Whistles o’er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65
And the mower whets his scythe,
[And every shepherd tells his tale]
[Under the hawthorn in the dale.]
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst [the landskip] round it measures: 70
[Russet lawns], and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast