contents | previous | next And happier they, who from the dangerous sea Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains An hard-earn'd pittance than who trust to thee! More blest the hind, who from his bed of flock Starts! when the birds of morn, their summons give, And waken'd by the lark "the shepherd's clock"
Lives but to labour labouring but to live. More noble than the sycophant, whose art, Must heap with taudry flowers thy hated shrine; I envy not the meed thou canst impart To crown his service while, tho' Pride combine With fraud to crush me my unfetter'd heart Still to the Mountain Nymph may offer mine.
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