Are lost to Life, its pleasures and its pains.

No Muse I ask, before my view to bring

The humble actions of the swains I sing. -

How pass’d the youthful, how the old their days;

Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise;

Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts,

What parts they had, and how they ’mploy’d their parts;

By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress’d,

Full well I know-these Records give the rest.

Is there a place, save one the poet sees,