Thofe in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the foul with icy hand,

And flow-consuming Age.

To each his fuff'rings: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate!

Since forrow never comes too late,

And happiness too fwiftly flies.

Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more; where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wife.

HYMN