Sinopsis

O! where, thou friend of mortals, say, Dost thou thy placid charms display? Thou with Innocence art 'd, Empress of the spotless mind, Thy fav'rite haunts, O Nymph belov'd! Are far from busy Care remov'd; Within the hermit's moss-grown cell, Thou, undisturb'd, delight'st to dwell; The stately palace oft wilt quit, Beneath the peasant's roof to sit; He tills, he sows the grateful soil, And thou reward'st his useful toil.