Granting grim Death at equal distance there;
Yet peace begins just where ambition ends. 940
What makes man wretched? Happiness denied?
Lorenzo! no: ’tis happiness disdain’d.
She comes too meanly dress’d 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.