Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/32

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,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$
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 rouze 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.

How oft' the youth would long to change his fate,
Who high advanc'd to all the pomp of state,
With grief his gawdy 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!

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