XIII.

From labour health, from health contentment springs: Contentment opes the source of every joy. He envied not, he never thought of, kings; Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy: Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil'd, And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child.