A seventh year mock the weary labourer’s toil.—
No blooming Venus, on the desert shore,
Now views with triumph captive gods adore;
No lovely Helens now with fatal charms
Excite th’ avenging chiefs of Greece to arms;
No fair Penelopes enchant the eye,
For whom contending kings were proud to die;
Here sullen Beauty sheds a twilight ray,
While Sorrow bids her vernal bloom decay;
Those charms, so long renowned in classic strains,