Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

And keeps the palace of the soul.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

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

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.