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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

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched swain your sport survey;

He finds his faithful fences torn,
He finds his labour'd crops a prey;

He sees his flock—no more in circles feed;

Haply beneath your ravage bleed,
And with no random curses loads the deed.

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
Of clinging infants, ask support in vain!

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,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,

PurpFing a whole horizon round?
Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true:

But tho', the pebbled shores among,

It mimic no unpleasing song,
The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

3 Unpleas'd

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