A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud;
A modest aspect, and a smile at heart.
O for a joy from thy Philander’s spring!
A spring perennial, rising in the breast,
And permanent, as pure! no turbid stream
Of rapturous exultation, swelling high; 960
Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while,
Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire.
What does the man, who transient joy prefers?
What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?