FLORA's Departure: OR, Summers Pride Abated.  

could Winter with his Icy looks  
bids Flora to be gone;  
And Bath no more in Silver Brooks,  
for Frost is coming on.   
The Tune is, Young Phaeon: Or, busy famed.  
 

DAme Flora in her rich Array,  
to winter now gives room,  
Who strips her of her Robes so gay,  
that had such sweet Perfume:  
He with his Icy Beard comes in,  
and looking her upon,  
To greet her thus he doth begin,  
proud Flora now be gone.   

But Flora loathe to leave the Streams,  
wherein she took delight,  
And hanish'd be from Cynthia's Beams,  
but slowly took her flight:  
Why should I leave the Plains( quoth she)  
that once I made so fine,  
And deeked them most gorgeously,  
why dost thou cast them thine?   

Why must I leave the warbling Notes  
of my beloved choir,  
That still would sin within the Woods,  
what Tune I did desire?  
Oh! stay a while, could Winter, till  
these pleasures all decline,  
And when thy Floods the Rivers fill,  
my pleasures I'll resign.   
 

Go, go, proud Flora, post away,  
make hast and hence begun,  
Believe me what I now do say,  
my Floods are coming on:  
Long time you reigned in glory here,  
while I lay lurking by,  
You in your time did Domineer,  
so Flora now will I.   

Old Winter, prithee stay a while,  
be not so harsh to me;  
For thou shouldst never take place,  
while Leaves are on the three.  
My Company is more esteemed  
ten thousand times then thine,  
For they that once to me are weaned,  
will ne'er with thee combine.   

Is this a time to prate to me,  
now coming into power?  
I'll blast all that belongs to thee,  
and will thy joys devour:  
I▪ le frieze thy pretty hubling Springs,  
that by thee used to glide,  
And whither all those lovely things  
that puffed thee up in Pride.   

I'll take possession of thy Bowers,  
wherein thou didst remain;  
And make them swim with floating showers,  
and mighty Storms of Rain:  
Yea, where thou us▪ dst to Bath thyself,  
there Rocks of Ice shall be,  
Lovers no more shall joy themselves,  
beneath the Myrtle three.   

Thou Frosty-bearded Winter, I  
will tell thee once again,  
Thy mighty Floods I'll quickly dry,  
and suck up all thy Rain:  
I'll thaw the Springs which thou dost frieze  
and guild my Plains once more,  
I'll cause fresh Leaves upon the Trees,  
then thou wilt me adore.   

For couldst thou once thy will obtain,  
thou wouldst me banish quiter,  
The world should empty be of grain,  
such is thy deadly spite:  
No Fruits should then in Europe be,  
man's palate for to please,  
Which makes so many envy thee,  
for such like tricks as these.   

I know, fair Flora, that thou art  
beloved far more then I,  
To speak the truth, 'tis thy desert,  
with thee I'll now comply:  
Yet must thou give me leave a while,  
in Power for to remain,  
Then thou shalt come again and smile,  
upon thy flowery Plain.   
FINIS.   

Printed for J. Deacon, at the sign of the Angel in Guiltspur-Srreet, without Newgate.