The Deserted Village

by Oliver Goldsmith

One native charm, than all the gloss of art;

Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,

With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,