Classic Poem

Your modern enemies to Gothick taste
Have laid their ancient manor houses waste;
No tables long in outward balls are seen,
Nor barbarous buttery-hatch behind the screen.
They move their dinners further from their gates,
Their joints are morsels, and their dishes plates .
But then cool grotts and colonades appear,
Which fan in Italy , and freeze you here .
Venetian windows grace the well-cut stone ,
Yet still is wanting the Venetian sun .
If from our clime no genial warmth we win,
Let us at least retain some heat within.
If to aethereal flames we can't aspire,
Let us at least preserve our kitchen fire .