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The Attic warbler pours her throat,
The untaught harmony of Spring :
Their gatherd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
O'er-canopies the glade:
O'ercanopy'd with luscious woodbine.
Shakej. Midf, Night's Dicam. (At ease reclin'd in rustic ftate)
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 :
The busy murmur glows !
And float amid the liquid noon
**“ Nare per æftatem liquidam
Virgil. Georg. lib. 4. f
sporting with quick glance Shew to the sun their way'd coats dropt with gold.
Milton's Paradise Lost, book 7.