Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain.
The good man may be weak, be indolent;
Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.

But grant him riches, your demand is o'er ?

155

"No: shall the good want health, the good want power?" Add health and power, and ev'ry earthly thing;

"Why bounded pow'r? why private? why no king? 160 Nay, why external for internal giv'n?

"Why is not man a God and earth a heav'n ?"
Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive
God gives enough, while he has more to give ;
Immense the pow'r, immense were the demand;
Say, at what part of nature will they stand?

What nothing earthly gives or can destroy,

165

The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy,
Is virtue's prize: a better would you fix?

Then give humility a coach and six,

170

Justice a conqu'ror's sword, or truth a gown,

Or public spirit, its great cure, a crown.

Weak, foolish man! will Heav'n reward us there

With the same trash mad mortals wish for here?

175

The boy and man an individual makes,
Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes?
Go, like the Indian, in another life,
Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife;
As well as dream such trifles are assign'd,
As toys and empires for a godlike mind.
Rewards, that either would to virtue bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing;
How oft by these at sixty are undone
The virtues of a saint at twenty-one.

180

To whom can riches give repute, or trust, Content or pleasure, but the good and just?

185

Judges and senates have been bought for gold;
Esteem and love were never to be sold.

O fool! to think God hates the worthy mird,

The lover and the love of human kind,

190

Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience claar,

Because he wants a thousand pounds a year.

Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made, One flaunt in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobbler 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, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk,

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow:

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The rest is all but leather or prunello.

Stuck o'er with titles and hung round with strings, 205 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 fathers' worth if your's you rate,

Count me those only who were good and great.

210

Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood

Has crept through 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?

215

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 than 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.

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225

But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat;

'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great:

230

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.

235

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 unknown

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

240

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.

245

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

250

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

255

In parts superior what advantage lies?

Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?

260

'Tis but to know how little can be known;

To see all others' faults, and feel our own;
Condemn'd in business or in arts to drudge,
Without a second, or without a judge :

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?

265

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;

How inconsistent greater goods with these;

How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease:
Think, and if still the things thy envy call,
Say would'st thou be the man to whom they fall?
To sing for ribands if thou art so silly,

275

Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy.
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life?

Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife.

If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind :
Or, ravish'd with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame!
If all, united, thy ambition call,

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285

From ancient story, learn to scorn them all.
There, in the rich, the honour'd, fam'd, and great,
See the false scale of happiness complete!
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay,
How happy those to ruin, these betray.

290

Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
From dirt and sea-weed, as proud Venice rose;
In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
And all that rais'd the hero, sunk the man ;
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold,
But stain'd with blood, or ill exchang'd for gold:
Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease,
Or infamous for plunder'd provinces.
O wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame

E'er taught to shine, or sanctify'd from shame :
What greater bliss attends their close of life?
Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
The trophy'd arches, story'd halls invade,

And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade.
Alas! not dazzled with their noon-tide ray,
Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day;
The whole amount of that enormous fame,

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