XXVIII.
He polish'd Nature with a finer Hand:
Yet on her Beauties durst not Art incroach;
'Tis Art's alone these Beauties to expand.
In graceful Dance immingled, o'er the Land,
Pan, Pales, Flora, and Pomona play'd:
Even here, sometimes, the rude wild Common fand
An happy Place; where free, and unafraid,
Amid the flowering Brakes each coyer Creature stray'd.
XXIX.
But in prime Vigour what can last for ay?
That foul-enfeebling Wizard Indolence,
I whilom sung, wrought in his Works decay:
Spred far and wide was his curs'd Influence;
Of Public Virtue much he dull'd the Sense,
Even much of Private; eat our Spirit out,
And fed our rank luxurious Vices: whence
The Land was overlaid with many a Lout;
Not, as old Fame reports, wise, generous, bold, and stout.
XXX.
