Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious Son,
Who half supports him; he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him dance;
And, by the sadness in his face, appears
To trace the progress of their future years: 
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit,
Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat! 
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain —
Ere they like him approach their latter end,
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! 
   But this Orlando felt not; “Rogues,” said he,
“Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be;
They wander round the land, and be it true
They break the laws—­then let the laws pursue
The wanton idlers; for the life they live,
Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive.” 
This said, a portion from his purse was thrown,
And every heart seem’d happy like his own. 
   He hurried forth, for now the town was nigh —
“The happiest man of mortal men am I.” 
Thou art! but change in every state is near
(So while the wretched hope, the bless’d may fear): 
“Say, Where is Laura?”—­“That her words must show,”
A lass replied; “read this, and thou shalt know!”
   “What, gone!—­’Her friend insisted—­forced to go: 
Is vex’d, was teased, could not refuse her’—­No? 
‘But you can follow.’  Yes!  ’The miles are few,
The way is pleasant; will you come?—­Adieu! 
Thy Laura!’ No!  I feel I must resign
The pleasing hope; thou hadst been here, if mine. 
A lady was it?—­Was no brother there? 
But why should I afflict me, if there were? 
‘The way is pleasant.’  What to me the way? 
I cannot reach her till the close of day. 
My dumb companion!  Is it thus we speed? 
Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed;
Still art thou doom’d to travel and to pine,
For my vexation—­What a fate is mine! 
   “Gone to a friend, she tells me;—­I commend
Her purpose:  means she to a female friend? 
By Heaven, I wish she suffer’d half the pain
Of hope protracted through the day in vain. 
Shall I persist to see th’ ungrateful maid? 
Yes, I will see her, slight her, and upbraid. 
What! in the very hour?  She knew the time,
And doubtless chose it to increase her crime.” 
   Forth rode Orlando by a river’s side,
Inland and winding, smooth, and full, and wide,
That roll’d majestic on, in one soft-flowing tide;
The bottom gravel, flow’ry were the banks,
Tall willows waving in their broken ranks;
The road, now near, now distant, winding led
By lovely meadows which the waters fed;
He pass’d the way-side inn, the village spire,
Nor stopp’d to gaze, to question or admire;
On either side the rural mansions stood,
With hedge-row trees, and hills, high-crown’d with wood,
And many a devious stream that reach’d the nobler flood. 
   “I hate these scenes,”