68 THE POEMS OP ANNE �Fain I thy Retreat wou'd know. �Fain I thee alone wou'd find, �Balm to my o'er- weary 'd Mind. �Since what here the World enjoys, �Or our Passions most employs, �Peace opposes, or destroys. �Pleasure's a tumultuous thing, 20 �Busy still, and still on Wing; �Flying swift, from place to place, �Darting from each beauteous Face ; �From each strongly mingled Bowl �Through th'inflam'd and restless Soul. �Sov'reign Pow'r who fondly craves, �But himself to Pomp enslaves ; �Stands the Envy of Mankind, �Peace, in vain, attempts to find. �Thirst of Wealth no Quiet knows, 30 �But near the Death-bed fiercer grows ; �Wounding Men with secret Stings, �For Evils it on Others brings. �War who not discreetly shuns, �Thorough Life the Gauntlet runs. �Swords, and Pikes, and Waves, and Flames, �Each their Stroke against him aims. �Love (if such a thing there be) �Is all Despair, or Extasie. �Poetry's the feav'rish Fit, 40 �Th' o'erflowing of unbounded Wit. &c. �THE PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT �Inscribed to the Right Hon ble Catharine Countess of Thanet, mention'd in the Poem under the Name of Arminda �Give me O indulgent Fate! Give me yet, before I Dye, ��� �
