To Mr. Lawrence

    Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire

    Where shall we sometimes meet and by the fire

    Help waste a sullen day what may be won

    From the hard season gaining？ Time will run

    On smoother till Favonius reinspire

    The frozen earth and clothe in fresh attire

    The lily and rose that neither sow'd nor spun.

    What neat repast shall feast us light and choice

    Of Attic taste with wine whence we may rise

    To hear the lute well touch'd or artful voice

    Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air？

    He who of those delights can judge and spare

    To interpose them oft is not unwise.