I

How blest the Maid whose heart--yet free From Love's uneasy sovereignty-- Beats with a fancy running high, Her simple cares to magnify; Whom Labour, never urged to toil, Hath cherished on a healthful soil; Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; Whose heaviest sin it is to look Askance upon her pretty Self Reflected in some crystal brook; Whom grief hath spared--who sheds no tear But in sweet pity; and can hear Another's praise from envy clear.