THUS, in the Morn, a Courser have I seen
With headlong Fury scour the level Green;
Or mount the Hills, if Hills are in his Way,
As if no Labour could his Fire allay;
Till PHOEBUS, shining with meridian Heat,
Has bath'd his panting Sides in briny Sweat:
The lengthen'd Chace scarce able to sustain,
He measures back the Hills and Dales with Pain.