THE GARDEN 75 



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, art's music too, 

 The pipe, theorbo, and guitar we owe ; 

 The lute itself, which once was green and mute, 



When Orpheus strook 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 would not choose to be awake, 

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

 To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste and sight ? 

 When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep x 

 A prisoner 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. 



1 Virg. JEn., i. 695. 



