Oh! may Eastwell, still with their aid encrease,
Plenty surround her, and within be peace.
Still may her temp'rate Air his Health maintain,
From whom she does such Strength and Beauty gain.
Florish her Trees, and may the Verdant Grasse
Again prevail, where late the plough did passe,
Still may she boast a kind and fruitfull soyle,
And still new pleasures give to crown his Toyle,
And may some one, with Admiration fill'd, 80
In just Applauses, and in Numbers skill'd,
Not with more Zeal, but more poetick heat,
Throughly Adorn, what barely we Relate.
Then, shou'd th' Elysian Groves no more be Nam'd,
Nor Tempe's Vale, be any longer Fam'd,
She shou'd the Theame, to ev'ry Verse affoard,
Until the Muse, when to advantage soar'd,
Shou'd take a nobler Aim, and dare describe her Lord.
A SONG
For my Br. Les: Finch. Upon a Punch Bowl
- From the Park, and the Play,
- And Whitehall come away,
To the Punch-bowl, by far more inviting;
- To the Fopps, and the Beauxs,
- Leaue those dull empty shows,
And see here, what is truly delighting.
- The half Globe 'tis in figure;
- And wou'd itt were bigger;
Yett here's the whole Universe floating,
- Here's Titles and Places,
- Rich lands, and fair faces,
And all that is worthy our doating.
