The Discontent.
I.
Here take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse, Nor ought of Art or Labour use: But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go, Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow. The ruggeder my Measures run when read, They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread. Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents, Which flatt'ring Hope presents, Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake; But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make: For 'tis not long before their Feet, Inextricable Mazes meet, Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way, Mountains with-stand them of Dismay; Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead, Where's nought their Ruine to impede, In vain for Aide they then to Reason call, Their Series dazle, and their Heads turn round, The sight does all their Pow'rs confound, And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall: Where storms of Sighs for ever blow, Where raped streams of Tears do flow, Which drown them in a Briny Floud. My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good, Nought that the World can show, Nought that it can bestow.