KXVII 
*¢ Call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells, and flow’rets of a thousand bues, 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks; 
On whose fresh lap, the swart star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, ' 
That on the green turf suck the honied showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.” 
Min.Ton: 
