LXXI.

Wherer'e the Muses haunt, or Poets muse,
In solitary Silence sweetly tir'd,
Unloose thy Bosom, May! thy Stores effuse,
Thy vernal Stores, by Poets most desir'd,
Of living Fountain, of the Wood-bind-shade,
Of Philomela , warbling from the Glade.
Thy Bounty, in his Verse, shall certes be repay'd.

LXXII.

On Twit'nam -Bow'rs ( Aonian -Twit'nam-Bow'rs!)
Thy softest Plenitude of Beauties shed,
Thick as the Winter-Stars, or Summer-Flow'rs;
Albe the tuneful Master (ah!) be dead.
To Colin next He taught my Youth to sing,
My Reed to warble, to resound my String:
The King of Shepherd's He , of Poet's He the King.

LXXIII.

Hail, happy Scenes, where Joy wou'd chuse to dwell;
Hail, golden Days, which Saturn deems his own;
Hail Musick, which the Muses scant excell;
Hail Flowrets, not unworthy Venus '-crown.
Ye Linnets, Larks, ye Thrushes, Nightingales;
Ye Hills, ye Plains, ye Groves, ye Streams, ye Gales,
Ye ever-happy Scenes! all you, your Poet hails.

LXXIV.

All-hail to thee, O May! the Crown of all!
The Recompence and Glory of my Song:
Ne small the Recompence, ne Glory small,
If gentle Ladies, and the Tuneful-Throng,
With Lovers-Myrtle, and with Poet's-Bay
Fairly bedight, approve the simple Lay,
And think on Thomalin whene'er they hail Thee, May!