St. LEONARD'S HILL.  
A Poem.  
Written by R. F. Gent.  
Licenced, May the 14th. 1666. Roger L'Estrange.  
LONDON, Printed for john Simms, at the Cross-keyes in Cornhill, near the Royal Exchange. 1666.   

St. Leonard's Hill.  
WHat if Apollo and the Muses now,  
Should with an angry nod, and frowning brow?  
Chide me, for boldly thus daring to write  
Before they gave me leave, or did invite  
To taste of Hellicons inspiring streams,  
Although perhaps not half so clear as Thames:  
Or cause I put not on considering Cap,  
And upon their Parnassus took a nap:  
Faith let Apollo and his Wenches know it,  
I ne'er ambitious was to be a Poet;  
Yet without their good leave, I'll Verses make,  
And from a Nobler Hill my Rise I'll take,  
Viewing these Airy Landscapes as I fly,  
More bounded in my Fancy than mine Eye:  
Well may I then great Hill, thy praise rehearse,  
Since you alone give life unto my Verse;  
Come hither all ye Mortals, that would be  
Blest with a taste of Heaven's felicity;  
Come, I'll conduct you to that mount above,  
Where you will find that shall deserve your love.  

Clewerth Green.  And as we go, let's view this Rural Green,  
Here true content with Poverty are seen;  
Here little Lambs after their Mother's bleat,  
Until their mouths are stopped with the Teat;  
Young Colts are here, with droves of Heifers bred,  
Making this Green, their Pasture and their Bed;  
Here with her Gulls the reverend Brood-Goose walks  
And old Sir Gander to the young ones talks;  
Here a small Farm, there doth a Cottage stand,  
To which the Owner joins a little Land,  
Where he doth plant young Trees, and if they grow  
To bear good Fruit, the Gods cannot bestow  
On him or His, a greater blessing thinks,  
And cheerfully a good health to his Neighbour drinks,  
Living more happy under his thatched Roof,  
Than they, whose splendid Buildings stand a loof;  
For in this poor and solitary Cell,  
Sound health and harmless peace together dwell;  
Which blessings are most commonly denied  
To Great men's houses, filled with lust and pride.  
Here with the Lamb they close their slumbering eyes,  
And early with the Lark again they rise  
Unto their Rural labours; thus they live  
Content, though poor, with what the Fates do give;  
And when at last Death doth his summons send,  
Not sickness, but old age does make them bend.  
Now whilst I'm speaking, look the Old man peeps,  
Let's enter in and see what house he keeps.  
Going then in, he soon doth us espy,  
And pulling off his Hat, 
Old Pain  a loud doth cry,  
My Masters all, ye are welcome, pray draw near,  
Sat down and drink, for I have Ale and Beer,  
And sweet Metheglin that's both blithe and bonny,  
Made of the Best and purest Virgin-Hony;  
Or would you Cider drink, or good old Perry?  
Your nose 'twill tickle, and your heart make merry:  
Old Mother grief sat by the Smoky Hearth,  
Holding a brown Toast to the burning Turf;  
Then sighing o'er a pot of Ale, anon  
Her Sorrow for to break, she thus began;  
O Gentlemen! my days are almost done,  
My Sun's near set, and I my race have run.  
Cheer up thy heart Old woman, do not cry,  
Should innocency be afraid to die?  
Alas I weep, because Death comes not yet,  
He to my misery would a period set:  
Mourn all ye Lovers, when so e'er she dies,  
Of Custards, Cheesecakes, and hot Pudding pies;  
For to your sorrow, you will quickly find,  
Her fellow she can never leave behind.  
Now of each Liquor having had a taste,  
He leads us to his little Plot at last;  
And showed us how each tender Plant did grow  
In rank and file, and he their names doth know;  

