Though from the wicker hole
Of some clay habitation, visit us
With thy long levelled rule of streaming light, 340
And thou shalt be our [star of Arcady],
Sec. Bro. Or, if our eyes
Be barred that happiness, might we but hear
The folded flocks, penned in their wattled cotes,
[Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops], 345
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock