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Minute as dust, and numberless, oft work
Dire disappointment, that admits no cure,
And which no care can obviate. It were long,
Too long, to tell th' expedients and the shifts,
Which he that fights a season so severe

Devises, while he guards his tender trust;
And oft at last in vain. The learn'd and wise
Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song
Cold as it's theme, and like it's theme the fruit
Of too much labour, worthless when produc'd.

Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too. Unconscious of a less propitious clime, There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, While the winds whistle, and the snows descend. The spiry myrtle with unwith’ring leaf Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast Of Portugal and western India there, The ruddier orange, and the paler lime, Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm,

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And seem to smile at what they need not fear.
Th’amomum there with intermingling flow'rs
And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts
Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau,
Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long.
All plants, of ev'ry leaf, that can endure
The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd bite,
Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims,
Levantine regions these; th’ Azores send
Their jessamine, her jessamine remote
Caffraia: foreigners from many lands,
They form one social shade, as if conven'd
By magic summons of the Orphean lyre,
Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass
But by a master's hand, disposing well
The gay diversities of leaf and flow'r,

Must lend it's aid tillustrate all their charms,
And dress the regular yet various scene.
Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van
The dwarfish, in the rear retir’d, but still


Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand.
So once were rang’d the sons of ancient Rome,
A noble show! while Roscius trod the stage;
And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he,
The sons of Albion; fearing each to lose
Some note of Nature's music from his lips,
And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen
In ev'ry flash of his far-beaming eye.
Nor taste alone and well-contriv’d display
Suffice to give the marshalld ranks the grace
Of their complete effect. Much yet remains
Unsung, and many cares are yet behind,
And more laborious; cares on which depend
Their vigour, injur'd soon, not soon restor’d.
The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd
Loses it's treasure of salubrious salts,
And disappoints the roots; the slender roots
Close interwoven, where they meet the vase,
Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch
Must fly before the knife; the wither'd leaf


Must be detach'd, and where it strews the floor
Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else
Contagion, and disseminating death.
Discharge but these kind offices, (and who

spare, that loves them, offices like these?)
Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleas’d,
The scent regald, each odorif'rous leaf,
Each op’ning blossom, freely breathes abroad
It's gratitude, and thanks him with it's sweets.

Would spare,


So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, All healthful, are th' employs of rural life, Reiterated as the wheel of time

Runs round; still ending, and beginning still,
Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll,
That softly swelld and gaily dress’d appears
A flow'ry island, from the dark green lawn
Emerging, must be deem'd a labour due
To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste,
Here also grateful mixture of well-match'd


And sorted hues (each giving each relief,

The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds,


Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene

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