 | Otia Sacra Optima Fides |  |
133
Anglia Hortus.
The Garden of the world, wherein the RoseIn chief Commanded, did this doubt propose
To be resolv'd in; Whether sense to prise
For umpire to Create it Paradise:
One led by th' Ear of Philomel tels tales,
And straightway cals't the land of Nightingales;
An Other sharper sighted, ravish'd, cryes,
O that I could be turn'd now all to eyes!
A Third receiv'd such raptures from the tast
Of various dainty fruits, that it surpast;
A Fourth was caught (not with perfume) commends
The Indian Clime, but what here Nature lends;
Last, if you would Sattins or Velvets touch,
For soft and smooth, Leaves can afford you such.
And thus dispos'd, whilst every Sense admires,
'Tis sensless t'plant 'mongst Roses, Thistles, Briars.
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