Bereav'd of every pleasure Nature gives
Each plain but heart-felt rapture, what is wealth?
In artful mazes we but toil for bliss:
True Pleasure dwells not in the arched roof,
She sings no carol to the midnight ball;
The loaded board and Bacchus' flustering draughts
In vain are tryed, for ah she dwells not there!
She dwells not with such rude ill-manner'd mirth,
But seeks with her mild sister Chearfulness
The russet plain; there prompts the virgin's song,
Breathes the brisk carol from the cottage reed,
Strikes the quick tabor glad with echoing pulse,
And animates the village holiday.
Nor then alone but when his honest labour
Calls the good swain, she early joins his step;
For the mild radiance of the opening dawn
Gives to her sight the wide-extended view
Of hill and dale, hoar forest, flowering heath,
Rich harvest, verdant meadow, where the stream
Rolls far its plenteous wave, and all around
To Pleasure's ear most grateful, thousand birds,
Lark, linnet, thrush, and thou of all the grove
The sweetest songster, witching Philomel,
Art rising to hymn out thy morning song.