Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet
Glide gently past her cot;
’Tis peace and virtue’s calm retreat,—
Ye great ones envied not.
And you, ye fair, whom folly leads
Through all her paths supine,
Tho’ drest in pleasure’s garb, exceeds
Not Nanny of the Tyne.
Can art to nature e’er compare,
Or win us to believe