LXI.

Let us our Steps direct where Father-Thames .
In silver Windings draws his humid Train,
And pours, where'er he rolls his Naval-stream,
Pomp on the City, Plenty o'er the Plain.
Or by the Banks of Isis shall we stray,
(Ah why so long from Isis Banks away!)
Where thousand Damsels dance, and thousand Shepherds play.

LXII.

Or chuse you rather Theron 's calm Retreat,
Embosom'd, Surry , in thy verdant Vale,
At once the Muses and the Graces Seat!
There gently listen to my faithful Tale.
Along the dew-bright Parterres let us rove,
Or taste the Odours of the Mazy-Grove:
Hark how the Turtles coo: I languish too with Love.

LXIII.

Amid the Pleasaunce of Arcadian Scenes,
Love steals his silent Arrows on my Breast;
Nor Falls of Water, nor enamel'd Greens,
Can sooth my Anguish, or invite to Rest.
You, dear Ianthe , you alone impart
Balm to my Wounds, and Cordial to my Smart:
The Apple of my Eye, the Life-blood of my Heart.

LXIV.

With Line of Silk, with Hook of barbed Steel,
Beneath this Oaken Umbrage let us lay,
And from the Water's Crystal-bosom steal
Upon the grassy Bank the finny Prey:
The Perch, with Purple speckled manifold;
The Eel, in silver Labyrinth self-roll'd,
And Carp, all-burnish'd o'er with Drops of scaly Gold.

LXV.

Or shall the Meads invite, with Iris -hues
And Nature's Pencil gay-diversisy'd,
(For now the Sun has lick'd away the Dews)
Fair-flushing and bedeck'd like Virgin-bride?
Thither, (for they invite us) we'll repair,
Collect and weave (whate'er is sweet and fair)
A Posy for thy Breast, a Garland for thy Hair.