XVIII.

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, To him nor vanity nor joy could bring. His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed To work the woe of any living thing, By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling; These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield: He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field; And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.