For whom like service, now and then his choice,
Relieves the tedious holiday of age—
Thoughts raised above the Earth while here he sits 140
Feeding on sunshine—to the blushing girl
Who here forgets her errand, nothing loth
To be waylaid by her betrothed, peace
And pleasure sobered down to happiness!
But should these hills be ranged by one whose soul 145
Scorning love-whispers shrinks from love itself
As Fancy’s snare for female vanity,