If ever any lov’d like me, or were so blest as I. The Prospect and Bower of Bliss. I. _’.is all eternal Spring around,_ _And all the Trees with fragrant flowers are Crown’d;_ _No Clouds, no misty Showers obscure the Light,_ _But all is calm, serene and gay,_ _The Heavens are drest with a perpetual bright,_ _And all the Earth with everlasting_ May. _Each minute blows the Rose and Jesamine,_ _And twines with new-born Eglantine,_ _Each minute new Discoveries bring;_ _Of something sweet, of something ravishing._ II. _Fountains, wandering Brooks soft rills,_ _That o’re the wanton Pebbles play;_ _And all the Woods with tender murmuring fills,_ _Inspiring Love, inciting Joy;_ _(The sole, the solemn business of the day)_ _Through all the Groves, the Glades and thickets run,_ _And nothing see but_ Love _on all their Banks along;_ _A thousand Flowers of different kinds,_ _The neighbouring Meads adorn;_ _Whose sweetness snatcht by flying Winds,_ _O’re all the_ Bow’r _of Bliss is born;_ _Whether all things in nature strive to bring,_ _All that is soft, all that is ravishing._ III. _The verdant Banks no other Prints retain,_ _But where young Lovers, and young Loves have lain._ _For_ Love _has nothing here to do,_ _But to be wanton, soft and gay,_ _And give a lavish loose to joy._ _His emptyed Quiver, and his Bow,_ _In flowry Wreaths with rosy Garlands Crown’d,_ _In Myrtle shades are hung,_ _As Conquerors when the Victories won,_ _Dispose their glorious Trophies all around._ _Soft Winds and Eccho’s that do haunt each Grove,_ _Still whisper, and repeat no other Songs than Love._ _Which round about the sacred Bower they sing,_ _Where every thing arrives that’s sweet and ravishing._ IV. _A thousand gloomy Walks the Bower contains,_ _Sacred all to mighty Love;_ _A thousand winding turns where Pleasure reigns;_ _Obscur’d from day by twining Boughs above,_ _Where_ Love _invents a thousand Plays,_ _Where Lovers act ten thousand Joys:_ _Nature has taught each little Bird,_ _A soft Example to afford;_ _They Bill and Look, and Sing and Love,_ _And Charm the Air, and Charm the Grove;_ _Whilst underneath the Ravisht_ Swain _is lying,_ _Gazing, Sighing, Pressing, Dying;_ _Still with new desire warm’d,_ _Still with new Joy, new Rapture charm’d;_ _Amongst the green soft Rivulets do pass,_ _In winding Streams half hid in Flowers and Grass,_ _Who Purl and Murmur as they glide along,_ _And mix their Musick with the Shepherds Pipe and Song,_ _Which Eccho’s through the sacred Bower repeat,_ _Where every thing arrives that’s ravishing and sweet._