There huntsmen in June after foxes may roam,
And horses unbridled go champing with foam;
From torrents by winter fierce swollen and high,
The proud salmon leaps in pursuit of the fly.
Ah Nature! it's little—I own for my part—
I know of your face save as mirrored in art;
Yet, vainly shall critics begrudge me that charm,
For a fellow can paint without learning to farm.