42
Our Bard elect, a heedless happy boy,
Consumes his nights in sleep, his days in joy.
No irksome musings, oft revis'd with care[1],
Exhaust his spirits or his looks impair.
His healthful cheeks their ruddy freshness keep,
As village hind's, who guards the mountain sheep.
His spirits riot with as warm a glow
As his, who tracks the game in morning snow;
Nor Aristotle's rule, nor Virgil's theme,
Curtails his play, or breaks, his midnight dream.
Consumes his nights in sleep, his days in joy.
No irksome musings, oft revis'd with care[1],
Exhaust his spirits or his looks impair.
His healthful cheeks their ruddy freshness keep,
As village hind's, who guards the mountain sheep.
His spirits riot with as warm a glow
As his, who tracks the game in morning snow;
Nor Aristotle's rule, nor Virgil's theme,
Curtails his play, or breaks, his midnight dream.
- ↑ Happy deliverance from such servitude as the following lines bespeak.Ah quoties aliquis frustra consueta retentat
Munera, nec cernit cœlum se tendere contra,
Adversosque Deos, atque implacabile numen!
Vid. Poet. ii, 420.
