We rife to fee and to be feen,
Gaze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and stretch to fleep again.
But Fancy, that uneasy guest,
Still holds a longing in our breast:
She finds or frames vexations ftill.
Herfelf the greatest plague we feel,
We take strange pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Aflume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th' imaginary weight.
With our dear felves we live at ftrife,
While the most conftant fcenes of life
From peevish humours are not free;
Still we affect variety:
Rather than pafs an easy day,
We fret and chide the hours away,
Grow weary of this circling fun,
And vex that he fhould ever run
The fame old track; and ftill, and still
Rife red behind yon eaftern hill,
And chide the moon that darts her light
Through the fame casement every night.
We shift our chambers, and our homes,
To dwell where trouble never comes;
Sylvia has left the city crowd,
Against the court exclaims aloud,
Flies to the woods; a hermit faint!
She loaths her patches, pins, and paint,
Dear diamonds from her neck are torn:
But Humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: She is hurry'd still,
'Twixt her wild paffions and her will:
Haunted and hagg'd where-e'er she roves,
By purling ftreams, and filent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.
Then our own native land we hate,
Too cold, too windy, or too wet;
Change the thick climate, and repair
To France or Italy for air;
In vain we change, in vain we fly;
Go, Sylvia, mount the whirling sky,
Or ride upon the feather'd wind
In vain; if this difeafed mind
Clings faft, and ftill fits clofe behind.
Faithful difeafe, that never fails
Attendance at her lady's fide,
Over the defart or the tide,
On rolling wheels, or flying fails.
Happy the fou! that virtue shows
To fix the place of her repofe,
Needlefs to move; for the can dwell
In her old grandfire's hall as well.
Virtue that never loves to roam,
But fweetly hides herfelf at home.
And eafy on a native throne
Of humble turf fits gently down.
Yet fhould tumultuous ftorms arife,
And mingle earth, and seas, and skies,
Should the waves fwell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,
Still the 's at peace; for well fhe knows
To launch the ftream that duty fhows,
And makes her home where'er fhe goes,
Bear her, ye feas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from East to West
On the foft air; fhe cannot find
A couch fo eafy as her mind,
Nor breathe a climate half fo kind.
TO JOHN HARTOPP, Efq; afterwards Sir JOHN HAR TOPP, Bart.
Cafimire, Book I. Ode 4. imitated.
"Vive jucundæ metuens juventæ, &c." July 1700.
IVE, my dear Hartopp, live to-day,
Nor let the fun look down and fay, "Inglorious here he lies ;"
Shake off your eafe, and fend your name
To immortality and fame,
By every hour that flies.
Youth's a foft fcene, but truft her not:
Her airy minutes, fwift as thought,
Slide off the flippery sphere;
Moons with their months make hafty rounds,
The fun has pafs'd his vernal bounds,
And whirls about the year.
Let folly drefs in green and red,
And gird her waste with flowing gold,
Knit blushing rofes round her head,
Alas! the gaudy colours fade,
The garment waxes old.
Hartopp, mark the withering rofe,
And the pale gold how dim it fhows!
Bright and lafting blifs below
Is all romance and dream;
Only the joys celeftial flow
In an eternal ftream,
The pleasures that the fimiling day
With large right hand bestows,
Falfely her left conveys away,
And fhuffles in our woes.
So have I seen a mother play,
And cheat her filly child,
She gave and took a toy away,
The infant cry'd and smil'd.
Airy chance, and iron fate,
Hurry and vex our mortal state,
And all the race of ills create;
Now fiery joy, now fullen grief,
Commands the reins of human life,
The wheels impetuous roll;
The harneft hours and minutes ftrive, And days with stretching pinions drive-down fiercely on the goal.
Not half so fast the galley flies
O'er the Venetian sea,
When fails, and oars, and labouring skies,
Contend to make her way.
Swift wings for all the flying hours
The God of time prepares,
The reft lie ftill yet in their nest
And grow for future years.
HE noify world complains of me
That I fhould fhun their fight, and flee
Vifits, and crowds, and company.
Gunfton, the lark dwells in her neft
Till the afcend the skies;
And in my closet I could reft
Till to the heavens I rife.
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