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Tost on the wide Ægæan Seas
The restless Merchant prays for Ease,
When sable Clouds hide Phœbe's Ray,
And doubtful Stars perplex the Way.
The warlike Thracians who delight
In fierce Exploits of savage Fight;
The Medes adorn'd with glitt'ring Bows,
All sue for Quiet and Repose.
But Peace, my Grosphus! is not sold
For Gems, for Purple, or for Gold.
Nor Wealth, nor Lictors richly drest,
Can quell the Tumults of the Breast.
Anxiety, and pensive Gloom,
Hang lingring round the fretted Room.
Content with their paternal Store
The Wise sit down, nor covet more;
In the old trenchard Dish can dine,
Nor at the rural Fare repine;
No sordid Lusts their Minds infest,
No Fears disturb their downy Rest.
Why dost thou pitch thy Aim so high,
Who shortly must descend to die?
Why leave thy native Clime, and run
Restless, beneath some other Sun?
Deluded Men! in vain they try
From their uneasy selves to fly.
Care will pursue with winged Feet,
And climb upon the flying Fleet:
Care will o'ertake the Horseman's Train
Swifter than Hinds, or stormy Rain.
Contented with the Good they feel
The Wise regard not future Ill,
Weather the Bad with cheerful Air;
Nothing below is free from Care.
Quick Death Achilles snatch'd away,
But linger'd out Tithonus' Day.
Perhaps old Time may lend to me
Those Hours which he may steal from thee.
A hundred Flocks bleat o'er thy Ground,
Sicilian Heifers low around,
Thy sprightly Horses neigh afar,
Worthy to draw a Consul's Car.
Rich Garments sparkle in thy Train,
Ting'd with a double Tyrian Stain.

But happy in my small Estate,
Peace and Contentment make it great.
Nor did the Fates to me refuse
Some little Portion of the Muse,
With this, a Mind, (the greatest Prize,)
That can the sland'rous Croud despise.