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To Mr
Lawrence
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help
waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard
season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till
Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in
fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed
nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and
choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble
immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those
delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft,
is not unwise.
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