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No Wine, but what does from my Apples flow, My frugal House on any can bestow. But thoa rich Dainties never spread my Board, Nor my cool Vaults Calabrian Wines afford, Yet what is neat and wholesome I can spread, My good fat Bacon and our homely Bread, With which my healthful Family is fed. Milk from the Cow, and Butter newly churn'd And new fresh Cheese, with Curds and Cream just turn'd. For a Desert upon my Table's seen The Golden Apple and the Melon green; The blushing Peach and glossy Plumb there lies, And with the Mandrake tempt your Hands and Eyes. This I can give, and if you'll here repair, To slake your Thirst a Cask of Autumn Beer, Reserved on purpose for your drinking here. Under the spreading Elms our Limbs we'll lay, While fragrant Zephirs round our Temples play. Retired from Courts, and Crowds, secure we'll set, And freely feed upon our Country Treat. No noisy Faction here shall dare intrude, Or once disturb our peaceful Solitude. Thoa I no Down or Tapestry can spread