A very little satifies

An honest and a grateful heart; And who would more than will suffice, Does covet more than is his part. That man is happy in his share,

Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed, Whose necessaries bound his care,

And honest labour makes his bed.

Who free from debt, and clear from crimes,
Honours those laws that others fear,
Who all of princes, in worst times,
Will neither speak himself, nor hear.

Who from the busy world retires,
To be more useful to it still,
And to no greater good aspires,
But only the eschewing ill.

Who, with his angle and his books,

Can think the longest day well spent,
And praises God when back he looks,
And finds that all was innocent.
This man is happier far than he
Whom public business oft betrays,
Through labyrinths of policy,

To crooked and forbidden ways.
The world is full of beaten roads,

But yet so slippery withal,

That where one walks secure, 'tis odds
A hundred and a hundred fall.
Untrodden paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure;
And he comes soonest to his rest,

Whose journey has been most sceure.

It is content alone that makes

Our pilgrimage a pleasure here;
And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes
An ill commodity too dear.

But he has fortunes worst withstood,
And happiness can never miss,
Can covet naught, but where he stood,
And thinks him happy where he is.

MELANCHOLY.

PINDARIC ODE.

WHAT in the name of wonder's this

Which lies so heavy at my heart, That I ev'n death itself could kiss,

And think it were the greatest bliss Even at this noment to depart! Life, even to the wretched dear, To me's so nauseous grown, There is no ill I'd not commit, But proud of what would forfeit it, Would act the mischief without fear, And wade through thousand lives to lose my own. Yea, Nature never taught me bloody rules,

Nor was I yet with vicious precept bred;

And now my virtue paints my cheeks in gules,

To check me for the wicked thing I said.
Tis not then I, but something in my breast,
With which unwittingly I am possest,

Which breathes forth horrour to proclaim,
That I am now no mere the same:

An infamous usurper's come,
Whose name is sounding in mine ear
Like that, methinks, of Oliver.

Nay, I remember in his life
Such a disease as mine was mighty rife,
And yet, methinks, it cannot be,
That he

Should be crept into me;

My skin could ne'er contain sure so much evil, Nor any place but Hell can hold so great a devil.

But by its symptoms now I know
What 'tis that does torment me so;
'Tis a disease,

As great a fiend almost as these,
That drinks up all my better blood,

And leaves the rest a standing pool,
And though I ever little understood,

Makes me a thousand times more fool. Fumes up dark vapours to my brain,

Creates burnt choler in my breast, And of these nobler parts possest, Tyrannically there does reign. Oh! when (kind Heaven) shall I be well again? Accursed Melancholy! it was sin

First brought thee in;

Sin lodg'd thee first in our first father's breast,
By sin thou'rt nourish'd, and by sin increas'd,
Thou'rt man's own creature, he has giv'n thee
pow'r

The sweets of life thus to devour :

To make us shun the cheerful light,
And creep into the shades of night,
Where the sly tempter ambush'd lies,
To make the discontented soul his prize.
There the progenitor of guile
Accosts us in th' old serpent's style;
Rails at the world as well as we,
Nay, Providence itself's not free:
Proceeding then to arts of flattery,
He there extols our valour and our parts,
Spreads all his nets to catch our hearts,
Concluding thus: "What generous mind
Would longer here draw breath,

That might so sure a refuge find
In the repose of death!"
Which having said, he to our choice presents
All his destroying instruments,
Swords and stilettos, halters, pistols, knives,
Poisons, both quick and slow, to end our lives.
Or if we like none of those fine devices,
He then presents us pools and precipices;
Or to let out, or suffocate our breath,
And by once dying to obtain an everlasting death.
Avaunt, thou devil, Melancholy!

Thou grave and sober folly!

And thus to pass away

With sighs the tedious nights, and does Like one that either is, or will be mad. Repentance can our own foul souls make pure, And expiate the foulest deed,

Whereas the thought others offences breed. Nothing but true amendment one can cure. who of this world a member is,

Thus man,

Is by good nature subject made To smart for what his fellows do amiss,

As he were guilty, when he is betray'd, And mourning for the vices of the time, Suffers unjustly for another's crime.

Go, foolish soul, and wash thee white,

Be troubled for thine own misdeeds
That heav'nly sorrow comfort breeds,

And true contrition turns delight.
Let princes thy past services forget.

Let dear-bought friends thy foes become, Though round with misery thou art beset,

With scorn abroad, and poverty at home,
Keep yet thy hands but clear, and conscience pure,
And all the ills thou shalt endure
Will on thy worth such lustre set

As shall out-shine the brightest coronet.
And men at last will be asham'd to see,

That still,

For all their malice, and malicious skill,

[thee.

Thy mind revives as it was us'd to be,
And that they have disgrac'd themselves to honoar

Yet once, I must confess, I was Such an overweening ass,

As in fortune's worst distress
To believe thy promises;
Which so brave a change foretold,
Such a stream of happiness,
Such mountain hopes of glitt'ring gold,
Such honours, friendships, offices,
In love and arms so great success;
That I even hugg'd myself with the conceit,
Was myself party in the cheat,
And in my very bosom laid
That fatal hope by which I was betray'd,
Thinking myself already rich, and great:
And in that foolish thought despis'd
Th' advice of those who out of love advis'd;
As I'd foreseen what they did not foresce,
A torrent of felicity,

And rudely laugh'd at those, who pitying wept for

me.

But of this expectation, when 't came to 't,
What was the fruit?

