Nay yet, and more I dare advance,
The story true as aught in print,
All nature round, in complaisance,
And imitation, took the hint.
The fields that whilome only bore
Wild heath, or clad at best with oats,
Despis'd these humble weeds, and wore
Rich spangled doublets, and lac'd coats.
The hills were periwigg'd with snow;
Pig-tails of ice hung on each tree;