Across the gilded rooms of state,
And their foul nests like swallows build
Close to the palace-roofs and towers that pierce the sky?
Much less will Nature’s modest wants supply:
And happier lives the homely swain,
Who in some cottage, far from noise,
His few paternal goods enjoys;
Nor knows the sordid lust of gain,
Nor with Fear’s tormenting pain
His hovering sleeps destroys.