He now neglected, and would see no more;
He said his flute brought only to his mind
When he was happy, and his Fanny kind;
And his loved walks, and every object near, 470
And every evening-sound she loved to hear,
The shady lane, broad heath, and starry sky,
Brought home reflections, and he wish’d to die.
Yet there he stray’d, because he wish’d to shun
The world he hated, where his part was done;
As if, though lingering on the earth, he there