But tho' the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landschape 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,
Purpling a whole horizon round?
Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true:
But tho', the pebbled shores among,
It mimick no unpleasing song,
The limpid fountain  not for you.