Classic Poem

Let's sing to Cytherea 's Praise,
And grateful Altars to the Goddess raise:
For Phaebe is at length grown kind ,
Phaebe , in whom all Beautys are combin'd .
Methinks already in this lonely Shade,
This unfrequented, pathless Glade
New, sudden marks of Joy we find:
The Zephyrs fan with soster Wings,
The Brooks with sweeter Murmurs flow,
The warbling Lark more cheerful sings;
Roses with brighter Lustre blow.

II.

Look down, ye Monarchs , and behold
A Treasure, richer far than Gold ,
A Nymph , thrown out in Nature 's Pride,
Form'd in her perfect Mould,
And bred up, artless, by the green Wood side,
Whose Heart can ne'er be bought , or sold ,
Who shines, without the help of Gems ,
Far brighter than your Diadems :
With her, remote from anxious Strife,
On Banks of Flowers I repose,
And joke, and kiss, and quaff, and doze,
And lead an idle, lazy, happy Life.

III.

So, Fortune , let us still be humbly blest,
And we'll remit you all the rest:
We want no Titles , ask no Place ,
Nor at high Things endeavour;
He never can be in Disgrace ,
Who never was in Favour .
Thus while the Great a thousand Toils endure,
And Monarchs sweat beneath the Crowns they bear,
Here in our native Shade we'll live secure,
And free , as were the first created Pair .