XVII.

But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled; Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head, Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team.