Old goodman Pain his Nursery.  First stands a file of Pippins, next to those,  
Deep ranks of Codlins', and John Apples grows;  
Here are Paremains, with Gillyflowers good store,  
Which I have quite forgot, with many more;  
And here are Pears, the best that e'er were eat,  
The Catherine red, and jucy Burgomat,  
And the well-coloured Margot, with the green  
Sweet Cheesil, here in plenty may be seen:  
But good Old Doctor, prithee tell me now,  
What lovely Pear is that on yonder Bow,  
For 'tis a Fruit I have not seen before?  
That's all I have Sir, but I hope for more;  
'Twill make your mouth to water when 'tis named;  
To tell us then, I hope you're not ashamed?  
No truly Master I'll be plain and Bold,  
'Tis called my Lady's Buttock, I am told:  
Now Husband you are wanton, pray Wife why?  
Here's my young Master knows as well as I,  
And better too, that 'tis its proper Name,  
A pleasant fruit, and now in greatest fame.  
But here's the Windsor Pear, which I dare say,  
Deserves from all to bear the Bell away:  
All sorts of Plums are here, and Quinces fair,  
And Apricocks that most beloved are;  
Here's Flemish Cherries, here are Spanish Vines,  
With Peaches sweet, and Roman Nectarines;  
Here's the Bonchretien, and the Bingfill too,  
With other Fruits not to be reckoned now.  
Then what reward, pray tell me, can there be  
Too great, for this Man's active industry?  
Who with his Labour and his old blunt Spade,  
In Barren ground such Nurseries hath made.  
Having this plain and pleasant Green o'er past,  
The great Hills top now we have reached at last; 
St. Leonard's Hill.   
Nor are we far from Old St. Leonard's Cave,  
Whose pious life the Name of this place gave;  
And now look down upon the world below,  
Then see how faint and little all things show;  
Look a far off, 
London.  where that great City stands,  
Who by its riches all the world commands;  
And whose great Ships, bring Spices from the East  
To enrich our Land, and Ingots from the West;  
Whose Noble Buildings stand in every street,  
Where swarms and shoals of people daily meet,  
Thronging so thick together as they go,  
That they do one another overthrow;  
And all in haste so full of Business move,  
To little purpose though it often prove;  
Some strive to gain, others consume as fast,  
What the Old Sire gained, his young heir turns to waste,  
A lively Emblem of this populous Crowd,  
How often have I seen? myself to shroud  
From scorching Beams, when I have Musing stood,  
Under a spreading Beech in shady Wood;  
For I have seen great heaps of Emmets there,  
Who in such numerous Crowds so stirring were,  
And all so busy, that a man would say,  
Their Work was by the Great, not by the Day;  
Some loaded this way, others that way went,  
Some were for Straw, and some for Timber sent;  
Here in a broad High way, which they had made,  
For fear that Robbers should their Wealth invade,  
They seemed with Guards of Caravans to go,  
And boldly Marching, did not fear the Foe:  
But with my foot, how many have I killed,  
And in a moment, all that they did build  
Have quite thrown down, and taken all their spoil,  
Which they had purchased with so much toil:  
And with such care and industry did gain,  
Their Commonwealth in Winter to maintain?  
Poor Souls forgive me, I do now repent,  
Your Actions I confess were Innocent;  
I wish that I could say, our Lives were so,  
And that our Actions did less Guilty show:  
Then looking up to Heaven from the Ground,  
Thus would I say, he might us all confound  
In less than moment's time, who sits above,  
Were not his Mighty power controlled by Love;  
But if provoked by Sinners, he doth show  
That power, although in Anger he is slow,  
He makes whole Nations than submit to Fate,  
Leaving their greatest Cities desolate,  
Either by Famine, Sword, or Pestilence,  
The dreadful Instruments of his Vengeance;  
And if it were not for his Goodness sake,  
He would in pieces that proud City shake;  
For there are all Varieties of Sin,  
Some reign without the Walls, and some within;  
And though that true Religion preach them down,  
Yet she could never drive them out of Town:  
There Vice and Virtue, in extremes are set,  
There Atheism and true Piety are met.  
There cries and horrid noise your Temples tear,  
And there soft Music sweetly Charms your Ear:  
All this great Heap, then let your Eyes run over,  
Nothing but Smoke and Dust you will discover,  
Which the wind drives away, I know not whither.  
O come Democritus, let's laugh together:  
Only old Paul's sometimes his Baldpate shows,  
Hoping those deep wounds, and those deadly blows,  
Which our New Sanctity to his Old sides gave,  
Will all be cured, and he preserved from Grave;  
And stand a glorious Monument again,  
Of Charles the Great, and's Second happy Reign,  
And to succeeding Ages, shall declare  
What Rebels did pull down, King Charles' did rear.  
Now this Way turn, and see through yonder glade,  
What Reformation our late Saints have made  

