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 How from his soul he longs, but longs in vain, To haunt the groves, and purling streams again: No stem commands of parents can controul, No force can check the sallies of his soul. Thus some fleet courser season'd to the rein, That spies his females on a distant plain, And longs to act his pleasures o'er again; Fir'd with remembrance of his joys, he bounds, He foams and strives to reach the well-known grounds; The goring spurs his furious flames improve, And rouzerouse [sic] within him all the rage of love; Ply'd with the scourge he still neglects his haste, And moves reluctant, when he moves at last; Looks often back; regrets the distant mare; And neighs his passion to the dappled fair.


 * oft' the youth would long to change his fate,

Who high advanc'd to all the pomp of state, With grief his gawdygaudy [sic] load of grandeur views, Lost at too high a distance from the muse! How oft' he sighs by warbling streams to rove, And quit the palace for the shady grove! How