"Yet few with art their happiness pursue,
"Tho' all mankind have happiness in view,
"And ev'ry sense seems made by nature's skill
"For giving pleasure and avoiding ill.
"Nature our common mother has been kind,
"And for a race of joy her sons design'd,
"Who long to reach the goal, yet lazy, lag behind,
"Or wholly blind, or doubtful how t' advance,
"They leave the work of industry to chance.
"And of those few who with more active strife
"Pursue this great, important end of life,
"Some, too impatient, know not how to wait;
"Or aim at things beyond their human state:
"These last thro' too much delicacy fall,
"And by refining rob themselves of all.