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I DESCENDED 1 of an ancient Line, | |
| That long the Tuscan Scepter sway’d, | |
| Make haste to meet the generous Wine, | |
| Whose piercing is for thee delay’d: | |
| The rosie wreath is ready made; | 5 |
| And artful hands prepare | |
| The fragrant Syrian Oyl, that shall perfume thy hair. | |
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II When the Wine sparkles from a far, | |
| And the well-natur’d Friend cries, come away; | |
| Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care: | 10 |
| No mortal int’rest can be 2 worth thy stay. | |
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III Leave for a while thy costly Country Seat; | |
| And, to be Great indeed, forget | |
| The nauseous pleasure of the Great: | |
| Make haste and come: | 15 |
| Come, and forsake thy cloying store; | |
| Thy Turret that surveys, from high, | |
| The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome; | |
| And all the busie pageantry | |
| That wise men scorn, and fools adore: | 20 |
| Come, give thy Soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor. | |
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IV Sometimes ’tis grateful to the Rich, to try | |
| A short vicissitude, and fit of Poverty: | |
| A savoury Dish, a homely Treat, | |
| Where all is plain, where all is neat, | 25 |
| Without the stately spacious Room, | |
| The Persian Carpet, or the Tyrian Loom, | |
| Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the Great. | |
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V The Sun is in the Lion mounted high; | |
| The Syrian Star | 30 |
| Barks from afar, | |
| And with his sultry breath infects the Sky; | |
| The ground below is parch’d, the heav’ns above us fry. | |
| The Shepheard drives his fainting Flock | |
| Beneath the covert of a Rock, | 35 |
| And seeks refreshing Rivulets nigh | |
| The Sylvans to their shades retire, | |
| Those very shades and streams new shades and streams require, | |
| And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire. | |
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VI Thou, what befits the new Lord May’r, | 40 |
| And what the City Faction 3 dare, | |
| And what the Gallique arms will do, | |
| And what the Quiverbearing foe, | |
| Art anxiously inquisitive to know: | |
| But God has, wisely, hid from humane sight | 45 |
| The dark decrees of future fate; | |
| And sown their seeds in depth of night; | |
| He laughs at all the giddy turns of State; | |
| When Mortals search too soon, and fear too late. | |
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VII Enjoy the present smiling hour; | 50 |
| And put it out of Fortunes pow’r: | |
| The tide of bus’ness, like the running stream, | |
| Is sometimes high, and sometimes low, | |
| A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow, | |
| And alwayes in extream. | 55 |
| Now with a noiseless gentle course | |
| It keeps within the middle Bed; | |
| Anon it lifts aloft the head, | |
| And bears down all before it with impetuous force: | |
| And trunks of Trees come rowling down, | 60 |
| Sheep and their Folds together drown: | |
| Both House and Homested into Seas are borne; | |
| And Rocks are from their old foundations torn, | |
| And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter’d honours mourn. | |
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VIII Happy the Man, and happy he alone, | 65 |
| He, who can call to day his own: | |
| He who, secure within, can say, | |
| To morrow do thy worst, for I have liv’d to-day. | |
| Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, | |
| The joys I have possest, in spight of fate, are mine. | 70 |
| Not Heav’n it self upon the past has pow’r; | |
| But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. | |
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IX Fortune, that with malicious joy | |
| Does Man her slave oppress, | |
| Proud of her Office to destory, | 75 |
| Is seldome pleas’d to bless: | |
| Still various, and unconstant still, | |
| But with an inclination to be ill. | |
| Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, | |
| And makes a Lottery of life. | 80 |
| I can enjoy her while she’s kind; | |
| But when she dances in the wind, | |
| And shakes the wings, and will not stay, | |
| I puff the Prostitute away: | |
| The little or the much she gave, is quietly resign’d: | 85 |
| Content with poverty, my Soul I arm; | |
| And Vertue, tho’ in rags, will keep me warm. | |
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X What is’t to me, | |
| Who never sail in her unfaithful Sea, | |
| If Storms arise, and Clouds grow black; | 90 |
| If the Mast split, and threaten wreck? | |
| Then let the greedy Merchant fear | |
| For his ill gotten gain; | |
| And pray to Gods that will not hear, | |
| While the debating winds and billows bear | 95 |
| His Wealth into the Main | |
| For me, secure from Fortunes blows | |
| (Secure of what I cannot lose,) | |
| In my small Pinnace I can sail, | |
| Contemning all the blustring roar; | 100 |
| And running with a merry gale, | |
| With friendly Stars my safety seek | |
| Within some little winding Creek; | |
| And see the storm a shore. | |
