Sent from Italy, 1741 But happy you from the contagion free, Who, through her veil, can human nature see; Calm you reflect, amid the frantic scene, On the low views of those mistaken men, Who lose the short invaluable hour, Through dirt-pursuing schemes of distant pow'r: Whose best enjoyments never pay the chase, But melt like snow within a warm embrace. Believe me, friend, for such indeed are you, Dear to my heart, and to my int'rest true; Too much already have you thrown away, Too long sustain'd the labor of the day; Enjoy the remnant of declining light, Nor wait for rest till overwhelm'd in night. By present pleasure balance pain you've past, Forget all systems, and indulge your taste.