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To tli' Indies thou wouldst run, rather than see

Another, though a friend, richer than thee.

Fond man! what good or beauty can be found

In heaps of treasure buried under ground?

Which rather than diminish'd e'er to see,

Thou wouldst thyself, too, buried with them be:

And what's the difference? is't not quite as bad

Never to use, as never to have had?

In thy vast barns millions of quarters store;

Thy belly, for all that, will hold no more

Than mine does. Every baker makes much bread:

What then? He's with no more, than others, fed.

Do you within the bounds of nature live,

And to augment your own you need not strive;

One hundred acres will no less for you v

Your life's whole business, than ten thousand, do.

But pleasant't is to take from a great store.

What, man! though you 're resolv'd to take no more

Than I do from a small one? If your will

Be but a pitcher or a pot to fill,

To some great river for it must you go,

When a clear spring just at your feet does flow f

Give me the spring, which does to human use

Safe, easy, and untroubled stores produce:

He who scorns these, and needs will drink at Nile,

Must run the danger of the crocodile,

And of the rapid stream itself, which may,

At unawares, bear him perhaps away.

In a full flood Tantalus stands, his skin

Wash'd o'er in vain, for ever dry within:

He catches at the stream with greedy lips,

From his touch'd mouth the wanton torrent slips t

You laugh now, and expand your careful brow;

'T is finely said, but what's all this to you?

Change but the name, this fable is thy story,

Thou in a flood of useless wealth dost glory,

Which thou canst only touch, but never taste;

Th' abundance still, and still the want does last.

The treasures of the gods thou wouldst not spare:

But when they 're made thine own, they sacred are,

And must be kept with reverence; as if thou

No other use of precious gold didst know,

But that of curious pictures, to delight,

With the fair stamp, thy virtuoso sight.

The only true and genuine use is this,

To buy the things, which nature cannot miss

Without discomfort; oil and vital bread,

And wine, by which the life of life is fed, .

And all those few things else by which we live:

All that remains, is giv'n for thee to give.

If cares and troubles, envy, grief and fear,

The bitter fruits be, which fair riches bear;

If a new poverty grow out of store;

The old plain way, ye gods! let me be poor.


A TOWER of brass, one would have said,
And locks, and bolts, and iron bare,

And guards, as strict as in the heat of wars,
Might have prcserv'd one innocent maidenhead.
The jealous father thought he well might spare

All further jealous care;
And, as he walk'd, t' himself alone he smil'd,
To think how Venus' arts he had beguil'd;

And, when he slept, his rest was deep:
But Venus laugh'd to see and hear him sleep;

She taught the amorous Jove

A magical receipt in love, Which arm'd him stronger, and which help'd him

more, Than all his thunder did, and his almighty-ship, before.

She taught him love's elixir, by which art
His godhead into gold he did convert:

No guards did then his passage stay,

He pass'd with ease; gold was the word; Subtle as lightning, bright, and quick, and fierce,

Gold through doors and walls did pierce.

The prudent Macedonian king,
To blow up towns, a golden mine did spring.

He broke through gates with his petar; •*T is the great art of peace, the engine 't is of war;

And fleets and armies follow it afar: The ensign 't is at land, and 't is the seaman's star.

Let all the world slave to this tyrant be,
Creature to this disguised deity,

Yet it shall never conquer me.
A guard of virtues will not let it pass,
And wisdom is a tower of stronger brass.
The Muses' laurel, round my temples spread,
Does from this lightning's force secure my head:

Nor will I lift it up so high,
As in the violent meteor's way to lie.
Wealth for its power do we honour and adore?
The things we hate, ill-fate, and death, have more.

From towns and courts, camps of the rich and great,
The vast Xerxean army, I retreat,
And to the small Laconick forces fly,

Which holds the straits of poverty.
Cellars and granaries in vain we fill,

With all the bounteous summer's store,

If the mind thirst and hunger still: The poor rich man 's emphatically poor.

Slaves to the things we too much prizes We masters grow of all that we despise.

A field of corn, a fountain, and a wood,

Is all the wealth by nature understood.

The monarch, on whom fertile Nile bestows
All which that grateful earth can bear,
Deceives himself, if he suppose
That more than this falls to his share.

Whatever an estate does beyond this afford,

Is not a rent paid to the lord;
But is a tax illegal and unjust,
Exacted from it by the tyrant Lust.

Much will always wanting be,
To him who much desires. Thrice happy he
To whom the wise indulgeney of Heaven,
With sparing hand, but just enough has given.



IF twenty thousand naked Americans were not able to resist the assaults of but twenty wellarmed Spaniards, I see little possibility for one honest man to defend himself against twenty thousand knaves who are all furnished cap-a-pii, with the defensive arms of worldly prudence, and the offensive too of craft and malice. He will find no less odds than this against him, if he have much to da in human affairs. The only advice therefore which I can give him is, to be sure not to venture his persou any longer ill the open campaign, to retreat

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