But wilt thou not from London town
Journey some day to Northolt down,
Song to obtain, O sweet reward,
And walk the garden of the Bard?--
But thy employ, the year throughout,
Is wandering the White Tower about,
Moulding and stamping coin with care,
The farthing small and shilling fair.
Let for a month thy Mint lie still,
Covetous be not, little Will;
Fly from the birth-place of the smoke,
Nor in that wicked city choke;
O come, though money's charms be strong,
And if thou come I'll give thee song,
A draught of water, hap what may,
Pure air to make thy spirits gay
And welcome from an honest heart,
That's free from every guileful art.
I'll promise--fain thy face I'd see--
Yet something more, sweet friend, to thee:
The poet's cwrw {79} thou shalt prove,
In talk with him the garden rove,
Where in each leaf thou shalt behold
The Almighty's wonders manifold;
And every flower, in verity,
Shall unto thee show visibly,
In every fibre of its frame,
His deep design, who made the same.--
A thousand flowers stand here around,
With glorious brightness some are crown'd:
How beauteous art thou, lily fair!
With thee no silver can compare:
I'll not forget thy dress outshone
The pomp of regal Solomon.
I write the friend, I love so well,
No sounding verse his heart to swell.
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