Our Funds are wanting, our Credit decays,
The French are publickly Arming;
And for all the daily noise is of Peace,
It never comes to confirming.
But we that Breath in a Fragrant Air,
From News, Street noise, and such Howling;
Our innocent Pleasures each Day prepare,
With Fishing, and Shooting, and Bowling.
Some Mornings early we Hunt a Hare,
Who Life to Pleasure us looses;
Or else if the Weather proves not fair,
At home we Regale on the Muses.
The charming Raptures of Beauty and Love,
Sweet Cloris freely affords too;
When we meet each Evening in a lone Grove,
And sing and bill as the Birds do.
She feeds on Jessamin, and spring Nectar drinks,
Whilst she we call a Town Madam;
Is infected still with a foul Suburb stinks,
And Damns her self in old Sodom.
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