THE GARDEN cxi 



What Princes Quire of Musick can excel 



That which within this Shade does dwell ? 



To which we nothing pay or give, 



They like all other Poets live, 

 Without Reward, or Thanks for their obliging Pains ; 



'Tis well if they become not Prey : 

 The Whistling Winds add their less artful Strains, 

 And a grave Base the murmuring Fountains play ; 

 Nature does all this Harmony bestow, 



But to our Plants, Arts, Musick too, 

 The Pipe, Theorbo, and Guitar we owe ; 

 The Lute it self, which once was Green and Mute : 



When Orpheus struck th' inspired Lute, 



The Trees danc'd round, and understood 



By Sympathy the Voice of Wood. 



These are the Spells that to kind Sleep invite, 

 And nothing does within resistance make, 



Which yet we moderately take ; 



Who wou'd not choose to be awake, 

 While he's incompass'd round with such delight, 

 To th' Ear, the Nose, the Touch, the Taste, and Sight ? 

 When Venus wou'd her dear Ascanius keep 

 A Pris'ner in the downy Bands of Sleep, 

 She od'rous Herbs and Flowers beneath him spread 



As the most soft and sweetest Bed ; 

 Not her own Lap would more have charm'd his Head. 



Who, that has Reason, and his Smell, 

 Would not among Roses and Jasmin dwell, 



Rather than all his Spirits choak 

 With Exhalations of Dirt and Smoak ? 



And all th' uncleanness which does drown 

 In pestilential Clouds a pop'lous Town ? 

 The Earth it self breaths better Perfumes here, 

 Than all the Female Men or Women there, 



Not without cause about them bear. 



