The world’s but a rude frame, whose substance takes
Colouring from all who flatter, or who curse;
How oft man’s heart, all discontented wakes,
His frame’s a coffin, and the world’s his hearse;
How oft, despairing, he goes forth to find
Yet more assurance of the thing he hates;
How oft he leaves misanthropy behind,
New folly found, of former folly prates:
Needs but some precept, touch, face, form, or word
To dam the current, and to turn its course;
Earth, in her loveliness, or music heard,
While low sweet voices harmonize its force:
There’s nought so small in Nature, but can sum
Earth’s total process, which it seems to numb.