Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.