O’er many a bank, with sweet violets spread,
Green field, blooming garden, and hyacinth-bed;
Thro’ daisy-deck’d vallies, o’er soft swelling hills,
Across velvet-clad lawns, and beside limpid rills,
Our Travellers roam’d; till they found a young Turtle,
Who liv’d with her Mate, in an arbour of Myrtle:
But what cou’d be learnt from two countrified Doves,
Who were thinking, from morning to night, of their loves?
[p24] No! they begg’d to observe nothing rude was intended,
But Concerts and Balls, Doves had never attended: