Of the Gardens that bloom on the south of the Thames.
Old Dryden the bard was at best but a gander,
In singing the Feast of the great Alexander;
For what breast with the fumes of a banquet is fired
Two thousand years after the guests have retired?
Our happier bard takes the season that suits,
At the spur of the moment he puts on his boots,
All hot for Parnassus, and cries in a hurry,
“Prepare me my Pegasus! ‘Saddle white Surrey!’”
It is clear that he feels what his numbers prolong,