1721.

ON CONTENT.

Content is wealth, the riches of the mind;
And happy he who can that treasure find:
But the base miser starves amidst his store,
Broods on his gold, and griping ftill for more,
Sits fadly pining, and believes he's poor.

DRYDEN.

Virtue was taught in verfe, and Athens' glory rofe.

PRIOR.

WHEN genial beams wade thro' the dewy morn, And from the clod invite the fprouting corn; When chequer'd green, wing'd mufic, new-blown scents,

Confpir'd to foothe the mind, and please each

fense;

Then down a fhady haugh I took my way,
Delighted with each flow'r and budding spray;
Mufing on all that hurry, pain, and strife,
Which flow from the fantastic ills of life.
Enlarg'd from fuch diftreffes of the mind,
Due gratitude to heav'n my thoughts refin'd,
And made me, in the laughing fage's way,
As a mere farce the murm'ring world furvey;
Finding

*

* Democritus.

Finding imagin'd maladies abound
Tenfold for one which gives a real wound.

Godlike is he whom no false fears annoy,
Who lives content, and grasps the present joy;
Whofe mind is not with wild convulfions rent,
Of pride, and avarice, and difcontent;
Whose well-train'd paffions, with a pious awe,
Are all fubordinate to reafon's law:
Then smooth content arises like the day,
And makes each rugged phantom fly away:
To lowest men fhe gives a lib'ral share
Of folid blifs; fhe mitigates our care,
Enlarging joys, adminiftering health;

The rich man's pleafure, and the poor man's wealth;

A train of comforts on her nod attend,

And to her fway profits and honours bend.

Hail, bleft content! who art by heav'n defign'd Parent of health and cheerfulness of mind; Serene content fhall animate my fong,

And make th' immortal numbers fmooth and ftrong.

Silenus, thou whofe hoary beard and head Experience speak, and youth's attention plead ; Retail thy gather'd knowledge, and disclose What state of life enjoys the most repose.

Thus

Thus I addreft: and thus the ancient bard :-
First, to no state of life fix thy regard:

All mortals may be happy if they please,
Not rack'd with pain, nor ling'ring in disease.

Midas the wretch, wrapt in his patched rags,
With empty paunch fits brooding o'er his bags;
Meagre his look, his mind in constant fright,
If winds but move his windows in the night;
If dogs fhould bark, or but a mouse make din,
He sweats and starts, and thinks the thief's got
in ;

His fleep forfakes him till the dawn appears,
Which ev'ry thing but such a caitiff cheers :
It gives him pain to buy a farthing light,
He jums at home in darkness all the night.
What makes him manage with fuch cautious pain?
'T would break a fum; a farthing spent so vain!
If e'er he's pleas'd, 'tis when fome needful man
Gives ten per cent. with an insuring pawn.
Though he's provided in as much would serve
Whole Neftor's years, he ever fears to starve.
Tell him of alms: alas! he'd rather choose
Damnation, and the promis'd blifs refuse.-
And is there fuch a wretch beneath the fun?-
Yes, he return'd, thousands instead of one
To whom content is utterly unknown.-
Are all the rich men fuch?-He anfwer'd, no;
Marcus hath wealth, and can his wealth bestow

Upon

1

Upon himself, his friends, and on the poor;
Enjoys enough, and wishes for no more.

Reverse of these is he who braves the sky, Curfing his Maker when he throws the die :

Gods, devils, furies, hell, heav'n, blood and wounds,

Promiscuous fly in burfts of tainted founds :

He to perdition doth his foul bequeath,

Yet inly trembles when he thinks of death.
Except at game, he ne'er employs his thought,
Till hifs'd and pointed at-not worth a groat.
The defp'rate remnant of a large estate

Goes at one throw, and points his gloomy fate;
He finds his folly now, but finds too late.

Ill brooks my fondling master to be poor,

Bred up to nought but bottle, game, and whore: How pitiful he looks without his rent!

They who fly virtue, ever fly content.

Now I beheld the fage look'd lefs fevere, Whilst pity join'd his old fatyric leer.

The weakly mind, faid he, is quickly torn;

Men are not gods, fome frailties must be borne: Heav'n's bounteous hand all in their turn

abuse;

The happiest men at times their fate refuse,
Befool themselves, and trump up an excuse.

Is Lucius but a fubaltern of foot? His equal Gallus is a coronet.

Sterilla fhuns a goffiping, and why?
The teeming mother fills her with envy.
The pregnant matron's grief as much prevails,
Some of the children always fomething ails;
One boy is fick, t' other has broke his head,
And nurse is blam'd when little mifs is dead.

A duchess, on a velvet couch reclin❜d, Blabs her fair cheeks till she is almost blind; Poor Phillis' death the briny pearls demands, Who ceases now to fnarl and lick her hands.

The politicians who, in learn'd debates, With penetration carve out kingdoms' fates, Look four, drink coffee, fhrug, and read gazettes. Deep funk in craft of state their fouls are loft, And all their hopes depend upon the post:

Each mail that's due they curse the contrair

wind;

'Tis ftrange if this way men contentment find: Though old, their humours I am yet to learn, Who vex themselves in what they've no concern.

Ninny, the glaring fop, who always runs In tradesmen's books, which makes the careful

duns

Often