That like an Emmet^[1] thou muſt ever moil, Is a ſad Sentence of an ancient Date; And, certes, there is for it Reaſon great; For, though ſometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curſe thy Star, and early drudge and late, Withouten That would come an heavier Bale, Looſe Life, unruly Paſſions, and Diſeaſes pale.

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1 ↑ Ant

II.

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In lowly Dale, faſt by a River's Side,

With woody Hill o'er Hill encompaſs'd round,

A moſt enchanting Wizard did abide,

Than whom a Fiend more fell is no where found.

It was, I ween, a lovely Spot of Ground;

And there a Seaſon atween June and May,

Half prankt with Spring, with Summer half imbrown'd,

A liſtleſs Climate made, where, Sooth to ſay,

No living Wight could work, ne cared even for Play.

III.

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Was nought around but Images of Reſt:

Sleep-ſoothing Groves, and quiet Lawns between;

And flowery Beds that ſlumbrous Influence keſt,

From Poppies breath'd; and Beds of pleaſant Green,

Where never yet was creeping Creature ſeen.

Mean time unnumber'd glittering Streamlets play'd,

And hurled every-where their Waters ſheen;

That, as they bicker'd through the ſunny Glade,

Though reſtleſs ſtill themſelves, a lulling Murmur made.

IV.

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Join'd to the Prattle of the purling Rills,

Were heard the lowing Herds along the Vale,

And Flocks loud-bleating from the diſtant Hills,

And vacant Shepherds piping in the Dale;

And now and then ſweet Philomel would wail,

Or Stock-Doves plain amid the Foreſt deep,

That drowſy ruſtled to the fighting Gale;

And ſtill a Coil the Graſhopper did keep:

Yet all theſe Sounds yblent inclined all to Sleep.