260 LIFE OF COTTON. 



The drudge who would all get, all save, 

 Like a brute bean 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 that wealth and power, 

 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 those 

 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, 



Tex pose his naked empty head 

 To all the storms man's peace invade. 



Nor is he happy, who is trim 

 Trick'd 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. 



XV. 



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 : , 



