To
a
Lady
,
who
invited
the
Author
into
the
Country
.
How
gladly
,
Madam
,
would
I
go
,
To
see
your
Gardens
,
and
Chateau
;
From
thence
the
fine
Improvements
view
,
Or
walk
your
verdant
Avenue
;
Delighted
,
hear
the
Thrushes
sing
,
Or
listen
to
some
bubbling
Spring
;
If
Fate
had
giv'n
me
Leave
to
roam
!
But
Citizens
must
stay
at
Home
.
We're
lonesome
since
you
went
away
,
And
should
be
dead
—
but
for
our
Tea
;
That
Helicon
of
female
Wits
,
Which
fills
their
Heads
with
rhyming
Fits
!
This
Liquor
seldom
heats
the
Brain
,
But
turns
it
oft
,
and
makes
us
vain
;
With
Fumes
supplies
Imagination
,
Which
we
mistake
for
Inspiration
.
This
makes
us
cramp
our
Sense
in
Fetters
,
And
teaze
our
Friends
with
chiming
Letters
.
I
grieve
your
Brother
has
the
Gout
;
Tho'
he's
so
stoically
stout
,
I've
heard
him
mourn
his
Loss
of
Pain
,
And
wish
it
in
his
Feet
again
.
What
Woe
poor
Mortals
must
endure
,
When
Anguish
is
their
only
Cure
!
STREPHON
is
ill
;
and
I
perceive
His
lov'd
Elvira
grows
so
grave
,
I
fear
,
like
Niobe
,
her
Moan
Will
turn
herself
and
me
to
Stone
.
Have
I
not
cause
to
dread
this
Fate
,
Who
scarce
so
much
as
smile
of
late
?
Whilst
lovely
Landscapes
you
survey
,
And
peaceful
pass
your
Hours
away
,
Refresh'd
with
various
blooming
Sweets
;
I'm
sick
of
Smells
and
dirty
Streets
,
Stifled
with
Smoke
,
and
stunn'd
with
Noise
Of
ev'ry
Thing
—
but
my
own
Boys
;
Thro'
Rounds
of
plodding
doom'd
to
run
,
And
very
seldom
see
the
Sun
:
Yet
sometimes
pow'rful
Fancy
reigns
,
And
glads
my
Eyes
with
sylvan
Scenes
;
Where
Time
,
enamour'd
,
slacks
his
Pace
,
Enchanted
by
the
warbling
Race
;
And
,
in
Atonement
for
his
Stay
,
Thro'
Cities
hurries
on
the
Day
.
O
!
would
kind
Heav'n
reverse
my
Fate
,
Give
me
to
quit
a
Life
I
hate
,
To
flow'ry
Fields
I
soon
would
fly
:
Let
others
stay
—
to
cheat
and
lye
.
There
,
in
fome
blissful
Solitude
,
Where
eating
Care
should
ne'er
intrude
,
The
Muse
should
do
the
Country
Right
,
And
paint
the
glorious
Scenes
you
slight
.
Dublin
,
1728.