Tho' in sulphureous Clouds of Smoak confin'd,
Thy rural Scenes spring fresh into my Mind.
Thy Genius in such Colours paints the Chace,
The real to fictitious Joys give Place.
When the wild Musick charms my ravish'd Ear,
How dull, how tasteless Handel's Notes appear!
Ev'n Farenelli's Self the Palm resigns,
He yields———but to the Musick of thy Lines.
If Friends to Poetry can yet be found;
Who without blushing Sense prefer to Sound;
Then let this soft, this Soul-enfeebling Band,
These warbling Minstrels quit the beggar'd Land.
They but a momentary Joy impart,
'Tis you, who touch the Soul, and warm the Heart.
How tempting do thy sylvan Sports appear!
Ev'n wild Ambition might vouchsafe an Ear,
Might her fond Lust of Pow'r a while compose,
And gladly change it for thy sweet Repose.
Thy rural Scenes spring fresh into my Mind.
Thy Genius in such Colours paints the Chace,
The real to fictitious Joys give Place.
When the wild Musick charms my ravish'd Ear,
How dull, how tasteless Handel's Notes appear!
Ev'n Farenelli's Self the Palm resigns,
He yields———but to the Musick of thy Lines.
If Friends to Poetry can yet be found;
Who without blushing Sense prefer to Sound;
Then let this soft, this Soul-enfeebling Band,
These warbling Minstrels quit the beggar'd Land.
They but a momentary Joy impart,
'Tis you, who touch the Soul, and warm the Heart.
How tempting do thy sylvan Sports appear!
Ev'n wild Ambition might vouchsafe an Ear,
Might her fond Lust of Pow'r a while compose,
And gladly change it for thy sweet Repose.
