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

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

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

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

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

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.