blow,
  Each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe,
  And fix thy mind alone on rural scenes,
  To turn the levell’d lawns to liquid plains;
  To raise the creeping rills from humble beds,
  And force the latent springs to lift their heads;
  On watry columns capitals to rear,
  That mix their flowing curls with upper air? 
  Or dost thou, weary grown, late works neglect,
  No temples, statues, obelisks erect;
  But catch the morning breeze from fragrant meads. 
  Or shun the noon-tide ray in wholesome shades;
  Or lowly walk along the mazy wood,
  To meditate on all that’s wise and good: 
  For nature, bountiful, in thee has join’d,
  A person pleasing, with a worthy mind,
  Not giv’n the form alone, but means and art,
  To draw the eye, or to allure the heart. 
  Poor were the praise, in fortune to excel,
  Yet want the way to use that fortune well. 
  While thus adorn’d, while thus with virtue crown’d,
  At home in peace; abroad, in arms renown’d;
  Graceful in form, and winning in address,
  While well you think, what aptly you express;
  With health, with honour, with a fair estate,
  A table free, and elegantly neat. 
  What can be added more to mortal bliss? 
  What can he want that stands possest of this? 
  What can the fondest wishing mother more,
  Of heav’n attentive, for her son implore? 
  And yet, a happiness remains unknown,
  Or to philosophy reveal’d alone;
  A precept which, unpractis’d, renders vain
  Thy flowing hopes, and pleasure turns to pain. 
  Shou’d hope and fear thy heart alternate tear,
  Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care,
  Whatever passions may thy mind infest,
  (Where is that mind which passions ne’er molest?)
  Amidst the pangs of such intestine strife,
  Still think the present day the last of life;
  Defer not ’till to-morrow to be wise,
  To-morrow’s sun to thee may never rise;
  Or shou’d to-morrow chance to chear thy sight,
  With her enliv’ning, and unlook’d-for light. 
  How grateful will appear her dawning rays! 
  Its favours unexpected doubly please. 
  Who thus can think, and who such thoughts pursues,
  Content may keep his life, or calmly lose. 
  All proofs of this, thou may’st thyself receive,
  When leisure from affairs will give thee leave. 
  Come, see thy friend retir’d, without regret,
  Forgetting care, or striving to forget,
  In easy contemplation, soothing time
  With morals much, and now and then with rhyme;
  Not so robust in body as in mind,
  And always undejected, tho’ declin’d;
  Not wond’ring at the world’s new wicked ways,
  Compar’d with those of our fore-father’s days: 
  For virtue now is neither more or less,
  And vice is only vary’d in the dress: 
  Believe it, men have ever been the same,
  And Ovid’s golden age is but a dream.