Classic Poem

I

H EAV'N , 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!

II

I can go no where but I meet
 With Malecontents, and Mutineers,
As if in Life was nothing sweet,
 And we must Blessings reap in Tears.

III

O senseless Man, that murmurs still
 For Happiness, and does not know,
Even though he might enjoy his Will,
 What he would have to make him so.

IV

Is it true Happiness to be
 By undiscerning Fortune plac't,
In the most eminent Degree,
 Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

V

Titles and Wealth are Fortune's Toyls
 Wherewith the Vain themselves ensnare;
The Great are proud of borrow'd Spoils,
 The Miser's Plenty breeds his Care.

VI

The one supinely yawns at rest,
 Th' other eternally doth toyl,
Each of them equally a Beast,
 A pamper'd Horse, or lab'ring Moyl.

VII

The Titulado's oft disgrac'd,
 By publick hate, or private frown,
And he whose Hand the Creature rais'd,
 Has yet a Foot to kick him down.

VIII

The Drudge who would all get, all save,
 Like a brute Beast both feeds, and lies
Prone to the Earth, he digs his Grave,
 And in the very labour dies.