Hither, amongst the Crouds, that shun
The smoaky Town, and sultry Sun,
In cooling Springs to seek for Health,
Or throw away superfluous Wealth,
A Native of Hibernia came,
Thus writ her Thoughts, but not her Name.

Hither the Britons , void of Care,
A happy, free-born Race, repair:
Whilst I, who feel a diff'rent Fate,
Lament my Country's wretched State,
The pitying Rocks return my Lays,
Just Emblem of the barren Bays.

Thus far — — When, lo! the God of Wit,
Who slightly glanc'd on what was writ,
Suspend, he cries, thy Cares a-while;
My SACKVILLE soon shall bless your Isle:
No longer talk of barren Bays;
Remember, 'tis a DORSET sways.