O be thou keen to guess when Flattery's near!

O be thou keen to guess when Flattery's near!
His face is not the shadow of his heart:
The court is all for lucre like the mart,
And fraught with perils that a king should fear —
Trust not the flatterer's hollow sympathy:
For should'st thou fathom that dishonest sound,
The line would rise with noisome clays hung round
And not the fruitful loam of love for thee:
O ill-starred royalty! Love's balmy sighs
Where Truth breathes on us from her sweetest shrine —
The access to all pure delights and ties —
Say, are they less the peasant's lot than thine?
Beyond the shepherd's bliss thou canst not rise;
And many snares to steal ev'n that combine.