When the roses of Eve were unfolded in Heav'n, I join'd the gay pastoral throng; To share in the joys to simplicity giv'n, And finish the day with a song.
In turn ev'ry shepherd invited the Muse, His friend or his fav'rite to praise; Rash gratitude urg'd me, great Chester, to choose A theme for more elegant lays.
"His language (I sung) with the drops may compare, That fall in a gentle cascade; Or the delicate accents that swell in the air, When the swain breathes his pipe in the shade.
"His thoughts for refreshment and sweetness with fruits, In rich Autumn, or spoils of the bee; But what in all nature for simile suits, With his granting a favour so free?"
"Hold, hold!" cry'd Menalcas, the sage of the plains, "Leave his virtues in private, my friend; Or, instead of this evening concluding your strains, 'Twill be years ere you come to an end." Lambeth, March 17.
