Amid loud tumult, or the din of war;
O’er foreign lands, through distant climes, he’ll roam
To win that pleasure he may gain at home.
Here does the error in its root begin;
He seeks without when he should search within,
And strive to see included in his breast
The seeds of happiness, the germs of rest.
All bounteous nature upon man doth shower
Her gifts of pleasure, with more equal dower
Than we, dim-sighted and unwise, discern,