Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please,How often have I led thy sportive choir,With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire?Where shading elms along the margin grew,And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew;And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still,But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill;Yet would the village praise my wond'rous pow'r,And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour.Alike all ages. Dames of ancient daysHave led their children through the mirthful maze,And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore.So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,Thus idly busy rolls their world away:Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,For honour forms the social temper here.Honour, that praise which real merit gains,Or ev'n imaginary worth obtains,Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,And all are taught an avarice of praise;They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem,Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.But while this softer art their bliss supplies,It gives their follies also room to rise;For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,Enfeebles all internal strength of thought.And the weak soul, within itself unblest,Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.0