The great Park.  In that Great Park, whose Trees are all cut down,  
By the same Powers that trampled on the Crown:  
And which did then o'erthrow our Church & State,  
These innocent Trees endured the same hard fate.  
There stood that Old and stately Royal Oak,  
Who for five hundred years, endured the stroke  
Of Times sharp teeth, but Zeal more sharp did say,  
To my dear Sons it now must fall a Prey.  
Down with it Root and Branch, a Zealot cries,  
As that Malignant falls, the Saints shall rise;  
Down with them all, and those on t'other side,  
theyare in our way, and do Heaven's prospect hide:  
Could you no other way to Heaven find,  
Deceitful Hypocrites, and Leaders blind,  
But through forbidden Paths, and unjust ways,  
Which were not known in our forefather's days?  
Surely quoth Zeal, we have the wicked vexed,  
By opening a dark place to clear the Text:  
The Text is clear indeed, and ye have found,  
Whose Fate is to be Hanged, shall not be Drowned.  
But would you now those Royal Mansions see,  
Built only for the Seat of Majesty,  
Where Art and Nature, like two Rivals strove,  
Which of them both should show their greatest love.  
View that high Castle, 
Windsor Castle.  and the Church behold,  
Which doth St. George for her great Patron hold;  
How like an Empress she alone Commands  
The Lower Valleys, and the adjoining Lands;  
View well her battlements and her towers again,  
To satisfy my doubt, pray tell me then  
What a strong breath the Rump had? that could blow  
Down to the ground, that Church and Castle too;  
And with one Vote they both had tumbled down,  
Following the Fate of Sceptre and of Crown;  
To the great shame of our unhappy Age,  
Had not good Providence stopped their damned rage.  
Now may your stately Towers securely stand,  
Nor dread the fury of a Rebel's hand.  
Now may your Sacred and Harmonious Choir,  
Te Deum sing, and so with praise admire  
How Providence preserved you from those Men,  
Of wicked thiefs, who made God's house a Den.  
But on the day that Martyred Charles did Die,  
Let all in Sorrow kneel or prostrate lie;  
Then let no Organ play, or Music rise,  
But from a Contrite Heart, and Weeping Eyes:  
And passing over his cold Vault, let all  
Tread softly, and a Tear or two let fall;  
But Heavens forbid, that e'er you should again,  
Become a Prison to your Sovereign;  
Though once it was your glory, not your shame,  
When two great Kings of famous Name,  

King John of France, & David King of Scotland  Were made your Prisoners in a narrow Room,  
And from the Conqueror did attend their doom;  
Than English Valour to its height was come,  
Victory they had abroad, and peace at home;  
And than their naked swords, they did not show  
Against their Sovereign, but the common Foe.  
Then was that Noble Azure Garter found,  
So much by Ours, and Foreign Kings Renowned,  
Who with Ambition strove to be installed,  
And Knights of that Heroic Order called:  
And without boasting, I may boldly say,  
Since the first institution to this day,  
More famous Men the world hath never seen,  
Than they, who in succeeding times have been  
Companions of that Sacred Order made,  
Whose Names shall live, though their cold Ashes fade▪  
Whether 'twere Honour, or the power of Love  

Edward the 3 d.  That did thy royal Heart, Great Edward, move,  
This Noble Order for to Institute,  
Let Learned Men, and Graver Heads dispute:  
I for my part, do easily suppose,  
That both thy Genius did alike dispose;  
And if'twere Honour that devised the Plot,  
I do believe 'twas Love that tied the Knot;  
But whatsoever it 'twas, this we do know,  
Nothing but Great, could from thy Greatness flow;  
And by thy Prowess, France I me sure did find,  
Great was thy Sword, but greater was thy Mind;  
Which to their terror such vast wonders did,  
As can no more than the Sun's Beams be hid;  
Nor shall the Deeds of thy brave Offspring die, 
Edward the black Prince.   
Whilst time doth last, or name of Victory;  
He surely fell, who with thee did contend,  
Black to thy Foe, but lovely to thy Friend:  
Hadst thou the Age of thy Old Father seen,  
King of all Nations, doubtless thou hadst been;  
But Fate did think, which all things does control,  
This world too little was for thy great Soul;  
Nor do we wonder that thou shouldst be so,  
Because the Stock from whence you came, we know  
Bellona was thy Mother, Mars thy Sire,  
Who can derive himself from Parents higher?  
The next great thing that to your Eye appears, 
Eton College founded by Henry the sixth.   
Is the best Nursery, to tender years,  
Of Piety and Learning, which our Land can show,  
Blessed is that Holy King who made it so;  
Nor did his Royal Goodness, only there  
In Acts of Grace and Piety appear.  

