IZAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS 



For he, by those desires misled, 



Quits his own vine's securing shade, 



T' expose his naked empty head 



To all the storms man's peace invade. 



Nor is he happy who is trim, 

 Trickt up in favours of the fair : 



Mirrors which ev'ry breath may dim ; 

 Birds caught in ev'ry wanton snare. 



Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss 

 Does ofter far than serve, enslave ; 



And, with the magic of a kiss, 



Destroys whom she was made to save. 



Oh fruitful grief ! the world's disease ; 



And vainer man to make it so, 

 Who gives his miseries increase 



By cultivating his own woe. 



There are no ills but what we make. 

 By giving shapes and names to things ; 



Which is the dangerous mistake 

 That causes all our sufferings : 



We call that sickness which is health ; 



That persecution, which is grace ; 

 That poverty, which is true wealth ; 



And that dishonour, which is praise. 



