All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall On her ungrateful top.
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In a cottage I live, and the cot of content, Where a few little rooms for ambition too low, Are furnish'd as plain as a patriarch's tent, With all for convenience, but nothing for show: Like Robinson Crusoe's, both peaceful and pleasant, By industry stor'd, like the hive of a bee; And the peer who looks down with contempt on a peasant. Can ne'er be look'd up to with envy by me.