Weak withering age no rigid law forbids. With frugal nectar, smooth and slow with balm, The sapless habit daily to bedew, And give the hesitating wheels of life Gliblier to play.

'Tis not for mortals always to be blest.

Of right and wrong he taught Truths as refined as ever Athens heard; And he practis'd what he preach'd.

Know then, whatever cheerful and serene Supports the mind, supports the body too: Hence, the most vital movement mortals feel Is hope, the balm and lifeblood of the soul.

Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.

Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, Expels diseases, softens every pain, Subdues the rage of poison, and the plague.

Of right and wrong he taught Truths as refined as ever Athens heard; And he practis'd what he preach'd.

How happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid pow'rless limbs diffus'd A pleasing lassitude; he not in vain Invokes the gentle Deity of dreams. His pow'rs the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose; on him the balmy dews Of Sleep with double nutriment descend.

Virtue and sense are one; and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.

Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd.

There are, while human miseries abound, A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth, Without one fool or flatterer at your board, Without one hour of sickness or disgust.

This restless world Is full of chances, which by habit's power To learn to bear is easier than to shun.