And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears, kanishaa and rives the fair. The dreary waste; there spenda the velong day. And there unless when charity forbids. The livelong night: hate is crazed! P. 12/ Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off There often wanders one, whom better days Delusive most where warmest wishes are, And dream of transports she was not to know. And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, They pick their fuel out of every hedge, Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, Can change their whine into a mirthful note And music of the bladder and the bag, Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. The houseless rovers of the sylvan world: And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, Need other physic none to heal the effects Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure, Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn, |