CXCV1 



LIFE OF 



words, why he might not have said the very same in an appropri- 

 ate conversation, and cannot conceive how indeed he could have 

 expressed such thoughts otherwise, without loss or injury to his 



meaning/ 



CONTENTATION. 



DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER, AND MOST WORTHY FRIKND, 

 MR IZAAC WALTON. 



HEAV'N, what an age is this ! what race 

 Of giants are sprung up, that dare 



Thus fly in the Almighty's face, 



And with his providence make war ! 



I can go no where but I meet 

 With malcontents, and mutineers, 



As if in life was nothing sweet 

 And we must blessings reap in tears. 



O senseless man, that murmurs still 

 For happiness, and does not know, 



Even though he might enjoy his will, 

 What he would have to make him so. 



Is it true happiness to be 



By undiscerning fortune plac't, 



In the most eminent degree, 

 Where few arrive, and none stand fast ? 



Titles and wealth are fortune's toils 



Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare ! 



The great are proud of borrow'd spoils, 

 The miser's plenty breeds his care. 



The one supinely yawns at rest, 



Th' other eternally doth toil, 

 Each of them equally a beast, 



A pamper'd horse, or lab'ring moil. 



The Titulado's oft disgrac'd, 



By public hate, or private frown, 

 And he whose hand the creature rais'd, 

 Has yet a foot to kick him down. 



The drudge who would all get, all save, 

 Like a brute beast both feeds, and lies, 



Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, 

 And in the very labour dies. 



Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf, 



Does only death, and danger breed, 



Whilst one rich worldling starves himself 

 With what would thousand others feed. 



By which we see what wealth and pow'r 

 Although they make men rich and great, 



The sweets of life do often sour, 

 And gull ambition with a cheat. 



Nor is he happier than these, 



Who in a moderate estate, 

 Where he might safely live at ease, 



Has lusts that are immoderate. 



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, 

 Trick't up in favours of the fair, 



Mirrors, with every breath made dim, 

 Birds caught in every 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. 



Providence watches over all, 

 And that with an impartial eye, 



And if to misery we fall, 



'Tis through our own infirmity. 



'Tis want of foresight makes the bold 

 Ambitious youth to danger climb, 



And want of virtue, when the old 

 At persecution do repine. 



Alas, our time is here so short, 

 That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, 



Of joy or woe does not import, 

 Provided it be innocent. 



8 Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. p. 96. 



