"Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase, Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst, Toils all the day, and, at th' approach of night On the first friendly bank he throws him down, Or rests his head upon a rock 'till morn: Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game, And if the following day he chance to find A new repast, or an untasted spring, Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury."