University of Virginia Library

What is the Reason, none enjoy the State
In which they here are plac'd by Choice or Fate?
All their Condition, Orrery, bemoan,
And think another's happier than their own.
The Soldier, worn with Toil, with Years opprest,
Laments his Lot, and calls the Merchant blest.
When Billows roar, and stormy Winds arise,
The Soldier's Life is best, the Merchant cries;
He soon a speedy Death in Battle finds,
Or with fresh Laurels his glad Temples binds.
Wak'd by his Client ere the Dawn appears,
A Peasant's Life the Barrister prefers.
When by a Summons hurry'd up to Town,
Whate'er he sees delights the gaping Clown.
Fully to prove how all Mankind admire
Lots differing from their own, would Whitefield tire.
But to the Point, my Lord; you now shall hear,
From these Examples what I would infer.
Should some celestial Delegate be sent,
And say, I come to give you all Content;
‘Soldier, enjoy your Wish, no more repine;
‘Lawyer, the Peasant's envied Life be thine:
‘Let each assume the Lot, that best will please,
‘And quit his own: Retire—depart in Peace—
‘Why stand you thus? whence springs this strange Delay?
‘None will be blest, yet every Mortal may.’
Sure, Heaven, incens'd, no more will condescend,
To their next Suit, a gracious Ear to lend.
But to be grave, all jesting I decline,
Though Pleasantry with Truth one sure may join;
With Sweetmeats thus kind Parents strive to win
Children, when first their Hornbook they begin.
The subtle Lawyer, wrangling at the Bar,
Soldiers enur'd to the Fatigues of War,
The Hind, that ploughs the Land with so much Pain;
Sailors, who boldly venture o'er the Main;
All toil with this Pretence, to heap up Gold,
That from their Labour they may rest, when old;
All cite th'Example of the busy Ant,
Who lays up Stores against a Day of Want:
But she, more wise, when Clouds are big with Rain,
Ne'er stirs from home, but eats her hoarded Grain;
Whilst you defy the Cold, the scorching Sun,
Through Fire and Sword, through various Dangers run,
And sordid Lucre greedily pursue,
Lest any boast, they richer are than you.
What Joy can those vast Heaps of Gold afford,
Which under Ground, by stealth, you trembling hoard?
If touch'd, they soon will melt away, you fear;
But in an untouch'd Mass what Charms appear?
What if you thresh ten thousand Sacks of Grain,
Your Stomach will no more than mine contain.
Beneath his Basket though the Baker sweat,
He no more Bread, than you or I, can eat.
To those, whose Wants exceed not Nature's Bounds,
Ten are as good as twenty thousand Pounds.
You think it sweeter, though you take no more,
To take it from a great, than little Store.
Amply my little Barn my Wants supplies,
What can you more from your large Granaries?
You might as justly say, when you were dry,
And a transparent Fountain rose hard by,
From such a Spring I scorn my Thirst to slake,
No, let me quench it from yon spacious Lake.
Who eager more than what is needful craves,
If his Feet slip, is bury'd in the Waves;
Whilst the contented never fear the Flood,
But drink their Water pure, and free from Mud.
Led by false Notions, many we behold,
Who think their Merit's to be weigh'd by Gold.
What Answer shall we make to such as these?
Why let them be unhappy, if they please.
Thus the rich Miser, though the People hiss,
Applauds himself, and hugs his fancy'd Bliss;
Cries out, Laugh on; contented, I'm your Jest,
So I my Bags contemplate in my Chest,
When Tantalus, immers'd in Water, stood,
And with parch'd Lips catch'd at the flying Flood—
You smile, and stop me as I just began;
Change but the Name, you'll find yourself the Man:
Brooding you sit, and view with fond Delight
Your Bags, as Pictures only made for Sight;
But with religious Scruple you decline
To touch them, as you would a sacred Shrine.
No Worth intrinsic I in Gold perceive;
Value to Money Use alone can give:
With it plain Cloaths, and simple Food we buy,
And Nature's reasonable Wants supply.
For Dread of Fire, to lie whole Nights awake,
And, trembling, every Noise for Thieves to take;
With prying Jealousy to watch all Day,
Lest Servants plunder you, and run away;
If Riches Cares increase, in Mercy grant
That I such Blessings, Heaven, may ever want!
But, when attack'd by some severe Disease,
Gold will pay Watson's Bill and Wilmot's Fees;
All proper Means procure to save a Life,
Dear to my Friends, my Children, and my Wife.—
Nor Wife, nor Children, at your Death would grieve;
Not one, that knows you, wishes you to live:
When, to all other Things, you Gold prefer,
How can you think your Death deserves a Tear?
Without some kind Returns, we hope in vain
The Love of Friends and Kindred to retain;
This will our Skill and Pains as much surpass,
As, to the Bitt, to break the stubborn Ass.
Since you have treasur'd up so vast a Store,
Banish the Dread of e'er becoming poor.
Of Wealth superfluous quit the vain Pursuit,
Of your past Labours now enjoy the Fruit.
Short is the Story, which I here relate,
And learn to shun from thence Corbaccio's Fate.
Immensely rich, he went so meanly clad,
He wore no better Cloaths than Justice L---d;
What Nature call'd for, would himself deny,
And liv'd in Want, lest he for Want should die.
An Axe his Whore, a bold Virago, took,
And clove him to the Middle at one Stroke.
‘What! to turn Spendthrift then you me advise.’
Between the two Extremes a Medium lies;
And, though against the Miser I exclaim,
I likewise think the Prodigal to blame:
Strive not to blend Things, which by Nature clash,
E---s P---s differs from Beau Nash.
In every thing observe the golden Mean,
Virtue within fix'd Bounds is only seen.

Well, to resume the Thread of my Discourse,
Let none their Station think than others worse;
Just like the Miser, who, repining, views
The swelling Udders of his Neighbour's Ewes.
The greater Part, the poorer of the Train,
He overlooks, in his Pursuit of Gain;
But if he sees a richer Man before,
'Till he outstrips him, never will give o'er.
The Charioteer thus in the rapid Race
Lashes his Steeds to gain the foremost Place;
Presses on those before with eager Haste,
But disregards them, when he once is past.
This is the Reason, why so few are seen,
Who think their Station here has happy been;
Or, when the Feast of Life is o'er, retreat,
And quit, like a contented Guest, their Seat.

Enough for once; 'tis time I should desist,
Lest you suspect, that I'm turn'd Methodist.