The
RURAL
MAID
in
LONDON
,
To
her
FRIEND
in
the
COUNTRY
.
An
EPISTLE
.
Rejoice
,
dear
nymph
!
enjoy
your
happy
grove
,
Where
birds
and
shepherds
warble
strains
of
love
,
While
banish'd
I
,
alas
!
can
nothing
hear
,
But
sounds
too
harsh
to
sooth
a
tender
ear
.
Here
gilded
beaux
fine
painted
belles
pursue
,
But
how
unlike
to
village-swains
and
you
;
At
twelve
o'clock
they
rub
their
slumb'ring
eyes
,
And
,
seeing
day-light
,
from
their
pillows
rise
;
To
the
dear
looking-glass
due
homage
pay
,
Look
o'er
the
play-bills
while
they
sip
their
tea
;
Then
order
John
the
chariot
to
prepare
,
And
drive
to
th'
Park
,
to
take
the
morning
air
.
When
dusky
ev'ning
spreads
her
gloomy
shade
,
And
rural
nymphs
are
in
soft
slumbers
laid
,
Then
coaches
rattle
to
the
ladies
rout
,
With
belles
within
,
and
mimic
beaux
without
;
The
vulgar
way
of
counting
time
they
scorn
,
Their
noon
is
evening
,
and
their
evening
morn
.
But
what
is
yet
more
wonderful
than
all
,
These
strange
disorders
they
do
pleasures
call
:
Such
tinsel
joys
shall
ne'er
my
heart
obtain
,
Give
me
the
real
pleasures
of
the
plain
,
Where
unmov'd
constancy
has
fix'd
her
seat
,
And
love
,
and
friendship
,
make
their
sweet
retreat
.
There
lives
my
friend
,
my
dear
Belinda
gay
,
Could
I
with
her
the
fresh'ning
vales
survey
;
To
make
a
wreath
,
I'd
gather
flow'rs
full
blown
,
But
spare
the
tender
buds
,
till
riper
grown
:
If
I
should
see
a
black-bird
,
or
a
thrush
,
Sit
on
her
nest
within
the
hawthorn
bush
,
She
undisturb'd
should
hatch
her
little
brood
;
Who
fright
her
thence
has
not
a
heart
that's
good
;
It
surely
is
a
pity
to
molest
,
A
little
bird
,
when
sitting
on
her
nest
.
Should
love
by
chance
invite
your
friend
to
rove
,
I'd
take
a
trip
into
the
silent
grove
;
There
if
my
swain
should
pipe
,
then
I
would
sing
,
And
be
as
happy
as
the
birds
in
spring
;
No
title
but
a
nymph
I'd
wish
to
know
,
Nor
e'er
commence
a
belle
,
to
win
a
beau
.