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“Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while, : Beneath this cloyster wall: See, through the hawthorne blows the cold wind,
And drizzly rain doth fall.”
“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
Thy own true-love appears.
“Here, forc'd by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.
“But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet pass'd away,
No longer would I stay."
“Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
We never more will part.”
Ere Saturn's sons were yet disgrac'd,
To Britain's isle direct their car,
Beside the road a mansion stood,
The dame who own'd, adorn'd the place;
Imagine now the table clear,
When Wit thus spake her sister train:
« Faith, friends, our errand is but vain-
AN INVITATION TO
BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES.
Fresh verdure decks the grove, Each bird with vernal rapture glows,
And tunes his notes to love.
Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,
And shun the noontide heat; My shrubs a cooling shade supply,
My groves a safe retreat.
Here freely hop from spray to spray,
Or weave the mossy nest;
At night here sweetly rest.
Amidst this cool translucent rill,
That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.
No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,
E'er shows his ruddy face,
In this sequester'd place.
Hither the vocal Thrush repairs,
Secure the Linnet sings,
To clog her painted wings.
Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt
Yon distant woods among, And round my friendly grotto chaunt
Thy sweetly-plaintive song.
Let not the harmless Redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come And seek a sure asylunu here,
With one that loves his home.
My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve; Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe!
Come, feed without reserve.
For you these cherries I protect,
To you these plums belong: Sweet is the fruit that you have peck’d,
But sweeter far your song.