He pass’d the way-side inn, the village spire,
Nor stopp’d to gaze, to question or admire;
On either side the rural mansions stood,
With hedge-row trees, and hills, high-crown’d with wood,
And many a devious stream that reach’d the nobler flood.
“I hate these scenes,” Orlando angry cried,
“And these proud farmers! yes I hate their pride,
See! that sleek fellow, how he strides along,
Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong;
Can yon close crops a single eye detain