My passions tamed, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes idly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul;
’Tis then we busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.
Dyer.
Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss
Has ever shunn’d him when he thought to kiss,
Who still in abject poverty or pain,
Can count with pleasure what small joys remain;