Thou keeper art of this my rural seat,[4]
Kept at my charge to keep my garden neat;
To train the woodbine and to crop the yew—
In th' art of gard'ning equall'd p'rhaps by few.
O! could I cultivate my barren soul,
As thou this garden canst so well control;
Pluck up each brier and thorn, by frequent toil,
And clear the mind as thou canst cleanse the soil[5]
But now, my faithful servant, Anthony,
Just speak, and tell me what you think of me;