Not add the Arcadian Swains,
In their Pride and Glory Clad:
Not au the Spacious Plains,
Ere cou'd Boast a Bleether Lad.
When ere I Pip'd, or Danc'd, or Ran,
Or leapt, or whirl'd the Sling:
The Flowry Wreaths I still won,
And wisht to be a King.
VI.
But Curst be yon Tall Oak,
And Old Thirsis be accurst:
There I first my peace forsook,
There I learnt Ambition first.
Such Glorious Songs of Hero's Crown'd,
The Restless Swain woud Sing:
My Soul unknown desires found,
And Languisht to be King.
VII.
Ye Garlands, wither now,
Fickle Glories, vanish all:
Ye Wreaths that deckt my Brow,
To the ground neglected fall.
No more my sweet Repose molest,
Nor to my Fancies bring
The Golden Dreams of being Blest
With Titles of a King.
VIII.
Ye Noble Youths, beware,
Shun Ambitious powerful Tales:
Distructive, False, and Fair,
Like the Oceans Flattering Gales.
See how my Youth and Glories lye,
Like Blasted Flowers i'th' Spring:
My Fame, Renown, and all dye,
For wishing to be King.
In Imitation of Horace.
I.
What mean those Amorous Curles of Jet?
For what Heart-Ravisht Maid
Dost thou thy Hair in order set,
Thy Wanton Tresses Braid?
And thy vast Store of Beauties open lay,
That the deluded Fancy leads astray.