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 sustained annoy, Which chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy: Nor fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled; He mourned no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smiled, And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child.