The poem
It is not sweet content, be sure, That moves the nobler Muse to song, Yet when could truth come whole and pure From hearts that inly writhe with wrong?
'T is not the calm and peaceful breast That sees or reads the problem true; They only know, on whom 't has prest Too hard to hope to solve it too.
Our ills are worse than at their ease These blameless happy souls suspect, They only study the disease, Alas, who live not to detect.