King's College & Chapel.  For he at Cambridge also did erect  
Another Monument, whose Architect  
The Name doth show, if not to his great praise,  
The Stones would say, a King this Roof did raise:  
Thither her hopeful Youth doth AEton send,  
To advance in Learning, and their knowledge mend  
And raised by degrees, themselves translate  
Fit Instruments, for the Church, or for the State:  
So we from Nurseries, do young Plants remove  
To better Soil, when they are grown above  
Their Fellows heads, and proudly do aspire  
To raise themselves, yet many stories higher.  
And though the British Prophecies of Old,  
That Harry born at Windsor have foretell  
Should lose, what Monmouth Harry did obtain,  
And with such personal Valour bravely gain:  
Yet he hath left, though frowning was his Fate,  
And wicked Rebels showed their cursed hate,  
More acts of Piety, and of Bounty too,  
Than all succeeding Kings did ever do.  
Now let your Eye turn round and look about,  
To view those towns and places more remote:  
Here stands a Church, and there a Noble Seat,  
Which to a nearer Eye seems very great;  
Yet than a House to us it seems more small, 
Sr. Robert Gayers house at Stoke.   
Which Children make with Cards to play withal;  
But if you were within it, you should see  
That, which to knowing Eyes would grateful be;  
And what from other Objects would invite,  
The sole and whole employment of your sight.  
So that I'm confident you would be glad,  
To have as many Eyes as Argus had.  
For the best Paintings, there you might behold,  
Some done by Modern Masters, some by Old;  
But I do think that hardly 'twill be said,  
Whether they were by Art or Nature made:  
And if to View rare Sculptures you desire,  
There you may famed Bernino's Art admire:  
There you may see those Heads which did Command  
The world, on Pedestals in cold Marble stand:  
There you may tell proud Nero to his face,  
That he a Monster was, and Rome's disgrace;  
And pull him by the Nose too, he can't bite,  
Nor living, could like a true Roman fight.  
There wanton Otho you may play withal,  
And fat Vitellius beastly Drunkard call.  
There's great Augustus too, with his fair Wife,  
Done all exactly well unto the life.  
Yet you may speak to them, and never fear,  
For I'll assure you this, they cannot hear.  
There also good Old Seneca you may see,  
The Monument of Nero's cruelty;  
And many other things most rarely wrought,  
Which the brave Owner in his travels bought;  
Sparing no cost to purchase what was good,  
Such from the Bad, he easily understood;  
And only did Collect those things of worth,  
Which the best towns of Italy then brought forth;  
Not like to those who only do intend,  
In viewing that fair Land, their wealth to spend  
On vice and folly, not in virtuous deeds,  
For in that garden there are many weeds,  
Which they for flowers gather, but despise  
That which a virtuous Mind would highly prise;  
And after all their travels, only know  
Where the best coloured Whores and Melons grow.  

Therizer Thames.  And now look nearer on those silver Streams,  
How they run playing with bright Phoebus' Beams,  
And in Meanders cunningly do glide,  
To meet the Overflowing swelling Tide:  
See how the Loaded Vessels swiftly Sail,  
With a strong Current, and a Western Gale;  
Whilst the broad shouldered Bargemen sit & laugh,  
And unto AEolus in full Measures Quaff:  
Well Friends, when you return against the Stream,  
You'll sing another Note, and change your Theme;  
I fear your Mirth will prove but then Gee, Ho,  
When your great worships must like Horse's tow;  
Hear now what I shall tell you, one thing mend,  
What so you get, do not like Asses spend.  
You that in Angling do yourselves delight,  
Either in the time of Day, or silent Night,  
And with a Stoick's Patience can sit still,  
To watch the motion of your floating Quill:  
There you may find all forts of River Fish,  
As good as tongue ere tried, or heart could wish;  
There is the Sprat-like Bleek, the Gudgeon, Dace,  
And speckled Trout, that will to none give place;  
There is the dainty Perch, beloved of all,  
Which some the Partridge of the River call;  
There's the red Salmon too, both good and great,  
And Carp, fit only for great Kings to eat;  
There's Roches, Chubbs, and Barbels, in great store;  
Large Eels, and Flounder too, with many more,  
Which to the Hook by several Baits are brought,  
And by the cunning Angler slily caught.  
So have I seen a young and prodigal Heir,  
Catched in the toil of Old-craft Usurer;  
And as the Angler, first with worms does feed  
The silly Fish, before he makes them bleed,  
And they expecting more, at last are took  
By a fair Bait, that hides the fatal Hook:  
So Old-craft, doth by tempting Baits allure  
Young Hopeless, and in fine, to make him sure,  
His wanton Appetite with Gold he fills,  
Then on the sudden strikes him by the Gills,  
And fast in Bonds he keeps him at Command,  
Until he worms him out of all his Land.  
But though this River now does kindly move  
Like noble Souls, not by constraint, but Love;  
Yet when the Floods do rise, it knows no bounds,  
But is a trespasser on all men's grounds;  
And like a raging Sea, o'er runs the Plains,  
Spoiling the springing Corn, and Ploughman's pains:  
So when above their bounds, the People rise,  
Laws both of God and Men they soon despise;  
And like an Inundation overflow  
Their Prince's Power, nor will Allegiance owe,  
Until within their Banks they are confined,  
And reassume a Loyal Subjects mind.  
But from these lower Valleys turn your Eye,  
And let us to the walks of pleasure fly;  
Where Innocence and Beauty, both unite  
To court the Soul with ravishing delight.  

