Nor hear th' imperious woodman's call,
Nor see your fylvan daughters fall,
With head declin'd attend their moan,
And echo to the dying groan.

oaks, my

While I, attack'd by foes to rest,
New vistas opening thro' my breast,
Am daily torn with wounds and flashes,
And see

elms, my alhes,
With rhiming labels round them set,
As every tree were to be let.
And, when one pants for consolation,
Am put in mind of contemplation.

O friend, instruct me to endure
These mighty ills, or hint a cure.
Say, might not marriage, well apply'd,
Improve his taste, correct his pride,
Inform him books but make folks muddy,
Confine his morals to his study,
Teach him, like other mortals, here
To toy and prattle with his dear;
Avert that fate

my fear foresees,
And, for his children, save his trees ?

Right trusty wood, if you approve
The remedy express’d above,
Write by the next fair wind that blows,
And kindly recommend a spouse.


A N S W E R.

DEAR grove, I ask, ten thousand pardons,

Sure I'm the most absurd of gardens !
Such correspondence to neglect -
Lord, how must all grove-kind reflect !

Your human loiterers, they say,
Can put ye off from day to day
With post gone out-the careless maid
Forgot-the letter was mislaid-
And twenty phrases wrought with art
To hide the coldness of the heart.
But vegetables from their youth
Were always taught to speak the truth,
In Dodonn's vales, on Mona's mountains,
In Jotham's fables, or in Fontaine's,
They talk like any judge or bishop,
Quite from the cedar down to hyffop.
I therefore for my past offence
May own, with sylvan innocence,
I've nought but negligence to plead;
Which you'll excuse, and I'll proceed.

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You groves who stand remote from towns (Tho' we are apt to call ye clowns)

Have really something in your natures
Which makes ye most diverting creatures.
And then, I vow, I like to see
That primitive fimplicity ;
To think of marriage as a means
T'improve his taste, and save your green
It looks fo like that good old grove
Where Adam once to Eve made love,


foul alive would swear Your trees were educated there.

Why, child, the only hope thou hast
Lies in thy master's want of taste ;
For shou'd his ling'ring stay in London
Improve his taste, you must be undone;
Your trees would presently lie flat,
And the high mode of one green plat
Run thro' his worship’s whole estate,


Besides, you rustics fill your

fancies With Ovid, and his strange romances. Why now you think, in days like

That love must still inhabit bowers,
And goddesses, as just rewards
For hymns of praise, grow fond of bards,
And fly to over-arching woods
And flowery banks, and crystal floods,
Because such things, forsooth, were wanted
When your great grandmothers were planted.


The cafe, my dear, is alter'd quite,
Not that we're chaste, but more polite ;
Your shepherdesses fought such places,
Like simple girls, to hide their faces ;
But our bright maids disdain the thought,
They know hypocrisy's a fault,
And never bear by their consent
The shame of seeming innocent.


But I forget, you've just got down
A mistress, as you wilh'd, from town.
I don't know what you'll say at Romely,
We really think the woman comely ;
Has some good qualities beside,
They say, but she's as yet a bride ;
One can't trust every report
Not we I mean who live near court;
A lie perhaps in Derbyshire
May be as strange as truth is here.
Our ladies, and all their relations,
Are vastly full of commendations ;
As for miss

-'s part, the swears,
-I ask her pardon- she avers
That never in her life-time yet
She saw a woman more compleat ;
And wishes trees could tramp the plain,
Like Birnhain wood to Dunsinane,
So might or you or

I remove,
And Romely join to Haling grove.

O could

O could her wish but alter fate
And kindly place us téte à tête,
How sweetly might from every walk
My echoes to your echoes talk !
But since, as justly you observe,
By Nature's laws, which never swerve,
We're bound from gadding, tree by tree,
Both us and our posterity,
Let each, content with her own county,
E'en make the best of Nature's bounty.
Calmly enjoy the present bliss,
Nor in what might be lose what is.

Believe me, dear, beyond expressing
We're happy, if we knew the blessing.
Our masters, all the world allow,
Are honest men as times go now;
They neither wench, nor drink, nor game,
Nor burn with zeal or party flame,
From whence, excepting adverse fates,
We may conclude that there estates
Will probably increase, and we
Shall stand another century.

Then never mind a tree or two
Cut down perhaps to ope a view,
Nor be of nail'd up verse alham’d,
You'll live to see the poet damn’d.
I envy not, I swear and vow,
The itnples, or the Thades of Stow;


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