42
Our Bard elect, a heedless happy boy, Consumes his nights in sleep, his days in joy.No irksome musings, oft revis'd with care[1], Exhaust his spirits or his looks impair.His healthful cheeks their ruddy freshness keep, As village hind's, who guards the mountain sheep.His spirits riot with as warm a glow As his, who tracks the game in morning snow; Nor Aristotle's rule, nor Virgil's theme,Curtails his play, or breaks, his midnight dream.
- ↑ Happy deliverance from such servitude as the following lines bespeak.Ah quoties aliquis frustra consueta retentat Munera, nec cernit cœlum se tendere contra, Adversosque Deos, atque implacabile numen!Vid. Poet. ii, 420.
