If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam. The world has nothing to bestow; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home.
To be resignd when ills betide, Patient when favours are denid, And pleasd with favours given, Dear Chloe, this is wisdoms part; This is that incense of the heart1 Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
Petition me no petitions, sir, to-day; Let other hours be set apart for business. To-day it is our pleasure to be drunk; And this our queen shall be as drunk as we.