THE American Mock-Bird, OR SONGSTER's DELIGHT, SONG CCXXIII

Sick of the Town, at once I flew To Contemplation's rural Seat; Adieu, said I, vain World adieu, Fools only study to be great: The Book, the Lamp, the Hermit's Cell, The moss-grown Roof, the matted Floor; All these I had—'twas mighty well; But yet I wanted something more; Yet I wanted, yet I wanted, But yet I wanted something more.

Back to the busy World again, I soon return'd, in hopes to find, Ease for imaginary Pain, Quiet of Heart, and Peace of Mind: Gay Scenes of Grandeur ev'ry Hour, By Turns my Fancy fill; The World seem'd all within my Pow'r; But yet I wanted something still. But yet I wanted something still.

Cities and Groves by Turns were try'd; 'Twas, all, ye Fair, an idle Tale, Celia at length became a Bride, A Bride to Damon of the Vale: All Nature smil'd; the Gloom was clear'd; Damon was kind—I can't tell how; Each Place a Paridise appear'd: And Celia wanted nothing now; Celia wanted, Celia wanted, And Celia wanted nothing now.