'Twas now when Royal Charles that Prince of peace,
(That pious Off spring of the Olive Race)
Sway'd Englands Scepter with a God-like hand,
Scattering soft Ease and Plenty o'r the Land,
Happy 'bove all the neighbouring Kings, while yet
Unruffled by the rudest storms of Fate,
More fortunate the People, till their Pride
Disdain'd Obedience to the Sovereign Guide,
And to a base Plebeian Senate gave
The Arbitrary Priv'lege to enslave;
Who through a Sea of Noblest Blood did wade,
To tear the Diadem from the Sacred Head.
Now above Envy, far above the Clouds
The Martyr sits triumphing with the Gods.
While Peace before did o'r the Ocean fly
On our blest Shore to find security:
In British Groves she built her downy nest,
No other Climate could afford her rest:
For warring Winds o'r wretched Europe range,
Threatning Destruction, universal Change.
The raging Tempest tore the aged Woods,
Shook the vast Earth, and troubl'd all the Floods.
Nor did the fruitful Goddess brood in vain,
But here in safety hatch'd her golden train.
Justice and Faith one Cornucopia fill,
Of useful Med'cines known to many an Ill.
Such was the Golden Age in Saturn 's sway,
Easie and innocent it pass'd away:
But too much Luxury and good Fortune cloys,
And Virtues she should cherish she destroys.
What we most wish, what we most toil to gain
Enjoyment palls, a[n]d turns the Bliss to pain.
Possession makes us shift our Happiness,
From peaceful Wives to noisie Mistrisses.
The Repetition makes the Pleasure dull;
'Tis only Change that's gay and beautiful.
O Notion false! O Appetite deprav'd,
That has the nobler part of Man enslav'd,
Man born to Reason, does that Safety quit,
To split upon the dangerous Rock of Wit.
Physicians say, there's no such danger near,
As when, though no signs manifest appear,
Self-tir'd and dull, man knows not what he ails,
And without toil his Strength and Vigor fails.
Such was the State of England , sick with Ease,
Too happy, if she knew her Happiness.
Their Crime no Ignorance for Excuse can plead,
That wretched refuge for Ingratitude. . . .

[There follows a gathering of British trees to hear an account of the Civil Wars and Interregnum from the Tree-Queen, Dryas; among the trees is the Laurel]

Next the fair Nymph that Phaebus does adore,
But yet as nice and cold as heretofore:
She hates all fires, and with aversion still
She chides and crackles if the flame she feel.
Yet though she's chast, the burning God no less
Adores, and makes his Love his Prophetess.
And even the Murmurs of her scorn do now
For joyful Sounds and happy Omens go.
Nor does the Humble, though the sacred Tree
Fear wounds from any Earthly Enemy;
For she beholds when loudest storms abound,
The flying thunder of the Gods around,
Let all the flaming Heav'ns threat as they will
Unmov'd th' undaunted Nymph out-braves it still.
Oh thou! —
Of all the woody Nations happiest made
Thou greatest Princess of the fragrant shade,
But shou'd the Goddess Dryas not allow
That Royal Title to thy Vertue due,
At least her justice must this truth confess
If not a Princess, thou'rt a Prophetess,
And all the Glories of immortal Fame
Which conquering Monarchs so much strive to gain,
Is but at best from thy triumphing Boughs
To reach a Garland to adorn their Brows,
And after Monarchs, Poets claim a share
As the next worthy thy priz'd wreaths to wear.
Among that number, do not me disdain,
Me, the most humble of that glorious Train.
I by a double right thy Bounties claim,
Both from my Sex, and in Apollo 's Name:
Let me with Sappho and Orinda be
Oh ever sacred Nymph, adorn'd by thee;
And give my Verses Immortality.