Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made,

One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;

The cobler apron'd, and the parson gown'd,

The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.

"What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?"

I'll tell you, friend---a wise man and a fool,

You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk,

Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunello.

Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with

strings,

That thou may'st be by kings, or whores of kings. Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,

In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece:

But by your father's worth if your's you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. Go---if your ancient but ignoble blood

Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood, Go, and pretend your family is young;

Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

Look next on greatness; say where greatness lies. "Where but among the heroes, and the wise?" Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;

The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find Or make an enemy of all mankind!

Not one looks backward; onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward further then his nose.

No less alike the politic and wise;

All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes
Men in their loose unguarded hours they take,
Not that themselves are wise, but others weak.
But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat,
'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great:
Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.
Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains,
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.

What's fame? a fancy'd life in others breath;
A thing beyond us, e'en before our death.

Just what you hear, you have; and what's un

known,

The same (my Lord) if Tully's or your own.

All that we feel of it begins and ends
In the small circle of our foes or friends;

To all beside as much an empty shade
An Eugene living, as a Cæsar dead;

Alike or when or where they shone or shine,

Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;

An honest man's the noblest work of God.
Fame but from death a villain's name can save,
As justice tears his body from the grave;
When what t'oblivion better were resign'd,
Is hung on high to poison half mankind.
All fame is foreign, but of true desert,
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs

Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas

M

And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels,
Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.

In parts superior what advantage lies?
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?
"Tis but to know how little can be known;
To see all others faults, and feel our own:
Condemn'd in bus'ness or in arts to drudge,
Without a second, or without a judge:

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view

Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

Bring then these blessings to a strict account,

Make fair deductions; see to what they mount;

How much of other each is sure to cost;

How each for other oft is wholly lost;