If Solid Happiness We Prize, Within Our Breast This Jewel Lies, And They Are Fools Who Roam.

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If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,
And they are fools who roam.
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.
-- Nathaniel Cotton (1707-1788)
-- The Fireside, Stanza 3

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