With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
Those who raise envy will easily incur censure.
What it 't to us, if taxes rise or fall, Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all. Let muckworms who in dirty acres deal, Lament those hardships which we cannot feel, His grace who smarts, may bellow if he please, But must I bellow too, who sit at ease? By custom safe, the poets' numbers flow, Free as the light and air some years ago. No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours, and excise our brains. Burthens like these with earthly buildings bear, No tributes laid on castles in the air.
Satire, whilst envy and ill-humor sway The mind of man, must always make her way; Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught, Is all her malice worth a single thought. The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, To stop her headstrong course; within the hour Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife Gives her fresh vigor, and prolongs her life.
The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
Drawn by conceit from reason's plan How vain is that poor creature man; How pleas'd in ev'ry paltry elf To grate about that thing himself.
If honor calls, where'er she points the way The sons of honor follow, and obey.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
Within the brain's most secret cells, A certain lord chief justice dwells, Of sov'reign power, whom one and all, With common voice we reason call.
Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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