length of yon hot Terras sweat,
And when up ten steep Slopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Just at his Study-door he'll bless your Eyes.
His Study? with what Authors is it stor'd?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated Backs he turns you round,
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound.
Lo some are Vellom, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Lock or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These Shelves admit not any Modern book.
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated Backs he turns you round,
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound.
Lo some are Vellom, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Lock or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These Shelves admit not any Modern book.
And now the Chappel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light Quirks of Musick, broken and uneven,
Make the Soul dance upon a Jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio, or Laguerre,
That summons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light Quirks of Musick, broken and uneven,
Make the Soul dance upon a Jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio, or Laguerre,
On
