HAIL, mighty PAN! what Present shall we pay
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To your Auspicious Deity to day?
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We are the meanest of your rustick Swains;
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And have no other Palace but our Plains.
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Untaught in Courtly Galantry we come
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To give the entertainment of our home.
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Part of the poor increase our fortunes have,
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And that besides, your kind indulgence gave.
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Those bashful Nymphs, our Muses, blush to see,
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A Train so gay attend your Deity.
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Whilst they clad in their home-spun stuff scarce dare
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Look on the great procession, though from far.
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With what a trembling reverence their hands
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Cull all the choicest flowrs that grace the Lands,
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To bind your brows with such an Ornament,
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As all their Artless consults coud invent!
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Tis you, Great Sir, that gives us peaceful days.
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One smile from you revives our dying Bays:
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For when th appearing Bustles of the State
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Seemd to disturb our Studies, as of late,
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Under the spreading umbrage of your Oak
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We sate securely from the Thunder-stroak.
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But now the powrful glory of your Crown
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Has forct the fond aspiring Vapours down;
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Has banisht all the thickning mists afar,
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And once again has cleard the troubld Air.
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Now in the kinder Sun-shine of your Reign,
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Wel bask our selves, and feel new life again.
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Wel dedicate Solemnities to you,
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And all our ancient harmless sports renew.
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Upon the banks of aged Cam wel sit,
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Whilst some kind covert, shades us from the heat.
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There on our Reeds wel pipe unto the Groves,
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And make the watry Nymphs forget their Loves.
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The Current shall with gentle murmurs run,
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and pleased at its calm, smile on the Sun.
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The gentle Gales shall in soft Breezes sing,
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Amongst the listning Trees, God bless the King.
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