HEAV'N's King has plac'd us in a fertile Land,
Where he show'rs down his Gifts with copious Hand:
Already we enjoy an affluent Store;
Why should we be solicitous for more?
Give Martial Camps, and Kingly Courts to them,
Who place their only Bliss in fleeting Fame:
There let them live in golden Chains of State;
And be unhappy, only to be great.
But let us in our native Soil remain,
Nor barter Happiness for sordid Gain.
Here may we feed the Indigent in Peace,
Or cloath the Bare with the superfluous Fleece,
And give the weary fainting Pilgrim Ease.
This we prefer to Pomp, and formal Show,
Which only serve to varnish o'er our Woe;
Refulgent Ornaments, which dress the Proud,
Objects of Wonder to the gazing Crowd;
Yet seldom give Content, or solid Rest,
To the vain Man, by whom they are possess'd.