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Ye rural thanes that o'er the mofly down
Some panting, timorous hare pursue; Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?
Say, does she smoothe her lawns for you? For you does echo bid the rocks reply, And urg’d by rude constraint resound the jovial cry?
See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
He finds his faithful fences torn,
He sees his flock—no more in circles feed;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,
Nor yet, ye swains, conclude
That nature smiles for you alone; Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude,
The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Yours be the produce of the soil;
O may it still reward your toil!
Nor ever the defenceless train
But tho' the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye? Or the warm hope of distant gains
Far other cause of glee supply?
Is not the red-streak's future juice
The source of your delight profound,
PurpFing a whole horizon round?
But tho', the pebbled shores among,
It mimic no unpleasing song,