Which oft does now his native glory shroud,
Your welcome letter cheers my anxious soul;
For humour, wit, and friendship grace the whole.
Well pleas’d I find you on Parnassus’ hill;
The more I read, the more I prize your skill.
The Muses coy, you seem to catch with ease,
And unfatigu’d attain the art to please.
Go on, dear Nell, the laureate-wreath pursue,
In time perhaps you may receive your due.
We’ll beat the bushes for the rustic muse,