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Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours,
Though the pleasures of London ciceed
In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here; For the close woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging tafte from above, Then, whether embellished or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse
A lafting, a sacred delight.