Sweetly thou mayst thy vacant hours possess
In Hampstead, courted by the western wind;
Or Greenwich, waving o’er the winding flood; 120
Or lose the world amid the sylvan wilds
Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unspoil’d.
Green rise the Kentish hills in chearful air;
But on the marshy plains that Essex spreads
Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering feet. 125
For on a rustic throne of dewy turf,
With baneful fogs her aching temples bound,