Song of Pan and Nereide, from King Arthur

ROUND thy Coasts, Fair Nymph of Britain,

For thy Guard our Waters flow:

Proteus all his Herds admitting

On thy Greens to Graze below.

Foreign Lands thy Fishes Tasting

Learn from thee Luxurious Fasting.

For Folded Flocks, on Fruitful Plains,

The Shepherds and the Farmers Gains,

Fair Britain all the world outvyes;

And Pan, as in Arcadia reigns

Where Pleasure mixt with Profit lyes.

Though Jasons Fleece was Fam’d of old,

The British Wool is growing Gold;

No Mines can more of Wealth supply:

It keeps the Peasant from the Cold,

And takes for Kings the Tyrian Dye.