Lo to the West a large and spacious plain,
Where meet in concert, wood, and hill, and dale;
Brighter than all that muse-led poets feign
Of Ida's grove, and Tempe's hallow'd vale:
Tho' Peneus there revolves his amber stream,
And suppliant Daphne spreads her branching arms;
Still trembling lest the sun's prolific beam,
Too fiercely wanton, blast her virgin charms:
Would'st thou escape? Go, coy relentless maid,
Go chuse some worse retreat, some less luxurious shade!