The wond’ring rustic flies, nor knows
Which of its currents fastest flows;
Now here the rattling eddies lead,
Now there they foam along the mead,
Till in a silent pool they stand,
Collected on the hollow land.
Go languid fops, go pedants, waste
Your sneers on joys you cannot taste;
And cloak with many a vain pretence
Cold-blooded fear and indolence!