The Works of Henry Fielding/A Description of U-n G-

To Rosalinda, now from town retir'd, Where noblest hearts her brilliant eyes have fir'd; Whom nightingales in fav'rite bow'rs delight, Where sweetest flow'rs perfume the fragrant night; Where music's charms enchant the fleeting hours, And wit transports with all Thalia's pow'rs; Alexis sends: Whom his hard fates remove From the dear scenes of poetry and love, To barren climates, less frequented plains, Unpolish'd nymphs, and more unpolish'd swains. In such a place how can Alexis sing? An air ne'er beaten by the muse's wing! In such a place what subject can appear? What not unworthy Rosalinda's ear? Yet if a charm in novelty there be, Sure it will plead to Rosalind for me? Whom courts or cities nought unknown can shew, Still U&mdash; G&mdash; presents a prospect new.

As the daub'd scene, that on the stage is shewn, Where this side canvas is, and that a town; Or as that lace which Paxton half lace calls, That decks some beau apprentice out for balls; Such our half house erects its mimic head, This side an house presents, and that a shed. Nor doth the inward furniture excel, Nor yields it to the beauty of the shell: Here Roman triumphs plac'd with awkward art, A cart its horses draws, an elephant the cart, On the house-side a garden may be seen, Which docks and nettles keep for ever green. Weeds on the ground, instead of flow'rs, we see, And snails alone adorn the barren tree. Happy for us, had Eve's this garden been; She'd found no fruit, and therefore known no sin. Nor meaner ornament the shed-side decks, With hay-stacks, faggot piles, and bottle-ricks; The horses stalls, the coach a barn contains; For purling streams, we've puddles fill'd with rains. What can our orchard without trees surpass? What, but our dusty meadow without grass? I've thought (so strong with me burlesque prevails,) This place design'd to ridicule Versailles; Or meant, like that, art's utmost pow'r to shew, That tells how high it reaches, this how low. Our conversation does our palace fit, We've ev'rything but humour, except wit.

O then, when tir'd with laughing at his strains, Give one dear sigh to poor Alexis' pains; Whose heart this scene would certainly subdue, But for the thoughts of happier days, and you; With whom one happy hour makes large amends For ev'ry care his other hours attends.