Nor need I any foreign proof to bring,
Myself an instance of the truths I sing.
Whilst in a court, repugnant to my taste,
From my lov'd friend these precious hours I waste,
Why do I vainly here thy absence mourn,
And not anticipate thy wish'd return?
Why stay my passage to those happy fields,
Where fate in thee my ev'ry pleasure yields?
Fortune allows the blessings I refuse,
And ev'n this moment, were my heart to chuse;
For thee I should forsake this joyless crowd,
And not on paper think, but think aloud:
With thy lov'd converse fill the shorten'd day,
And glad my soul — Yet here unpleas'd I stay,
And by mean, sanguine views of int'rest sway'd,
By airy hopes, to real cares betray'd;
Lament a grievance which I might redress,
And wish that happiness I might possess.