In the genuine language
of despair, he soothes himself awhile with the pity
that shall be paid him after his death.
--------Tamen cantabitis, arcades, inquit,
Montibus hoec vestris: soli cantare periti
Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiescant,
Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores! Virg. Ec. x. 31.
--------Yet, O Arcadian swains,
Ye best artificers of soothing strains!
Tune your soft reeds, and teach your rocks my woes,
So shall my shade in sweeter rest repose.
O that your birth and business had been mine;
To feed the flock, and prune the spreading vine! WARTON.
Discontented with his present condition, and
desirous to be any thing but what he is, he wishes
himself one of the shepherds. He then catches the
idea of rural tranquillity; but soon discovers how
much happier he should be in these happy regions,
with Lycoris at his side:
Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori:
Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerer oevo.
Nunc insanus amor duri me Martis in armis
Tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes.
Tu procul a patria (nec sit mihi credere) tantum
Alpinas, ah dura, nives, et frigora Rheni
Me sine sola vides.
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