ou, O Musick's Sons, your art Compleat,
And all its ancient Miracles repeat,
Rouse Rev'ling Monarchs into Martial Rage,
And, when Inflam'd, with Softer Notes As swage;
The tedious Hours of absent Love beguile,
Charm Care asleep, and make Affliction smile?
Carouse in Tea, that will your Souls inspire;
Drink Phoebus's liquor and command his Lyre.

Sons of Appelles, wou'd you draw the Face
And Shape of Venus, and with equal Grace
In some Elysian Field the Figure place?
Your Fancy, warm'd by TEA, with wish'd success,
Shall Beauty's Queen in all her Charms express;
With Nature's Rural Pride your Landscape fill
The Shady Grotto, and the Sunny Hill,
The Laughing Meadow, and the Talking Rill.

Sons of the Muses, would you Charm the Plains
With Chearful Lays, or Sweet Condoling Strains;
Or with a Sonnet make the Vallies ring,
To Welcome home the Goddess of the Spring?
Or wou'd you in sublimer Themes engage,
And sing of Worthies who adorn the Age?
Or, with Promethean Boldness, wou'd aspire
To Catch a Spark of the Celestial Fire
That Crowned the Royal Conquest, and could raise
Juverne's Boyn above Scamander's Praise?
Drink, drink Inspiring TEA, and boldly draw
A Hercules, a Mars, or a NASSAU.

_THE TEA-TABLE_

Hail, Queen of Plants, Pride of Elysian Bow'rs!
How shall we speak thy complicated Pow'rs?
Thou Won'drous Panacea to asswage
The Calentures of Youths' fermenting rage,
And Animate the freezing Veins of age.

To Bacchus when our Griefs repair for Ease,
The Remedy proves worse than the Disease.
Where Reason we must lose to keep the Round,
And drinking others Health's, our own confound:
Whilst TEA, our Sorrows to beguile,
Sobriety and Mirth does reconcile:
For to this Nectar we the Blessing owe,
To grow more Wise, as we more Cheerful grow.

Whilst fancy does her brightest beams dispense,
And decent Wit diverts without Offense.
Then in Discourse of Nature's mystick Pow'rs
And Noblest Themes, we pass the well spent Hours.
Whilst all around the Virtues' Sacred