« ПретходнаНастави »
Here take no care, take here no care, my Muse,
Nor aught of art or labour use:
But let thy lines rude and unpolish'd go,
Nor equal be their feet, nor num'rous
let them flow. 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;
But fatal voyages, alas, they make :
For 'tis not long before their feet,
Inextricable mazes meet,
Perplexing doubts obstruct their way,
Mountains withstand them of dismay ;
Or to the brink of black despair them lead,
Where's nought their ruine to impede,
In vain for aide they then to reason call,
Their senses dazzle, and their heads turn round,
The sight does all their pow'rs confound, And headlong down the horrid precipice they fall :
Where storms of sighs for ever blow,
Where rapid streams of tears do flow,
Which drown them in a iny floud.
My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing good,
Nought that the world can show,
Nought that it can bestow.
Not boundless heaps of its admired clay,
Ah ! too successful to betray,
When spread in our fraile vertue's way : For few do run with so resolv'd a pace, That for the golden apple will not loose the race. And yet not all the gold the vain would spend,
Or greedy avarice would wish to save;
Which on the earth refulgent beams doth send,
Or in the sea has found a grave,
Joynd in one mass, can bribe sufficient be,
The body from a stern disease to free,
Or purchase for the mind's relief
One moment's sweet repose, when restless made by
But what may laughter, more than pity, move :
When some the price of what they dearest love
Are masters of, and hold it in their hand,
To part with it their hearts they can't command :
But choose to miss, what misst does them torment,
And that to hug, affords them no content.
Wise fools, to do them right, we these must hold,
Who Love depose, and homage pay to Gold,
Nor yet, if rightly understood,
Does grandeur carry more of good;
To be oth' number of the great enrollid,
A scepter o're a mighty realm to hold.
For what is this?
If I not judge amiss,
But all th' afflicted of a land to take,
And of one single family to make
The wrong'd, the poor, th' opprest, the sad,
The ruin'd, malecontent, and mad?
Which a great part of ev'ry empire frame,
And interest in the common father claime.
Again what is't, but always to abide
A gazing crowd? upon a stage to spend
A life that's vain, or evil without end ?
And which is yet nor safely held, nor laid aside ?
And then, if lesser titles carry less of care,
Yet none but fools ambitious are to share
Such a mock-good, of which 'tis said, 'tis best,
When of the least of it men are possest.
But, O, the laureld fool! that doats on fame, Whose hope's applause, whose fear’s to wantaname,
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.
'Twas not Amaleck's vanquisht cry,
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
But friendship fain would yet itself defend,
And mighty things it does pretend,
To be of this sad journey, life, the baite,
The sweet reflection of our toylsome state.
But though true friendship a rich cordial be,
Alas, by most 'tis so allay'd,
Its good so mixt with ill we see,
That dross for gold is often paid.
And for one grain of friendship that is found,
Falsehood and interest do the mass compound,
Or coldness, worse than steel, the loyal heart
Love in no two was ever yet the same,
No happy two ere felt an equal flame.
Is there that earth by human foot ne're prest?
That aire which never yet by humane breast
Respired, did life supply ?
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,
The short-liv'd triumphs noysy glories,