O THOU , that swing'st upon the waving ear
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropped thee from heaven, where now thou'rt reared;

The joys of air and earth are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then;
Sport'st in the gilt plats of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .