The Borough

by George Crabbe

Couldst thou discover every secret ill

That pains their spirit, or resists their will;

Couldst thou behold forsaken Love’s distress,

Or Envy’s pang at glory and success,

Or Beauty, conscious of the spoils of Time,

Or Guilt alarm’d when Memory shows the crime;

All that gives sorrow, terror, grief, and gloom;

Content would cheer thee trudging to thine home.

There are, ’tis true, who lay their cares aside,

And bid some hours in calm enjoyment glide;