Classic Poem

How blest are they that waste their weary hours
In solemn groves and solitary bowers,
Where neither eye nor ear
Can see, or hear,
The frantic mirth,
And false delights of frolic earth;
Where they may sit and pant,
And breathe their pursy souls;
Where neither grief consumes, nor griping want
Afflicts, nor sullen care controls.
Away false joys, ye murder where ye kiss:
There is no heaven to that, no life to this.