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No jealous doubts disturb his heart, Where easy truth delights to dwell;For simple she, and void of art, The modest maid he loves so well.
Nor let the pride of pow'r and wealth Despise their humble birth and fame,For their's are competence and health; And what are titles but a name?
An empty name, as light as air, Unless with worth and virtue join'd;—Can titles break the bonds of care? Can these enlarge the narrow mind?
But virtue, like the tow'ring oak, Lifts her tall head, the forest's pride;The raging storm, the whirlwind's shock, Fall weak and harmless at her side.
Vice, like some frail and gaudy flow'r, Spreads her broad bosom to the sun,But ere the ev'ning's silent hour, Is wither'd, perish'd, and undone.
