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Beside fome water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall fit, and think
(At ease reclin’d in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great !
Still is the toiling hand of Care :
The panting herds repose :
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows !
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon *:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some shew their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun to
To Contemplation's sober eye I
Such is the race of Man :
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
• “ Nare per æftatem liquidam
Virgil. Georg. lib. 4. +
-sporting with quick glance
Milton's Paradise Loft, book 7. # While insects from the threshold preach, &c.
M, Green, in the Grotto. Dodsley's Miscellanies, Vol. V. p. 161.