You tell me that my verse is rough, And to do mischief like enough; Bid me eschew, in honest rhymes, Follies of countries and crimes. You ask me if I ever knew Court chaplains thus lawn sleeves pursue?...
Remote from cities dwelt a swain, Unvexed by petty cares of gain; His head was silvered, and by age He had contented grown and sage; In summer's heat and winter's cold...
Ah! my dear fellow, write the motto NOSCE TEIPSUM o'er your grotto; For he must daily wiser grow, Determined his own scope to know. He never launches from the shore...