'Tis not to view the well-proportion'd pile,
The charms of Titian's and of Raphael's stile;
At soft Italian sounds to melt away;
Or in the fragrant groves of myrtle stray;
That lulls the tumults of the soul to rest,
Or makes the fond possessor truly blest.
In our own breasts the source of Pleasure lies
Still open, and still flowing to the wise;
Not forc'd by toilsome art and wild desire
Beyond the bounds of nature to aspire,
But in its proper channels gliding fair;
A common benefit, which all may share,
Yet half mankind this easy Good disdain,
Nor relish happiness unbought by pain;
False is their taste of bliss, and thence their search is vain.
So idle, yet so restless are our minds,
We climb the Alps, and brave the raging winds,
Through various toils to seek Content we roam,
Which but with  were our's at home.
For not the ceaseless change of shifted place
Can from the heart a settled grief erase;
Nor can the purer balm of foreign air
Heal the distemper'd mind of aching care.
The wretch by wild impatience driv'n to rove,
Vex'd with the pangs of ill-requited love,
From pole to pole the fatal arrow bears,
Whose rooted point his bleeding bosom tears,
With equal pain each diff'rent clime he tries,
And is himself that torment which he flies.