This inward sense, the feeling of the soul,
Of pain and pleasure comprehends the whole.
In vain soft  warbles in my ear,
If the lax nerve convey no pleasure there.
In vain the picture, and the splendid feast,
If this not strike the eye, nor that the taste.
Less pleas'd am I with  note,
Than the rude Cobler in his merry throat:
He, who beneath some shatter'd bulk reclin'd,
Smiles at the tempest, and derides the wind.
Who hunger, dirt, and all but thirst can bear,
To spleen a stranger, and a foe to fear.
His mind no rude sensations discompose,
Nor smells offensive e'er affront his nose;
Nor high debates, nor falling stocks he minds,
His awful temples, lo! a fillet binds;
Patient he eyes the future and the past,
And, as a king, is happy to the last.