The Walks & Glades on St. Leonard 's Hill.  Here be the Arcadian Plains, here be the Groves,  
Where Swains and Shepherds, use to meet their Loves:  
Here are the walks where Amarillis fair  
Her Flocks does feed, and those Dorinda's are  
His Flocks; on this side doth Mertillo keep,  
Those on the left hand are bold Silvio's Sheep;  
The next to these are those delightful Lawns,  
Now free from Satyrs, and secure from Fawns.  
Here are the Stags, and Herds of Fallow Deer,  
Which for the Royal Game preserved are.  
Not far from hence a mighty Deer did keep  
His shady walks, and whilst his Foes did sleep,  
In silence of the Night securely fed:  
Prince of a numerous Herd, and Sovereign Head;  
Proud of himself, all others did disdain;  
Yet ere the Sun once more should set again,  
That his proud Head should fall, 
The Hunting of the Stag.  it was decreed,  
And by a fatal Knife his throat must Bleed:  
Therefore so soon as the allseeing Sun,  
His Course in t'other Haemisphere had run,  
And did begin the Mountain tops to gild,  
The Huntsmen they were risen, and had filled  
With loud Alarms, from their deep sounding Horns,  
The Hills and Valleys, with the neighbouring borns;  
Unwelcome News unto the Lodging Herd,  
But most of all the great Ones were afeared;  
For they by sad experience often try,  
Greatness, which should protect them, makes them die,  
And dying, fall with mournful weeping Eyes,  
To cruel men, a bleeding Sacrifice.  
Whilst that the smaller Ones, and Rascal Deer,  
Need not the Woodman's Knife, or Arrows fear.  
All now being ready for the Royal Game,  
His Majesty with many Nobles came  
Well mounted like to Perseus, all did ride  
When he his winged Courser did bestride:  
And scarce their Horse's feet the ground did feel,  
As if that they had wings to every Heel;  
And champing on the Snaffle, would not stay  
With patience, or their Riders well Obey;  
But e'er the Chase be done, perhaps they'll find  
One that will cool their mettle, try their wind;  
Here is he Lodged, a stout Old Woodman cried,  
Who midst the thickest Brakes, the Deer had spied;  
The Stag was roused, and bounding nimbly leaps,  
As over waves, a well built Pinnace skips;  
The Dogs and Men in a full cry pursue,  
Forcing the Deer to bid the woods adieu;  
Now having left his walks, and pleasant woods,  
Sometimes he seeks the plains, and then the floods,  
And leads the Hunters such a Forest Dance,  
As made their Coursers quite forget to prance.  
There might you see the Brown, and bonny Bay,  
In their own white and reeking Form, turn Grey;  
And Dapple Grey, with his own blood besmeared,  
More like a Brown, or Bonny Bay appeared;  
Here lies a dying Horse, and there hand by  
Doth, with a broken Arm, his Rider lie:  
Long was the Chase, and the Old Stag would fain  
Have come into his Native woods again;  
But now, alas, his strength and spirits fail,  
Nor could the best breathed Dog scarce wag his tail,  
Panting for breath and life, the Stag than stood  
Against a tree, and did his ground make good,  
Keeping the Dogs at bay, at last he cried,  
To Fate I bow my head, and weeping died.  
But whilst his Breath did last, he made a Will,  
Which his Executors said they would fulfil.  
Imprimis, write, I freely do dispose  
My Sides, and both my Haunches unto those,  
Who know best how to season them in Past,  
And can good Venison, from Ram-Mutton taste:  
My Head and Horns, I give to Men o'the Gown,  
The Major and Aldermen of Windsor town;  
That they by Charter may, or Proclamation,  
Make them the Ensigns of their Corporation:  
My Ears I give to those, in Heart so pure,  
That by no means Church Music can endure;  
And I desire, what cannot now be writ,  
Let my Executors give as they think fit;  
And my Executors, I would have to be,  
Those honest keepers in Green Livery:  
Lastly, because I see my end draws nigh,  
Let me at Caesar's feet fall down and die.  
Besides this Royal Game the woods afford,  
With other Quarries they are always stored.  
And which the Romans called delicious fare,  
In every Bush we have the Lightfoot Hare;  
Which when we Venison want, we do pursue,  
With little Spot, and great Melampo too.  
Among those Oaks, whose arms so wide are spread,  

