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G E OR

RG I C.
To Mr. po Р Е.

OU, who the sweets of rural Life have

known, Y

Despise th' ungrateful hurry of the town;

'n Windfor groves your eafie hours employ> And, undisturbid, yourself and Muse enjoy. Thames listens to thy strains, and silent flows,

$ And no rude wind through rustling ofiers blows, While all his wondring nymphs around the throng, To hear the Sirens warble in thy fong.

But i, who ne'er was bless’d by Fortune's hand, Nor brighten'd plow-shares in paternal land,

Long

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Long in the noisie town have been immur'd,
Respir'd its smoke, and all its cares endurid,
Where news and politicks divide mankind,
And schemes of state involve th' uneasie mind :
Faction embroils the world ; and ev'ry Tongue. 15
Is mov'd by flatt'ry, or with scandal hung:
Friendship, for fylvan fhades, the palace flies,
Where all muft yield to int'reft's dearer ties;
Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,
And honesty forsakes them all by turns ;
While calumny upon each party's thrown,
Which both promote, and both alike disown.
Fatigu'd at last; a calm retreat I chose,
And sooth'd my harass'd mind with sweet repose,
Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime, 25
Inspire the sylvan song, and prompt my rhime.
My muse shall rove through flow'ry meads and plains,
And deck with Rural Sports her native strains,
And the same road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan fwain, and you.

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'Tis not that rural sports alone invite, But all the grateful country breathes delight;

Here

Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,
And ftrings the finews of th' industrious swain.
Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care,
In the revolving labours of the year.

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When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd,
And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground,
The lab'rer with the bending scythe. is seen,
Shaving the surface of the waving green,
Of all her native pride disrobes the land,
And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand :
While with the mounting sun the meadow glows,
The fading Herbage round he loosely throws;
But if some sign portend a lasting show's,
Th' experienc'd swain foresees the coming hour,
His fun-burnt hands the scatt'ring fork forsake,
And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake,
In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows,
And spreads along the field in equal rows.

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Now when the height of Heav'n bright Phebus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains,

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