But hear, ye Nymphs; indulge no causless Fears,
I know the lasting Joys of coming Years.
I,  kind , will protect
The Loyal Patriot, and his Schemes direct.
All do not hate the Plain, nor fly the Woods;
Fields have their Lovers, and the Groves their Gods.
If , and  with a Smile
Reward the Song, nor scorn the meaner Style;
Each bleeding Tree shall tell the Shepherd's Flame,
And in its Wounds preserve the growing Name.
Swains to transmitted Pipes shall long succeed,
And sort with artful Hand th'unequal Reed.
The Birds on ev'ry Bough will list'ning throng,
And noisy, strive to drown the envy'd Song.
to distant Rocks shall waft the Tale,
And reach with borrow'd Sounds the lowest Vale;
While the glad Lambs pursue the circling Round,
Frisk wanton, and o'er grassy Ridges bound.