_—­Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquit, Montibus haec 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 aevo.  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.  Ah te ne frigora laedant!  Ah tibi ne teneras glacies secet aspera plantas! Ec. x. 42.

  Here cooling fountains roll through flow’ry meads,
  Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads;
  Here could I wear my careless life away,
  And in thy arms insensibly decay. 
  Instead of that, me frantick love detains,
  ’Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains: 
  While you—­and can my soul the tale believe,
  Far from your country, lonely wand’ring leave
  Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive! 
  Seek the rough Alps where snows eternal shine,
  And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine. 
  Ah! may no cold e’er blast my dearest maid,
  Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade.  WARTON.

He then turns his thoughts on every side, in quest of something that may solace or amuse him:  he proposes happiness to himself, first in one scene and then in another:  and at last finds that nothing will satisfy: 

Jam neque Hamadryades rursum, nec carmina nobis Ipsa placent:  ipsae rursum concedite sylvae.  Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores; Nec si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus, Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosae:  Nec si, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo Aethiopum versemus oves sub sidere Cancri.  Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamns amori. Ec. x. 62.

  But now again no more the woodland maids,
  Nor pastoral songs delight—­Farewell, ye shades—­
  No toils of ours the cruel god can change,
  Tho’ lost in frozen deserts we should range;
  Tho’ we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows,
  Endure bleak winter blasts, and Thracian snows: 
  Or on hot India’s plains our flocks should feed,
  Where the parch’d elm declines his sickening head,
  Beneath fierce-glowing Cancer’s fiery beams,
  Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams. 
  Love over all maintains resistless sway,
  And let us love’s all-conquering power obey.  WARTON.