And empty pastimes entertain
Your so desired, though grieved, pain;
For we will have the wanton fawns,
That frisking skip about the lawns,
The Panisks and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that multitude,
To dance their wilder rounds about,
To cleave the air with many a shout,
As they would hunt poor Echo out
Of yonder valley, who doth flout,