At Ross how alter’d is the scene! 
Lo Penyard’s beauties fail. 
Lost is his crown of smiling green, 
And fogs his summit veil. 
Old Wye, his mazy course restrain’d 
Lies o’er his urn supine. 
In ice his idle feet are chain’d, 
With frost his tresses shine. 

On yonder hills that bound our sight, 
Already lies the snow. 
Their sides long streaks of dazzling white, 
Amidst their azure shew. 
Thy trees, Kyrle, fav’rite of the Muse, 
Bare, bleak and naked stand. 
No pleasing spots, no charming views, 
Thy prospect can command. 

’Tis cold and melancholy all, 
’Tis dreary to the eye. 
And with old Wilton’s warlike wall, 
In ruin seems to lye. 
What now Lucinda life inspires, 
What now can make us gay? 
Thy look our breasts Lucinda fires, 
Thy look creates a May.