Classic Poem

I.

The trembling Merchant begs for Ease,
When tost upon the foaming Seas;
When frowning Clouds obscure the Skies,
And dreadful Thunder roars, and Lightning flies.

II.

F OR Ease the proud Iberians pray,
When Martial Engines round 'em play;
The mighty Turk , and Persian too,
Beg Heav'n for Ease, which Riches can't bestow.

III.

N OT silver Mines, or shining Gold,
Nor all the Gems the Indies hold,
Nor purple Robes, nor pompous State,
Can cure the flutt'ring Cares, which vex the Great.

IV.

H APPY the Man, whose frugal Board
Supplies the Wishes of its Lord;
No Fears torment his quiet Breast,
No sordid Av'rice breaks his grateful Rest.

V.

W HY should we so much Wealth desire,
When Life so little will require?
Why should we rove from Zone to Zone,
And for another Climate change our own?

VI.

N OT those, who fly from Pole to Pole,
Can fly the Cares, which rack the Soul;
But, in remotest Regions, find,
They leave their Country, not themselves, behind.

VII.

F OR , tho' we cross the briny Deep,
Corroding Care pursues the Ship;
It hunts the Horseman close behind,
More swift than Mountain Roes, or rapid Wind.

VIII.

T HE Man, contented with his State,
Anticipates no evil Fate;
Tho' Fortune is inconstant still,
With what is good, he sweetens what is ill.

IX.

T HE Draught of Life is mixt, at best;
There's none can be completely blest:
Some overlive their Pleasures here;
Some die, before they taste what Pleasures are.

X.

A GE , Wars, and Tumults, factious Hate,
Made C OTTINGTON desire his Fate;
While tender S HEFFIELD meets his Doom
Just in the Flow'r of Life, and youthful Bloom.

XI.

A LL make their Exit soon or late;
And, if the Gods contract thy Date,
The vital Hour, deny'd to thee,
Their more indulgent Hand may give to me.

XII.

W HAT tho' thy fruitful Pastures keep
A hundred Flocks of bleating Sheep?
What tho' thy proud, exulting Mares
Neigh, foam, and fly before thy gilded Cars?

XIII.

T HY Board tho' twenty Dishes grace?
Thy Coat as many Yards of Lace?
I envy not the purple Dye,
Nor all thy gaudy Pomp of Luxury.

XIV,

I share some Sparks of P HOEBUS' Fire,
To warm my Breast, if not inspire;
Too little Wealth to make me proud,
And Sense enough to scorn the envious Crowd.