 | Miscellany Poems |  |
On a Peacock.
I
Thou foolish Bird, of Feathers proud,Whose Lustre yet thine Eyes ne're see:
The gazing Wonder of the Crowd,
Beauteous, not to thy self, but Me!
Thy Hellish Voice doth those affright,
Whose Eyes were charmed at thy sight.
II
Vainly thou think'st, those Eyes of thineWere such as sleepy Argus lost;
When he was touch'd with rod Divine,
Who late of Vigilance did boast.
Little at best they'll thee avail,
Not in thine Head, but in thy Tayl.
III
Wisemen do forward look to tryWhat will in following Moments come:
Backward thy useless Eyes do ly,
Nor do enquire of future doom.
“Nothing can remedy what's past;
“Wisedom must guard the present cast.
IV
Our Eyes are best employ'd at home,Not when they are on others plac'd:
From thine but little good can come,
Which never on thy self are cast:
15
A Tayl well-furnish'd, but an empty Head.
| Miscellany Poems | |