I can go no where but I meet And we must blessings reap in tears. O senseless man! that murmurs still Is it true happiness to be By undiscerning fortune plac'd, In the most eminent degree, Where few arrive, and none stand fast? Titles and wealth are fortune's toils, Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare; The great are proud of borrow'd spoils ; The miser's plenty breeds his care. The one supinely yawns to rest, The titled knave is oft disgrac'd By public hate, or private scorn; And he whose hand the creature rais'd, Has yet a foot to kick him down. The drudge, who would all get, all save, Like a brute beast both feeds and lies; Prone to the earth he digs his And in the very labour dies. Excess of ill got, ill kept pelf, grave, Does only death and danger breed; While one rich worldling starves himself, With what would thousand others feed. By which we see that wealth and power, Nor is he happier than these, For he by those desires misled, 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, Trick'd up in favours of the fair; Mirrors, with ev'ry breath made dim, Birds caught in ev'ry wanton snarė. Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss, Destroys whom she was made to save. O fruitful grief! the world's disease, There are no ills but what we make, We call that sickness which is health, Providence watches over all, And that with an impartial eye; 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 At persecution do repine. Alas! our time is here so short, But we may make it pleasant too, 'Tis true content, and that alone, A very little satisfies An honest and a grateful heart; That man is happy in his share, Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed; Whose necessaries bound his care, And honest labour makes his bed. Who free from debt, and clear from crimes, Who ill of princes in worst times, Who from the busy world retires, Who with his angle and his hooks This man is happier far than he, To crooked and forbidden ways. The world is full of beaten roads, That where one walks secure, 'tis odds Untrodden paths are then the best, When the frequented are unsure; And he comes soonest to his rest, Whose journey has been most secure. It is content alone that makes Our pilgrimage a pleasure here ; And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes An ill commodity too dear. |