Her gardens having escaped a flood that had laid all the country round under water.

What hands divine have planted and protect
The torrent spares, and deluges respect;
So when the waters o'er the world were spread,
Covering each oak, and ev'ry mountain's head,
The chosen Patriarch sail'd within his ark,
Nor might the waves o'erwhelm the sacred bark.
The charming Flavia is no less, we find,
The favourite of Heav'n than of mankind:
The gods, like rivals, imitate our care,
And vie with mortals to oblige the fair.
These favours, thus bestow'd on her alone,
Are but the homage which they send her down.
O Flavia! may thy virtue from above
Be crown'd with blessings endless as my love!