Arcadian Plains where Pan delights to dwell,
In verdant Beauties cannot these excel:
These too, like them, might gain immortal Fame,
Resound with Corydon and Thyrsis’ Flame;
If, to his Mouth, the Shepherd would apply
His mellow Pipe, or vocal Music try.”
But, alas, the poor shepherd has not heard of pastoral poetry, and does not know—oh, happy if his happiness he knew—that his country is Arcadia; for, as Duck laments,—
“Propt on his Staff, he indolently stands;
His Hands support his Head, his Staff his Hands;
Or, idly basking in the sunny Ray,