Air—in the Cestus

How happy she, who ne'er can know The misery of the great; Who, far from reach of scepter'd woe, Finds in her low estate. Joy in her innocence—delight In scenes that still present; Pleasures that health and strength excite, And transport in content: One brook, her mirror and her drink, The happy wanderer seeks; And as her lambs play round its brink, Good Nature paints her cheeks. Few are her wants, certain her joy; For reason's glad consent Points out her innocent employ, And guides her to content.