IV.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trac'd, Less fit to play the part; The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art: But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate, Whilst I here, must cry here At perfidy ingrate!