Of touch or marble, nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars or a roof of gold:
Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told;
Or stair, or courts; but standst an ancient pile;
And these, grudged at, are reverenced the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air,
Of wood, of water; therein art thou fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport
Thy mount, to which thy dryads do resort,
Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,