Yet he obeyes and leaves the peaceful Plains, The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains, Obeys the mighty voice of _Jove_. The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues, Bus’ness Debauches all his hours of Love; Bus’ness, whose hurry, noise and news Even Natures self subdues; Changes her best and first simplicity, Her soft, her easie quietude Into mean Arts of cunning Policy, The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude. Say, mighty _Celladon_, oh tell me why, Thou dost thy nobler thoughts imploy In bus’ness, which alone was made To teach the restless States-man how to Trade In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design, But n’ere was meant a Curse to Souls like thine. Business the _Check_ to Mirth and Wit, Business the Rival of the Fair, The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit, Onely to those that languish in Dispair; Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate To him to whom forgetful Heaven, Has no one other vertue given, But dropt down the unfortunate, To Toyl, be Dull, and to be Great. III. But thou whose nobler Soul was fram’d, For Glorious and Luxurious Ease, By Wit adorn’d, by Love inflam’d; For every Grace, and Beauty Fam’d, Form’d for delight, design’d to please, Give, Give a look to every Joy, That youth and lavish Fortune can invent, Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy Both Heaven and Natures first intent. But oh in vain is all I say, And you alas must go, The Mighty _Cæsar_ to obey, And none so fit as you. From all the Envying Croud he calls you forth, He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth; He’s try’d it oft, and put it to the Test, It grew in Zeal even whilst it was opprest, The great, the God-like _Celladon_, Unlike the base Examples of the times, Cou’d never be Corrupted, never won, To stain his honest blood with Rebel _Crimes_. Fearless unmov’d he stood amidst the tainted Crowd, And justify’d and own’d his Loyalty aloud. IV. _Hybernia_ hail! Hail happy Isle, Be glad, and let all Nature smile. Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers; Ye Groves and every Purling Spring, Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing, Be glad and gay, for _Celladon_ is yours; He comes, he comes to grace your Plains. To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains, Ecchoes repeat his Glorious Name To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills; Ye Feather’d Quire chant forth his Fame, Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wand’ring Rills, That through the Meadows in Meanders run, Tell all your Flowry Brinks, the generous Swain is come. VI.