To my friend G. N. from Wrest.

I Breathe (sweet Ghib:) the temperate ayre of Wrest
Where I no more with raging stormes opprest,
Weare the cold nights out by the bankes of Tweed,
On the bleake Mountains, where fierce tempests breed,
And everlasting Winter dwells; where milde
Favonius, and the Vetnall windes exilde,
Did never spread their wings: but the wilde North
Brings sterill Fearne, Thistles, and Brambles forth.
Here steep'd in balmie dew, the pregnant Earth,
Sends from her teeming wombe a flowrie birth,
And cherisht with the warme Suns quickning heate,
Her porous bosome doth rich odours sweate;
Whose perfumes through the Ambient ayre diffuse
Such native Aromatiques, as we use
No forraigne Gums, nor essence fetcht from farre,
Vo Volatile spirits, nor compounds that are
Adulterate, but at Natures cheape expence
With farre more genuine sweetes refresh the sense.
Such pure and uncompounded beauties, blesse
This Mansion with an usefull comelinesse.
Devoide of Art, for here the Architect
Did not with curious skill a Pile erect
Of carved Marble, Touch, or Porpherie,
But built a house for hospitalitie;
No sumptuous Chimney-peece of shining stone
Invites the strangers eye to gaze upon,
And coldly entertaines his sight, but cleare
And cheerefull flames, cherish and warme him here:
No Dorique, nor Corinthian Pillars grace
With Imagery this structures naked face,
The Lord and Lady of this place delight
Rather to be in act, then seeme in sight;
In stead of Statues to adorne their wall
They throng with living men, their merry Hall,
Where at large Tables fill'd with wholsome meates
The servant, Tennant, and kind neighbour eates.
Some of that ranke, spun of a finer thred▪
Are with the Women, Steward, and Chaplaine fed
With daintier cates; Others of better note
Whom wealth, parts, office, or the Heralds coats
Have sever'd from the common, freely sic
At the Lords Table, whose spread sides admit
A large accesse of friends to fill those seates
Of his capacious circle, fill'd with meates
Of choycest rellish, till his Oaken back
Vnder the load of pil'd-up dishes crack
Nor thinke, because our Piramids, and high
Exalted Turrets threaten not the skie,
That therefore Wrest of narrownesse complaines
Or streightned Walls, for she more numerous traines
Of Noble guests daily receives, and those
Can with farre more conveniencie dispose
Then prouder Piles, where the vaine builder spent
More cost in outward gay Embellishment
Then reall use: which was the sole designe
Of our contriver, who made things not fine,
But fit for service. Amalthea's Horne
Of plentie is not in Effigie worne
Without the gate, but she within the dore
Empties her free and unexhausted store.
Nor, croun'd with wheaten wreathes, doth Ceres stand
In stone, with a crook'd circle in her hand:
Nor, on a Marble Tunne, his face besmeat'd
With grapes, is curl'd uncizard Bacchus rear'd.
We offer not in Emblemes to the eyes,
But to the taste those usefull Deities.
Wee presse the juycie God, and quasse his blood,
And grinde the Yeallow Goddesse into food.
Yet we decline not, all the worke of Art,
But where more bount eous Nature beares a part
And guides her Hand-maid, if the but dispence
Fitmatter, she with care and diligence
Employes her skill, for where the neighbour sourse
Powers forth her waters she directs their course,
And entertaines the slowing streames in deepe
And spacious channells, where they slowly creepe
In snakie windings, as the shelving ground
Leades them in circles, till they twice surround
This Island Mansion, which i'th' center plac'd,
Is with a double Crystall heaven embrac'd,
In which our watery constellations floate,
Out Fishes, Swans, our Water-man and Boate,
Envy'd by those above, which wish to slake
Their starre-burnt limbes, in our refreshing lake,
But they stick fast nayl'd to the barren Spheare,
Whilst our encrease in fertile waters here
Disport, and wander freely where they please
Within the circuit of our narrow Seas.

With various Trees we fringe the waters brinke,
Whose thirstie rootes the soaking moysture drinke.
And whose extended boughes in equall rankes
Yeeld fruit, and shade, and beautie to the bankes.
On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts
His ruddie cheek'd Pomona. Zephyre sports
On th'other, with lov'd Flora, yeelding thete
Sweetes for the smell, sweetes for the palate here.
But did you taste the high & mighty drinke
Which from that Fountaine slowes, you'ld cleerly think
The God of Wine did his plumpe clusters bring,
And crush the Falerne grape into our spring;
Or else disguis'd in watery Robes did swim
To Ceres bed, and make her big of Him,
Bege…ng so himselfe on Her: for know
Our Vintage here in March doth nothing owe
To theirs in Autumne, but our fire boyles here
As lustie liquour as the Sun makes there.

Thus I enjoy my selfe, and taste the fruit
Of this blest Peace, whilst toyl'd in the pursuit
Of Bucks, and Stags, th'embleme of warre you strive
To keepe the memory of our Armes alive.