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[Music ]
WHen Phœbus does rise, the Flow'rs raise their Heads,
And charm'd by his Influence, smile o'er the Meads,
When Cælia's bright Eyes with kindness meet mine,
New Hopes and new Raptures, my Joys make divine.
We laugh and we sing, the Hours fly with Pleasure,
Affairs abroad we care not to know,
In Youth at our Leisure,
Loves happy Treasure,
Makes Blessings flow,
Mortally averse to Brawlings of High-Church and Low.
Ye Wits of the Town,
Ye Chiefs of the Gown,
Ye Law-making Sages that flatter the Crown,
How dare you address?
How can you profess?
To honour your Soveraign, yet still make her less,
Whilst Factions reign of Whigg and of Tory,
Your Zeal's a Banter to all Men of Sence;
'Tis Gain moves your Fury,
And not her Glory,
Nor our Defence,
And the solemn Word, Religion, is meerly Pretence.
