Lately our poets loiter’d in green lanes,
Content to catch the ballads of the plains;
I fancied I had strength to climb
A loftier station at no distant time,
And might securely from intrusion doze
Upon the flowers thro’ which Ilissus flows.
In those pale olive grounds all voices cease,
And from afar dust fills the paths of Greece.
My slumber broken and my doublet torn,
I find the laurel also bears thorn.