HEAVEN, what an age is this! what race | |
| Of giants are sprung up, that dare | |
| Thus fly in the Almighty’s face, | |
| And with His providence make war! | |
| |
| I can go nowhere but I meet | 5 |
| With malcontents and mutineers, | |
| As if in life was nothing sweet, | |
| And we must blessings reap in tears. | |
| |
| O senseless man, that murmurs still | |
| For happiness, and does not know, | 10 |
| Even though he might enjoy his will, | |
| What he would have to make him so. | |
| |
| Is it true happiness to be | |
| By undiscerning Fortune placed | |
| In the most eminent degree | 15 |
| Where few arrive, and none stand fast? | |
| |
| Titles and wealth are Fortune’s toils | |
| Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare | |
| The great are proud of borrowed spoils | |
| The miser’s plenty breeds his care. | 20 |
| |
| The one supinely yawns at rest, | |
| The other eternally doth toil, | |
| Each of them equally a beast, | |
| A pampered horse, or labouring moil. | |
| |
| The Titulado’s oft disgraced | 25 |
| By public hate or private frown, | |
| And he whose hand the creature raised | |
| Has yet a foot to kick him down. | |
| |
| The drudge who would all get, all save, | |
| Like a brute beast both feeds and lies, | 30 |
| Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, | |
| And in every labour dies. | |
| |
| Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf, | |
| Does only death and danger breed; | |
| Whilst one rich worldling starves himself | 35 |
| With what would thousand others feed. | |
| |
| By which we see what wealth and power | |
| —Although they make men rich and great— | |
| The sweets of life do often sour, | |
| And gull ambition with a cheat. | 40 |
| |
| Nor is he happier than these | |
| Who, in a moderate estate, | |
| Where he might safely live at ease, | |
| Has lusts that are immoderate; | |
| |
| For he, by those desires misled, | 45 |
| Quits his own vine’s securing shade, | |
| T’ expose his naked, empty head | |
| To all the storms man’s peace invade. | |
| |
| Nor is he happy who is trim, | |
| Tricked up in favours of the fair, | 50 |
| Mirrors, with every breath made dim, | |
| Birds caught in every wanton snare. | |
| |
| Woman, man’s greatest woe, or bliss, | |
| Does ofter far, than serve, enslave, | |
| And with the magic of a kiss | 55 |
| Destroys whom she was made to save. | |
| |
| O fruitful grief, the world’s disease! | |
| And vainer man to make it so, | |
| Who gives his miseries increase | |
| By cultivating his own woe. | 60 |
| |
| There are no ills but what we make | |
| By giving shapes and names to things; | |
| Which is the dangerous mistake | |
| That causes all our sufferings. | |
| |
| We call that sickness which is health, | 65 |
| That persecution which is grace; | |
| That poverty which is true wealth, | |
| And that dishonour which is praise. | |
| |
| Providence watches over all, | |
| And that with an impartial eye; | 70 |
| And if to misery we fall | |
| ’Tis through our own infirmity. | |
| |
| ’Tis want of foresight makes the bold | |
| Ambitious youth to danger climb, | |
| And want of virtue when the old | 75 |
| At persecution do repine. | |
| |
| Alas, our time is here so short | |
| That, in what state soe’er ’tis spent | |
| Of joy or woe, does not import, | |
| Provided it be innocent. | 80 |
| |
| But we may make it pleasant too | |
| If we will take our measures right, | |
| And not what Heaven has done undo | |
| By an unruly appetite. | |
| |
| ’Tis Contentation that alone | 85 |
| Can make us happy here below, | |
| And, when this little life is gone, | |
| Will lift us up to Heaven too. | |
| |
| A very little satisfies | |
| An honest and a grateful heart, | 90 |
| And who would more than will suffice | |
| Does covet more than is his part. | |
| |
| That man is happy in his share | |
| Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed, | |
| Whose necessaries bound his care, | 95 |
| And honest labour makes his bed; | |
| |
| Who free from debt, and clear from crimes, | |
| Honours those laws that others fear; | |
| Who ill of princes in worst times | |
| Will neither speak himself, nor hear; | 100 |
| |
| Who from the busy world retires | |
| To be more useful to it still, | |
| And to no greater good aspires | |
| But only the eschewing ill; | |
| |
| Who, with his angle, and his books, | 105 |
| Can think the longest day well spent, | |
| And praises God when back he looks, | |
| And finds that all was innocent. | |
| |
| This man is happier far than he | |
| Whom public business oft betrays, | 110 |
| Through labyrinths of policy, | |
| To crooked and forbidden ways. | |
| |
| The world is full of beaten roads, | |
| But yet so slippery withal, | |
| That where one walks secure, ’tis odds | 115 |
| A hundred and a hundred fall. | |
| |
| Untrodden paths are then the best, | |
| Where the frequented are unsure, | |
| And he comes soonest to his rest | |
| Whose journey has been most secure. | 120 |
| |
| It is Content alone that makes | |
| Our pilgrimage a pleasure here, | |
| And who buys sorrow cheapest takes | |
| An ill commodity too dear. | |
| |
| But he has Fortune’s worst withstood, | 125 |
| And Happiness can never miss, | |
| Can covet naught, but where he stood, | |
| And thinks him happy where he is. | |
| |
