IV.

Fret not yourselves, ye silken sons of pride, That a poor Wanderer should inspire my strain. The Muses fortune's fickle smile deride, Nor ever bow the knee in Mammon's fane; For their delights are with the village-train, Whom Nature's laws engage, and 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 wealth alarms.