If so much they’re allow’d by the thirsty old sun,
There water may be, as it’s quaff’d by each man,
Productive of fun to a whole caravan.
But ask what now glows, &c.
Yes, water, and welcome, in billows may rise,
Till it shiver its feathery crest ’gainst the skies;
Or in dashing cascades it may joyously leap,
Or in silvery lakes lie entranced and asleep;—
Or, e’en better still, in full showers of hope,
Let it gaily descend on some rich vineyard’s slope,