Perhaps, unguided by thy aid,
I might have lov’d the heights of pow’r;
Have sigh’d to sport the gay parade,
The tinsel mortal of an hour.
Me, now, far other views engage,
For, sick with ev’ry vulgar joy,
I fly the projects of the age,
To Reason’s charms, which never cloy.
O give my soul content to know,
In whatsoever station plac’d: