How great his theft, who robs himself!

Yet still we hug the dear deceit.

'Tis the last act which crowns the play.

If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam. The world has nothing to bestow; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home.

To be resign'd when ills betide, Patient when favours are deni'd, And pleas'd with favours given,— Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part; This is that incense of the heart Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; Its checker'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread

The most effectual of all ways for making ourselves feel morally whole, and for attaining to the greatest heights of self-complacency, is to fall upon others for the sins of which we are ourselves guilty.