Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

To each his suff'rings; all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.