This is only a poor short-winded imitator of Addison, who had himself not above three or four notes in poetry; sweet enough indeed, like those of a German flute, but such as soon tire the ear with their frequent return. Tickell has added a great poverty of sense, and a string of transitions that hardly become a schoolboy. However, I forgive him for the sake of his ballad [Colin and Lucy], which I always thought the prettiest in the world.