Their looks confirm the truth of what I say;
How patiently they bore their lot severe!
How did they welcome this auspicious day!
Oh! let not Lux’ry mock their diet plain,
Their flowing can, and toasts of pretty maids;
Nor titled Pride behold, with proud disdain,
The poor, but neat, repast, that Labour spreads.
The crowd, that forms sweet smiling Pleasure’s train,
And all that fickle fortune’s favours share,
Confess alike the iron sway of pain;