To Mr. Lawrence

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
      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 re—inspire
      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.
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