Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats, At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats, Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan maids! Unlock your springs, and open all your shades....
Thyrsis, the music of that murm'ring spring, Is not so mournful as the strains you sing. Nor rivers winding thro' the vales below, So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow....