Then to look again below, Labour’s former life I’d view, Who, still beating through the snow, Spite of storms their toils pursue, Forc’d out by sad Necessity That sad fiend that forces me. Troubles, then no more my own, Which I but too long had known, Might create a care, a pain; Then I’d seek my joys again: Pile the fire up, fetch a drink, Then sit down again and think; Pause on all my sorrows past, Think how many a bitter blast, When it snow’d, and hail’d, and blew, I have toil’d and batter’d through. Then to ease reflective pain, To my sports I’d fall again, Till the clock had counted ten; When I’d seek my downy bed, Easy, happy, and well fed. Then might peep the morn, in vain, Through the rimy misted pane; Then might bawl the restless cock, And the loud-tongued village clock; And the flail might lump away, Waking soon the dreary day: They should never waken me, Independent, blest, and free; Nor, as usual, make me start, Yawning sigh with heavy heart, Loth to ope my sleepy eyes, Weary still, in pain to rise, With aching bones and heavy head, Worse than when I went to bed. With nothing then to raise a sigh, Oh, how happy should I lie Till the clock was eight, or more, Then proceed as heretofore. Best of blessings! sweetest charm! Boon these wishes while they’re warm; My fairy visions ne’er despise; As reason thinks, thou realize: Depress’d with want and poverty I sink, I fall, denied by thee. NOON