For what poor Ends are these Poffeffions known,
Where all is mine, tho' all is not my Own?
Others in pompous Shew their Thoughts may please,
Yet I am rich in wishing none of these.
For fay, what Happiness would you defire firft,
Still to have Drink, or never to have Thirft?
No Equipage, waiting on me shall stand,
Yet shall my Paffions be at my Command;
Reason, not that, fhall the fole Ruler be,
And ev'ry Senfe that wears her Livery.
Lord of my self in Chief; when they that have
More Wealth, make that their Lord, which is my Slave;
Yet I, as well as they, with more Content,
Have in my felf a fettled Government.
My Intellectual Soul hath there poffest
The Steward's Truft to govern all the rest.
When I go out, my Eyes two Ufhers are,
And with ftrict Duty execute their Care.
My Legs, like fervile Footmen, go or ftand,
And ready Arms wait close on either Hand;
My Lips are Porters to the dang'rous Door,
And each kind Ear's a trufty Auditor.
Then, when abroad, my inward Thoughts fhall be
Skilful Directors; they fhall carry me
Thro' Earth and Air, rough Neptune's wat'ry Plain,
And in a Moment whirl me back again.
The Charge of all the Cellar, Thirst, is mine,
Thou Buttler art, and Keeper of my Wine;
Above this Birth-right, fhould it double be,
No ling'ring Expectation tortures me;
I can my Father's Rev'rend Head Survey,.
And yet not wish a single Hair turn'd grey.
My conftant Genius is, I happier ftand,
Much richer in his Life, than in his Land.
And when thou haft an Heir, he for thy Gold
Will think each Day makes thee a Year too old.
Mine shall have no fuch Thoughts, if I have one,
He shall be more a Pupil than a Son;'
And at my Grave weep Truth, and fay, Death's Hand,
That bountifully unto thine gave Land,
Rob'd him of a kind Tutor; curfed Store,
That leaves no Piety but 'mongst the Poor:
Come then, confefs which is the happier He,
Or thou, or I, in our Pofterity.
I in an Orphan, who hath naught befide
His Virtue; thou in thy rich Parricide,
Who various Artifts doft employ, to fhow
The Measure of thy Lands, that thou may'st know
How much of Earth thou hold'ft; while I recal
Within my Mind, how little 'tis in all;
Thou haft thy Landskips, and the Painter trys,
With all his Skill, to please thy wanton Eyes;
Here fhady Groves, and craggy Mountains there,
Here Rivers headlong fall, there Springs rife clear.
The Heav'ns bright Rays thro' Clouds ftill Azure fhow,
Circled about with Iris gawdy Bow.
But what of this? I real Heav'ns furvey,
True Groves, true Springs, through which your Shadows
But you may fay, the Comfort of our Life,
Is in the Center of all Joys, a Wife;
You may have Choice of Brides, yet need not Woo,
The Rich, the Fair are proffer'd both to you;
But what fond Virgin will my Love prefer,
That only can in Virtue joynture her?
Yet I fuch Matches fcorn, an honest Pride,
I harbour here, difdains a Market-Bride:
Neglected Beauty now is priz'd by Gold,
And facred Love more bafely bought and fold;
Wives are made Traffick, Marriage is a Trade,
And when a Nuptial of two Hearts is made,
There muft of Money too a Weding be,
That Coin, as well as Men, may multiply;
Oh, fatal Blindness! had we Eyes to fee,
There is no Wealth to gen'rous Poverty!
And yet what want I, Heaven or Earth can yield?
Methinks I now poffefs th' Elyfian Field,
Into my Chests the yellow Tagus flows,
While my Plate-Fleet in bright Paftolus rows;
Th' Hyperian Orchards mine I boldly call,
Then I am rich in Wealth Poetical.
10 GENES furly and proud, who snarl'd at the Macedon Youth,
Delighted in Wine that was good, because in good Wine there is Truth;
But growing as poor as a Job, and unable to purchase a Flask,
He chofe for his Manfion a Tub, and liv'd by the Scent
HERACLITUs would never deny to Tipple and che
And when he was Maudlin, he'd cry, because he had empty'd his Quart;
Tho' fome are fo foolish to think, that he wept at Mens Follies and Vice,
'Twas only his Fashion to drink, till the Liquor flow'd out of his Eyes.
DEMOCRITUS always was glad of a Bumper to cherifh his Soul,
And would laugh like a Man that was Mad, when over a good flowing Bowl;
As long as his Cellar was ftor'd, his Liquor he'd merrily
And when he was drunk as a Lord, at those that were fober, he'd laugh.
COPERNICUs too like the reft, believ'd there was Wifdom in Wine,
And fancy'd a Cup of the Best, made Reason the brighter
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