In sordid robes poor Disappointment came,
Attended by her handmaids, Grief and Shame;
No wealth, no titles, no friend could I see,
For they still court prosperity,
Nay, what was worst of what mischance could
do,

My dearest love forsook me too;
My pretty love, with whom, had she been true,
Even in banishment,

I could have liv'd most happy and content;
Her sight which nourish'd me withdrew.
I then, although too late, perceiv'd
I was by flattering Hope deceiv'd,
And call'd for it t'expostulate
The treachery and foul deceit :
But it was then quite fled away,
And gone some other to betray,
Leaving me in a state

By much more desolate,
Than if when first attack'd by fate,
I had submitted there

And made my courage yield unto despair.
For Hope, like cordials, to our wrong
Does but our miseries prolong,

Whilst yet our vitals daily waste,
And not supporting life, but pain
Call their false friendships back again

And unto Death, grim Death, abandon us at
last.

In me, false Hope, in me alone,
Thou thine own treach'ry hast out-done:
For chance, perhaps may have befriended
Some one thou'st labour'd to deceive
With what by thee was ne'er intended,
Nor in thy pow'r to give:
But me thou hast deceiv'd in all, as well
Possible, as impossible,

And the most sad example made
Of all that ever were betray'd.
But thou hast taught me wisdom yet,
Henceforth to hope no more
Than I see reason for,

A precept I shall ne'er forget:
Nor is there any thing below

Worth a man's wishing, or his care,
When what we wish begets our woe,

And hope deceiv'd becomes despair.

Then, thou seducing Hope, farewel,
No more thou shalt of sense bereave me,
No more deceive me,

I now can countercharm thy spell,

And for what's past, so far I will be even, Never again to hope for any thing but Heaven.

EPISTLE TO THE EARL OF
To write in verse, O count of mine,
To you, who have the ladies nine,
With a wet finger, at your call,
And I believe have kiss'd 'em all,
Is such an undertaking, none

But Peakrill bold would venture on:
Yet having found, that, to my woes
No help will be procur'd by prose,
And to write that way is no boot,
I'll try if rhyming will not do't.

Know then, my lord, that on my word,
Since my first, second, and my third,
Which I have pester'd you withal,
I've heard no syllable at all,

Or where you are, or what you do;

Or if I have a lord, or no.
A pretty comfort to a man
That studies all the ways he can
To keep an interest he does prize
Above all other treasuries.

But let that pass, you now must know
We do on our last quarter go;
And that I may go bravely out,
And trowling merry bowl about,
To lord and lady, that and this,
As nothing were at all amiss,
When after twenty days are past,
Poor Charles has eat and drunk his last.
No more plumb-porridge then, or pye,
No brawn with branch of rosemary,
No chine of beef, enough to make
The tallest yeoman's chine to crack;
No bag-pipe humming in the hall,
Nor noise of house-keeping at all,
Nor sign, by which it may be said,
This house was once inhabited.
I may, perhaps, with much ado,
Rub out a Christmas more or two;
Or, if the fates be pleas'd, a score,
But never look to keep one more.

Some three months hence, I make account
My spur-gall'd Pegasus to mount,
When, whither I intend to go,
My horse, as well as I, will know:
But being got, with much ado,
Out of the reach a stage or two,
Though not the conscience of my shame,
And Pegasus fall'n desp'rate laine,
I shake my stirrups, and forsake him ;
Leaving him to the next will take him;
Not that I set so lightly by him,
Would any be so kind to buy him ;
But that I think those who have seen
How ill my Muse has mounted beer,
Would certainly take better heed
Than to bid money for her steed.

Being then on foot, away I go,
And bang the hoof, incognito,
Though in condition so forlorn,
Little disguise will serve the turn,

Since best of friends, the world's so base,
Scarce know a man when in disgrace.

But that's too serious. Then suppose,
Like trav'ling Tom', with dint of toes,
I'm got unto extremest shore,
Sick, and impatient to be o'er
That channel which secur'd my state
Of peace, whilst I was fortunate,
But in this moment of distress,
Confines me to unhappiness:

But where's the money to be had
This surly Neptune to persuade ?
It is no less than shillings ten,
Gods will be brib'd as well as men.
Imagine then your Highlander
Over a can of muddy beer,
Playing at Passage with a pair

Of drunken fumblers for his fare;
And see I've won, oh, lucky chance,
Hoist sail amain, my mates, for France;
Fortune was civil in this throw,

And having robb'd me, lets me go.
I've won, and yet how could I choose,
He needs must win, that cannot lose;
Fate send me then a happy wind,
And better luck to those behind.

But what advantage will it be

That winds and tides are kind to me,
When still the wretched have their woes,
Wherever they their feet dispose?
What satisfaction, or delight

Are ragouts to an appetite?

What ease can France or Flanders give
To him that is a fugitive?

Some two years hence, when you come o'er,
In all your state, ambassador,
If my ill nature be so strong
Tout-live my infamy so long,
You'll find your little officer
Ragged as his old colours are;
And naked, as he's discontent,
Standing at some poor sutler's tent,
With his pike cheek'd, to guard the tun
He must not taste when he has done.
"Humph," says my lord, "I'm half afraid
My captain's turn'd a reformade,
That scurvy face I sure should know."
"Yes faith, my lord, 'tis even so,
I am that individual he:

I told your lordship how 't would be."
"Thou did'st so, Charles, it is confest,
Yet still I thought thou wer't in jest ;
But comfort! poverty's no crime,
I'll take thy word another time."

This matters now are coming to,
And I'm resolv'd upon't; whilst you,
Sleeping in Fortune's arms, ne'er dream
Who feels the contrary extreme ;
Faith write to me, that I may know,
Whether you love me still, or no ;
Or if you do not, by what ways
I've pull'd upon me my disgrace;
For whilst I still stand fair with you,
I dare the worst my fate can do ;
But your opinion long I find,
I'm sunk for ever to mankind.

1 Goriat.