Crarborn Lodge.  The Lodge of great Basilius shows his Head;  
Where better Guests are now, than use to be  
When Clubs were trump, and freedom slavery.  
Here are fair Nymphs, with Shepherds too, and some  

Sir George Carterets Family.  That from the Royal Court, are hither come;  
Leaving the town, for pleasures of the field,  
Such as the Court or City cannot yield.  
Nymphs and Swains than come away,  
Make this all a Holiday;  
Nimbly Dance, and merrily Sing,  
Till the Woods and Valleys ring;  
Bring your Fruits, and bring your Posies,  
Bring your Chaplets made of Roses;  
There Celebrate your Rural Feasts,  
In honour of these New-come Guests;  
And let all these Nymphs and Swains  
Cry, welcome to the Arcadian Plains.  
But hark, I think 'tis young Ergasto calls,  
Away, away, to the Grove of Nightingales;  
Through yonder Glade let's follow him, for there  
A Consort of all singing Birds you'll hear;  
And passing by, we heard in every bush,  
Cunning their Notes, the Blackbird and the Thrush.  
When to this Grove of Music we were come,  
Under a shady Beech we lay along;  
Then from the Forest, and from several parts  
Birds flocked hither, with right willing hearts:  
And first the Lark, 
The harmony of Birds.  taking a speedy wing,  
To his great Maker did an Anthem sing;  
Next after him, the Blackbird and the Stare,  
Two better Counter-tenners never were;  
But the shrill treble sung the little Wrens,  
And little Robin answered him again;  
To such a pitch the Bulfinch raised his Note,  
That bigger than his breast, did seem his throat  
And though grown hoarse with scolding, yet the Crow  
How deep his base could reach, resolved to show;  
Feign would the Owl have tried her ut'most skill,  
But Philomela desired her to be still;  
For since that Cold, which in her feet she had,  
Although her skill be Good, her Voice is Bad:  
And therefore Madge up to an Oak doth climb,  
And nodding with her head, kept Sembrief time;  
Whilst the great Bee to their Harmonious lays,  
A soft sweet stop, upon his Organ plays.  
When they had made an end, and all was hush,  
Then Philomela vouchsafes to ascend the Bush;  
And such a sweet and Heavenly tune began,  
As made us all amazed, in silence stand;  
Then strait another, with a clearer strain  
Answered her kill Notes, when she again,  
With Notes more various than at first, replies,  
And to her Rival, Victory denies:  
When they had sung their Vespers, we could hear  
More from an inner Grove, that tuning were  
Their little Pipes, who presently did join,  
And made a Consort, more than half Divine;  
And such I think, as never any Men;  
But from their pretty throats, shall hear again.  
Blessed be these Groves, blessed be these walks of shade,  
May never more Sequestering Axe invade,  
Your well extended arms, or spreading root,  
Or cruel Satire here again set foot;  
But may you Grow, and still more Verdant look,  
Or if to Old Age, you at last must stoop;  
O may these younger Plants grow up, and be  
Delightful shades to our Posterity;  
Until both Names and Things, must all expire  
In one Great Flame, and Funeral Fire.  
FINIS.