Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/138

130 But we are press'd by heavy laws,

And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because

We have been glad of yore.

If there is one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The houshold hearts that were his own,

It is the man of mirth.

My days, my Friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approv'd,

And many love me, but by none

Am I enough belov'd."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains!

I live and sing my idle songs

Upon these happy plains,