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P139

FAB. VII.

p.145

FAB.VIII.

FABLE VII.

The COUNTRYMAN and JUPITER.

TO MYSELF.

HAVE you a friend (look round and spy)

So fond, fo prepoffefs'd as I?

Your faults, fo obvious to mankind,
My partial eyes could never find.
When, by the breath of fortune blown,,
Your airy caftles were o'erthrown ;
Have I been over prone to blame,
Or mortify'd your hours with fhame?
Was I e'er known to damp your spirit,
Or twit you with the want of merit?
'Tis not fo ftrange, that fortune's frown
Still perfeveres to keep you down.

Look round, and see what others do.
Would you be rich and honest too?
Have you (like thofe fhe rais'd to place)
Been opportunely mean and base?
Have you (as times requir'd) refign'd
Truth, honour, virtue, peace of mind?

If these are scruples, give her o'er;
Write, practise morals, and be poor.

The gifts of fortune truly rate;
Then tell me what would mend your ftate.
If happiness on wealth were built,
Rich rogues might comfort find in guilt,
As grows the mifer's hoarded store,

His fears, his wants, increase the more.
Think, GAY, (what ne'er may be the cafe)

Should fortune take you into grace,

Would that your happiness augment ?

What can fhe give beyond content ?
Suppose yourself a wealthy heir,

With a vast annual income clear!
In all the affluence you poffefs,
You might not feel one care the lefs.
Might you not then (like others) find,
With chance of fortune, change of mind?
Perhaps, profufe beyond all rule,

You might start out a glaring fool;
Your luxury might break all bounds:

Plate, table, horfes, ftewards, hounds,
Might fwell your debts: then, luft of play
No regal income can defray.

Sunk

Sunk is all credit, writs affail,
And doom your future life to jail.

Or were you dignify'd with pow'r,
Would that avert one penfive hour?
You might give avarice its swing,.
Defraud a nation, blind a king:

Then, from the hirelings in your caufe,
Though daily fed with false applause,
Could it a real joy impart ?

Great guilt knew never joy at heart.
Is happiness your point in view?
(I mean the intrinfic and the true).
She nor in camps or courts refides,
Nor in the humble cottage hides;
Yet found alike in ev'ry sphere;
Who finds content, will find her there.

O'erfpent with toil, beneath the fhade,
A peasant rested on his spade,

Good gods! he cries, 'tis hard to bear
This load of life from year to year.
Soon as the morning ftreaks the skies,
Induftrious labour bids me rife;

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