Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so.

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.

And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.

Chorus: O suitably attired in leather boots Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom Whence by what way how purposed art thou come To this well-nightingaled…

These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best!