'Hail,  Hail, (began the artful Dame)
'Lives there a Wretch who owns not  Name?
'Lives there a Slave whose daring Hand defies
'The awful Empress of the nightly Skies?
'Yes, haughty  triumphs o'er the Plain,
'Tho' thy choice Herds are by his Arrows slain;
'The frighted Fauns his wanton Rage wou'd fly,
'But the keen Dart o'ertakes 'em, and they die.
'His shining Spear arrests the trembling Doe,
'And groaning Stags the deadly Weapon know:
'But if fair  to the  Swain
'Resigns the Freedom of her sacred Plain,
'Let none dispute the Licence of her Will,
'And I retire to our tuneful Hill. '