When Bacchus' curling vines had grac'd my lays,
The rural pleasures [1] next shou'd share my praise.
The labour ended, and compleat the whole,
Some bards with pleasure wander round the goal,
The flights and sallies of the muse prolong,
And add new beanties to the finisht song;
Pleas'd with th' excursion of the charming strain,
We strive to quit the work, but strive in vain.
Thus, were the bees the subject of my muse,
Their laws, their natures, and cœlestial dews;
Poor [2] Aristæus should his fate disclose,
His mother's counsel should asswage his woes;
Old Proteus here should struggle in his chain,
There in soft verse the Thracian bard complain;
(As Philomela on a poplar's bough,
Bewails her young, melodious in her woe.)
Pangæuan steeps his sorrows should return,
And vocal Thrace with Rhodope should mourn,
And groaning Hebrus weep from every urn.
Thus too the poets, who the names declare
Of kings and nations gath'ring to the war,
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