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G E OR
RG I C.
OU, who the sweets of rural Life have
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 in the noisie town have been immur'd,
'Tis not that rural sports alone invite, But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,
When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd,
Now when the height of Heav'n bright Phebus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains,