FROM  I travel thro' the sultry Vale,
Till  Plains afford a cooling Gale:
Plains, where PAN delights to dwell,
In verdant Beauties cannot these excel:
These too, like them, might gain immortal Fame,
Resound with CORYDON and THYRSIS' Flame;
If, to his Mouth, the Shepherd would apply
His mellow Pipe, or vocal Music try:
But, to his Mouth, the Shepherd ne'er applies
His mellow Pipe, nor vocal Music tries:
Propt on his Staff, he indolently stands;
His Hands support his Head, his Staff his Hands;
Or, idly basking in the sunny Ray,
Supinely lazy, loiters Life away.
Here, as I pass'd the Plains, (a lovely Scene,
Array'd in Nature's Liv'ry, gaily green!)
On ev'ry Side the wanton Lambkins play'd,
Whose artless Bleatings rural Music made;
Too harsh perhaps to please politer Ears,
Yet much the sweetest Tune the Farmer hears.