Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,
To find the calm retreat;
Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,
To seek the moss-grown seat.
Splendid attire and gilded crowns
Can ne'er with love accord;
But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,
His purest joys afford.
From pride, from business, and from care,
His greatest sorrows flow;
When these usurp the heart of man,
That heart he ne'er can know.