’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now

To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,

Though most hearts never understand

To take it at God’s value, but pass by

The offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my trophies and mine Italy;

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;

The eyes thou givest me

Are in the heart, and heed not space or time;

Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d bee