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The Complaint.
Night 5.
When Fortune thus has toss'd her Child in Air,
Snatcht from the Covert of an humble State,
How often have I seen him dropt at once,
Our Morning's Envy! and our Ev'ning's Sigh!
As if her Bounties were the Signal giv'n,
The flow'ry Wreath to mark the Sacrifice,
And call Death's Arrows on the destin'd Prey,
High Fortune seems in cruel League with Fate.
Ask you for what? To give his War on Man
The deeper Dread, and more illustrious Spoil;
Thus to keep daring Mortals more in Awe.
And burns Lorenzo still for the Sublime
Of Life? to hang his airy Nest on high,
On the slight Timber of the topmost Bough,
Rockt at each Breeze, and menacing a Fall?
Granting grim Death at equal Distance there;
Yet Peace begins just where Ambition ends.
What makes Man wretched? Happiness deny'd?
Lorenzo! no: 'Tis Happiness disdain'd.
She comes too meanly drest to win our Smile;
And calls herself Content, a homely Name!
Our Flame is Transport, and Content our Scorn.
Ambition turns, and shuts the Door against her,
And weds a Toil, a Tempest, in her stead;
A Tempest to warm Transport near of kin.
Unknowing what our mortal State admits,
Life's modest Joys we ruin, while we raise;
And all our Ecstasies are Wounds to Peace;
Peace, the full Portion of Mankind below.
And since thy Peace is dear, ambitious Youth!
Of Fortune fond! as thoughtless of thy Fate!
As late I drew Death's Picture, to stir up
Thy wholsome Fears; now, drawn in Contrast, see
Gay Fortune's, thy vain Hopes to reprimand.
Snatcht from the Covert of an humble State,
How often have I seen him dropt at once,
Our Morning's Envy! and our Ev'ning's Sigh!
As if her Bounties were the Signal giv'n,
The flow'ry Wreath to mark the Sacrifice,
And call Death's Arrows on the destin'd Prey,
High Fortune seems in cruel League with Fate.
Ask you for what? To give his War on Man
The deeper Dread, and more illustrious Spoil;
Thus to keep daring Mortals more in Awe.
And burns Lorenzo still for the Sublime
Of Life? to hang his airy Nest on high,
On the slight Timber of the topmost Bough,
Rockt at each Breeze, and menacing a Fall?
Granting grim Death at equal Distance there;
Yet Peace begins just where Ambition ends.
What makes Man wretched? Happiness deny'd?
Lorenzo! no: 'Tis Happiness disdain'd.
She comes too meanly drest to win our Smile;
And calls herself Content, a homely Name!
Our Flame is Transport, and Content our Scorn.
Ambition turns, and shuts the Door against her,
And weds a Toil, a Tempest, in her stead;
A Tempest to warm Transport near of kin.
Unknowing what our mortal State admits,
Life's modest Joys we ruin, while we raise;
And all our Ecstasies are Wounds to Peace;
Peace, the full Portion of Mankind below.
And since thy Peace is dear, ambitious Youth!
Of Fortune fond! as thoughtless of thy Fate!
As late I drew Death's Picture, to stir up
Thy wholsome Fears; now, drawn in Contrast, see
Gay Fortune's, thy vain Hopes to reprimand.
See
