IV.

Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide: The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms: They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.