It is not sweet content, be sure, 
That moves the nobler Muse to song, 
Yet when could truth come whole and pure 
From hearts that inly writhe with wrong?

'T is not the calm and peaceful breast 
That sees or reads the problem true; 
They only know, on whom 't has prest 
Too hard to hope to solve it too.

Our ills are worse than at their ease 
These blameless happy souls suspect, 
They only study the disease, 
Alas, who live not to detect.