field o’er brothers’ bodies as of foes!
Then sing a triumph, while in secret flows
The tear they shed as from an anguish’d heart.
Less lofty, but more cunning on his part,
Another sighs for ill-secure command:
With flatteries solicitously plann’d,
Follows the air of favour, and his pride
In adulation vile he serves to hide,
To exalt himself; and if he gain his end
His brow on all beneath will haughty bend;
And sleep, and joy, and inward peace, the price
To splendour of command, will sacrifice:
Yet fears the while, uncertain in his joy,
Lest should some turn of Fortune’s wheel destroy
His power in deep oblivion overthrown.
Another seeks, with equal ardour shown,
For lands, and gold in store. Ah! lands and gold,
With tears how water’d, gain’d with toils untold!
His thirst unquench’d, he hoards, invests, acquires;
But with his wealth increased are his desires;
And so much more he gains, for more will long:
Thus, key in hand, his coffers full among;
Yet poor he thinks himself, and learns to know
His state is poor, because he thinks it so.
Another like illusion his to roam
From wife and friends, who flying light and home,
To dedicate his vigils the long night
In secret haunts of play makes his delight,
With vile companions. Betwixt hope and fear
His anxious breast is fluctuating drear.
See, with a throbbing heart and trembling hand,
There he has placed his fortune, all to stand
Upon the turning of a die! ’Tis done:
The lot is cast; what is it? has he won?
Increased is his anxiety and care!
But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair,
O’erwhelm’d in ruin, he is doom’d to know
A life of infamy, or death of woe.
And is he happier, who distracted lies
A slave beneath the light of beauty’s eyes?
Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays,
And at the cost of troubles vast essays,
’Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain?
Love leads him not: his breast could ne’er profane
Admit Love’s purer flame; ’tis passion’s fire
Alone that draws him, and in wild desire
He blindly headlong follows in pursuit:
And what for all his toils can he compute?
If gain’d at length, he only finds the prize
Bring death and misery ev’n in pleasure’s guise.
Then look on him, abandon’d all to sloth,
Who vacant sees the hours pass long and loth
O’er his so useless life. He thinks them slow,
Alas! and wishes they would faster go.
He knows not how to employ them; in and out
He comes, and goes, and smokes, and strolls about,
To gossip; turns, returns, with constant stress
Wearying himself to fly from weariness.
But now retired, sleep half his life employs,
And fain would all the day, whose light annoys.
Fool! wouldst thou know the sweetness of repose?
Seek it in work. The soul fastidious grows
Ever in sloth, self-gnawing and oppress’d,
And finds its torment even in its rest.
But if to Bacchus and to Ceres given,
Before his table laid, from morn to even,
At ease he fills himself, as held in stall:
See him his stomach make his god, his all!
Nor earth nor sea suffice his appetite;
Ill-tongued and gluttonous the like unite:
With such he passes his vain days along,
In drunken routs obscene, with toast and song,
And jests and dissolute delights; his aim
To gorge unmeasured, riot without shame.
But soon with these begins to blunt and lose
Stomach and appetite: he finds refuse
Offended Nature, as insipid food,
The savours others delicacies view’d.
Vainly from either India he seeks
For stimulants; in vain from art bespeaks
Fresh sauces, which his palate will reject;
His longings heighten’d, but life’s vigour wreck’d;
And thus worn out in mid career the cost,
Before life ends he finds his senses lost.
O bitter pleasures! O, what madness sore
Is theirs who covet them, and such implore
Humbly before a lying deity!
How the perfidious goddess to agree
But mocks them! Though perhaps at first she smile,
Exempt from pain and misery the long while
She never leaves them, and in place of joy
Gives what they ask, with weariness to cloy.
If trusted, soon is found experience taught
What ill-foreseen condition they have sought.
Niggard their wishes ever to fulfil,
Fickle in favour, vacillating still,
Inconstant, cruel, she afflicts today,
And casts down headlong to distress a prey,
Whom yesterday she flatter’d to upraise:
And now another from the mire she sways
Exalted to the clouds; but raised in vain,
With louder noise to cast him down again.
Seest thou not there a countless multitude,
Thronging her temple round, and oft renew’d,
Seeking admittance, and to offer fraught
With horrid incense, for their idol brought?
Fly from her; let not the contagion find
The base example enter in thy mind.