Arcadian places,
Where Philomel still lingers,
Plaining her ancient pity,
And there I fetch forth this
With idling fingers,
And, pouting on its lip my kiss,
I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.
[Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but breaks off abruptly.]
Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear.
