Whether thrallèd, or exilèd;
Whether poor, or rich thou be!
Whether praisèd, or revilèd;
Not a rush it is to thee!
This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee;
But the Mind, which is within thee!
Then, O, why so madly dote we
On those things that us o'erload?
Why no more their vainness note we,
But still make of them a god?
For, alas, they still deceive us;
And, in greatest need, they leave us!
Therefore have the Fates provided
Well, thou happy Swain! for thee!
That may'st here, so far divided
From the world's distractions be!
Thee, distemper let them never;
But in peace continue ever!
In these lonely groves, enjoy thou
That contentment here begun!
And thy hours, so pleased, employ thou
Till the latest glass be run!
From a fortune so assured,
By no temptings, be allured!
Much good do 't them, with their glories,
Who, in Courts of Princes dwell!
We have read in antique stories
How some rose, and how they fell.
And 'tis worthy well the heeding,
"There's like end, where's like proceeding."
Be thou still, in thy affection,
To thy noble Mistress, true!
Let her never-matched perfection
Be the same unto thy view!
And let never other Beauty
Make thee fail in love or duty!
For if thou shalt not estrangèd,
From thy course professed, be;
But remain, for aye, unchangèd,
Nothing shall have power on thee!
Those that slight thee now, shall love thee;
And, in spite of spite, approve thee!
So those virtues now neglected;
To be more esteemed, will come:
Yea, those toys so much affected,
Many shall be wooèd from.
And the Golden Age, deplored,
Shall, by some, be thought restored.
