The sun will shine, the earth produce its fruits,
Cheerful, and plenteously, where'er we wander.
In humbler walks, bless'd with my child and thee.
I'd think it Eden in some lonely vale,
Nor heave one sigh for these proud battlements.
Count. Such flowery softness suits not matron lips.
But thou hast mighty reasons for thy prayer:
They should be mighty reasons, to persuade
Their rightful lord to leave his large possessions,