The Muse demands, and in that milder air
Describe some gentle swain’s unhappy smart
Whose folded arms still press upon his heart,
And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart?
Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns,
The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains;
Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods,
And softens all the murmurs of the floods.
Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams,
Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streams