 | Occasional Poems |  |
127
From Martial. Epig. 47.
Vitam quæ faciunt beatiorem.
Wou'd you (my Friend) find out the true Receipt,
To live at Ease, and stem the Tide of Fate;
The grand Elixir thus you must infuse,
And these Ingredients to be happy chuse:
First an Estate, not got with Toil, and Sweat,
But unincumber'd left, and free from Debt:
For let that be your dull Forefather's Care,
To pinch, and drudge for his deserving Heir;
Fruitful, and rich, in Land that's sound and good,
That fills your Barns with Corn, your Hearth with Wood;
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While Flames invade the Skies, and Pudding crowns the Feast.
A quiet Mind, serene, and free from Care,
Nor puzling on the Bench, nor noisy at the Bar;
A Body sound, that Physick cannot mend;
And the best Physick of the Mind, a Friend,
Equal in Birth, in Humour, and in Place,
Thy other Self, distinguish'd but by Face;
Whose sympathetick Soul takes equal Share
Of all thy Pleasure, and of all thy Care.
A modest Board, adorn'd with Men of Sense,
No French Ragouts, nor French Impertinence.
A merry Bottle to engender Wit,
Not over-dose'd, but Quantum sufficit:
Equal the Error is in each Excess,
Nor Dulness less a Sin, than Drunkenness.
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Easy, and chaste, free from Debate and Pride,
Each Day a Mistress, and each Night a Bride.
Sleep undisturb'd, and at the Dawn of Day,
The merry Horn, that chides thy tedious Stay;
A Horse that's clean, sure-footed, swift, and sound,
And Dogs that make the ecchoing Clifts resound;
That sweep the dewy Plains, out-fly the Wind,
And leave domestick Sorrows far behind.
Pleas'd with thy present Lot, nor grudging at the past,
Not fearing when thy Time shall come, nor hoping for thy last.
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