The Discontent. I. HERE take no care, take here no care, my Muse, Nor equal be their feet, nor num'rous The ruggeder my measures run when read, They'll livelier paint th' unequal paths fond mortals tread. Who when th' are tempted by the smooth ascents, Which flattering hope presents, Briskly they clime, and great things undertake; For 'tis not long before their feet, Perplexing doubts obstruct their way, In vain for aide they then to reason call, And headlong down the horrid precipice they fall: Where storms of sighs for ever blow, Which drown them in a briny floud. My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing good, Nought that the world can show, Nought that it can bestow. II. Not boundless heaps of its admired clay, When spread in our fraile vertue's way : Joyn'd in one mass, can bribe sufficient be, Or purchase for the mind's relief One moment's sweet repose, when restless made by grief, But what may laughter, more than pity, move : But choose to miss, what misst does them torment, IM. Nor yet, if rightly understood, If I not judge amiss, But all th' afflicted of a land to take, The wrong'd, the poor, th' opprest, the sad, Yet none but fools ambitious are to share Such a mock-good, of which 'tis said, 'tis best, IV. But, O, the laurel'd fool! that doats on fame, Whose hope's applause, whose fear's to want a name, Who can accept for pay Of what he does, what others say, Exposes now to hostile arms his breast, To toylsome study then betrays his rest; Now to his soul denies a just content, Then forces on it what it does resent; And all for praise of fools! for such are those, Which most of the admiring crowd compose. O famisht soul, which such thin food can feed! O wretched labour crown'd with such a meed! Too loud, O Fame! thy trumpet is, too shrill, To lull a mind to rest, Or calme a stormy breast, Which asks a musick soft and still. Nor Israel's shouts of victory. That could in Saul the rising passion lay, 'Twas the soft strains of David's lyre the evil spirit chaced away. V. But friendship fain would yet itself defend, And mighty things it does pretend, To be of this sad journey, life, the baite, Its good so mixt with ill we see, That dross for gold is often paid. And for one grain of friendship that is found, Love in no two was ever yet the same, VI. Is there that earth by human foot ne're prest? Oh! thither let me fly! Where from the world at such a distance set, All that's past, present, and to come, I may forget: The lover's sighs, and the afflicted's tears, Whate'er may wound my eyes or ears. The grating noise of private jars, The horrid sound of public wars, Of babling fame the idle stories, |