Classic Poem

Whatever fortune, Beaumont , is thy lot.
This moral maxim never be forgot!
Whether the sickle Goddess smile, or low'r,
To rise superior to her boasted pow'r,
And spite of fate enjoy the present hour.
But, if she shift the variable scene,
With the same calm preserve the golden mean.
Whether our days are spent in gloomy care,
Or bless'd in revels with the wanton fair;
Whether we curb each sally of the soul,
Or feast our genius o'er the flowing bowl,
Time measures out our lives with equal pace,
Till every mortal runs his destin'd race.
?Where the tall pine and poplar branch unite,
And without heat admit the friendly light;
Where silver streams in clear meanders glide,
And gently murmur as they roll their tide:
There let some Ganymede fresh chaplets bring,
The short-liv'd glories of the blooming spring;
There in gay converse, while the fates permit,
Indulge the joys of wine, and flights of wit:
For soon you must resign the purchas'd grove,
The stately fabric, and the nymph you love.
Your cumulated riches prove the share
Of some detested wife, or spend-thrift heir.
What!—tho' we vainly should derive our blood
From distant chronicles beyond the flood;
Or with humility confess it run
From some mean parent to his meaner son;
The same impartial fate o'erwhelms us all:
Fools, knaves, and heroes, undisting