And laughing Hymen wreaths the pair!
As o’er the daisy’d lawns they move
By glittering rill or dusky grove,
Old Needwood calls his softest gale,
Bids all his fragrant buds exhale:
His gazing herds around them throng,
His plighted birds suspend their song,
Each on her urn his Naiads lean,
And Wood-nymphs peep from allies green.
Where this gay mount o’er-looks the wood,[[12]]