Nor raise me high, nor sink me low,
But let the medium line be trac’d!
Enough of Fortune’s goods I’d have,
To keep me from dependent state;
The frowns of Poverty to brave,
Or domination of the Great.
Enough each comfort to procure,
Which gives to life a pleasing zest;
And something over, for the poor,
The stranger, and the weak oppress’d.