By toils like these alone, he cries,
Th' adventurous youths to greatness rise;
If bloated indolence were fame,
And pompous ease our noblest aim,
The orb that regulates the day
Would ne'er from Aries' mansion stray.
I've bent at Fortune's shrine too long—
Too oft she heard my suppliant tongue—
Too oft has mocked my idle prayers,
While fools and knaves engrossed her cares,