Classic Poem

W HAT makes dull Life roll on with Ease?
What makes the bitter Potion please?
Beauty, which vain Men adore,
Glorious Titles, bended Knees,
Bags of Sov'reign Indian Oar;
Is there Content in these?
Ah, Madam, no! 'tis all in vain
We sigh, desire, complain:
Much indeed is due to Fate,
But more unto our selves, to gain, a happy State.

II.

If bounteous Heav'n is pleas'd to lend
A little Country Seat;
And bless us with a faithful Friend,
In that obscure Retreat:
Where free from Noises of the Town,
And unmolested by the Gown:
Pleas'd with what's our Lot to bear,
Nor wish to be, but what we are:
Modest Knowledge, temp'rate Fare,
Health of Body, peace of Mind,
And Slumbers void of Care;
Nor Fear, nor rash Desire of Death:
Yet when th' Almighty calls us hence,
Can chearfully with Life dispense,
And offer up our Breath.
Whos'e'er, tho' poor, this Disposition gains,
Lord of himself, the nobler World, he reigns.

I F a Man, and his Maid
Will drive a lewd Trade,
Can a Neighbour, I pray you, prevent it?
May they soon be reclaim'd,
Or sin on, and be sham'd,
As for me I shall never attempt it.

II.

When a Wife shall procure,
To make her Spouse sure,
And think it a lawful Vocation;
May the P — x, or dry Blows
Demolish her Nose,
And her Countenance shew her Profession.

III.

Oh Woman! Oh Wife!
Thou dost lead a sad Life;
And well thou deserv'st it, for certain,
To Pimp for the Shread,
Of a Cobler's Thread:
So fare thee well Goody Martin.