Who (said the Nymph) would sing of bleating Flocks,
Or hanging Goats that browze on craggy Rocks?
When ancient Bards have rifled all the Store,
And the drain'd Subject can afford no more.
Nor  now, nor  would engage;
Eclogue but ill becomes a warlike Age.
In ancient Times the Shepherd's Song would please,
When pious Kings enjoy'd the Shepherd's Ease,
And Monarchs sate beneath the shadowing Trees.
When those first happy'r Ages were no more,
But curs'd Ambition still increas'd with Pow'r;
When crowded Towns thin'd the deserted Plain,
And craving Passions a new Life began;
The peaceful Woods were not so soon forgot,
Th'uneasy Soul her wonted Pleasures sought:
Reason, when free, and undisturb'd, approves
The pleasing Pensiveness of thoughtful Groves:
Hence twisted Bowers, and cooling Grots were made
To imitate, at least, the rural Shade.