Nor is, nor perhaps will be, with that state
In which his own choice plants him, or his fate.
Happy the merchant, the old foldier cries:
The merchant, beaten with tempestuous skies,
Happy the foldier! one half-hour to thee
Gives fpeedy death, or glorious victory:
The lawyer, knockt up early from his rest
By reftless clients, calls the peasant bleft:
The peasant, when his labours ill fucceed,
Envies the mouth, which only talk does feed.
'Tis not (I think you 'll fay) that I want store
Of inftances, if here I add no more;
They are enough to reach, at least a mile,
Beyond long orator Fabius's style.
But hold, ye, whom no fortune e'er endears,
Gentlemen, malecontents, and mutineers,
Who bounteous Jove so often cruel call,
Behold, Jove 's now refolv'd to please you all.
Thou foldier, be a merchant: merchant, thou
A foldier be and, lawyer, to the plough.
Change all your stations ftrait: why do they stay?
The devil a man will change, now, when he may.
Were I in general Jove's abused case,
By Jove I'd cudgel this rebellious race:
But he 's too good; be all, then, as ye were';
However, make the best of what ye are,
And in that state be chearful and rejoice,
Which either was your fate, or was your choice..
No, they must labour yet, and fweat, and toil,
And very miferable be awhile;
But 'tis with a defign only to gain
What may their age with plenteous eafe maintain.
The prudent pifmire does this leffon teach,
And industry to lazy mankind preach:
The little drudge does trot about and sweat,
Nor does he ftrait devour all he can get;
But in his temperate,mouth carries it home
A ftock for winter, which he knows muft come.
And, when the rolling world to creatures here
Turns up the deform'd wrong-fide of the year,
And fhuts him in, with ftorms, and cold, and wet,
He chearfully does his paft labours eat:
O, does he fo? your wife example, th' ant,
Does not, at all times, reft and plenty want.
But, weighing justly a mortal ant's condition,
Divides his life 'twixt labour and fruition.
Thee, neither heat, nor ftorms, nor wet, nor cold,
From thy unnatural diligence can withhold:
To th' Indies thou would't run, rather than fee
Another, though a friend, richer than thee.
Fond man! what beauty can be found
In heaps of treasure, buried under ground?
Which rather than diminish'd e'er to fee,
Thou would't thyfelf, too, buried with them be:
And what's the difference? is 't not quite as bad,
Never to ufe, as never to have had?
In thy vaft barns millions of quarters store;
Thy belly, for all that, will hold no more
Than mine does. Every baker makes much bread :
What then? He's with no more, than others, fed.
Do you within the bounds of nature live,
And to augment your own you need not strive;
One hundred acres will no less for you
Your life's whole bufinefs, than ten thousand, do.
But pleafant 'tis to take from a great store.
What, man! though you 're refolv'd to take no more
Than I do from a fmail one? If your will
Be but a pitcher or a pot to fill,
To fome great river for it must you go,
When a clear fpring juft at your feet does flow?
Give me the fpring, which does to human use
Safe, eafy, and untroubled ftores produce;
He who fcorns thefe, and needs will drink at Nile,
Muft run the danger of the crocodile,
And of the rapid ftream itself, which may,
At unawares, bear him perhaps away.
In a full flood Tantalus ftands, his skin
Wash'd o'er in vain, for ever dry within :
He catches at the stream with greedy lips,
From his toucht mouth the wanton torrent flips:
You laugh now, and expand your careful brow;
'Tis finely faid, but what 's all this to you?
Change but the name, this fable is thy ftory,
Thou in a flood of ufelefs wealth doft glory,
Which thou canft only touch, but never taste;
Th' abundance ftill, and ftill the want, does laft.
The treasures of the gods thou would'st not spare :
But when they're made thine own, they facred are,
And must be kept with reverence; as if thou
No other ufe of precious gold didft know,
But that of curious pictures, to delight,
With the fair stamp, thy virtuofo fight.
The only true and genuine ufe is this,
To buy the things, which nature cannot mifs
Without discomfort; oil and vital bread,
And wine, by which the life of life is fed,
And all thofe few things elfe by which we live:
All that remains, is giv'n for thee to give.
If cares and troubles, envy, grief, and fear,
The bitter fruits be, which fair riches bear;
If a new poverty grow out of store;
The old plain way, ye gods! let me be poor.
Paraphrafe on HORACE, B. III. Od. xvi.
A TOWER of brafs, one would have faid,
And locks, and bolts, and iron bars,
And guards, as ftrict as in the heat of wars,
Might have preferv'd one innocent maidenhead.
The jealous father thought, he well might fpare
All further jealous care;
And, as he walk'd, t' himself alone be fimil'd,
To think how Venus' arts he had beguil'd;
And, when he flept, his reft was deep:
But Venus laugh'd to see and hear him sleep.
She taught the amorous Jove
A magical receipt in love,
Which arm'd him stronger, and which help'd him more, Than all his thunder did, and his almighty-fhip before.
She taught him love's elixir, by which art
His godhead into gold he did convert :
No guards did then his passage stay,
He pafs'd with ease; gold was the word;
Subtle as lightning, bright, and quick, and fierce,
Gold through doors and walls did pierce.
The prudent Macedonian king,
To blow up towns, a golden mine did spring.
He broke through gates with his petar;
'Tis the great art of peace, the engine 'tis of war;
And fleets and armies follow it afar :
The enfign 'tis at land, and 'tis the feaman's ftar.
Let all the world flave to this tyrant be,
Creature to this disguised deity,
Yet it fhall never conquer me.
A guard of virtues will not let it pass,
And wisdom is a tower of ftronger brafs.
The Mufes' laurel, round my temples spread,
Does from this lightning's force fecure my head:
Nor will I lift it up fo high,
As in the violent meteor's way to lie.
Wealth for its power do we honour and adore? The things we hate, ill-fate, and death, have more.
From towns and courts, camps of the rich and great, The vaft Xerxean army, I retreat,
And to the small Laconic forces fly,
Which holds the ftraits of poverty.
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