Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shades?
Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood;
Where all the riches lie, that she
Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.
Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;
Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And naught but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither