IT is not, y' are deceiv'd, it is not bliss, What you conceive a happy living is: To have your hands with rubies bright to glow, Then on your tortoise bed your body throw, And sink yourself in down; to drink in gold, And have your looser self in purple roll'd; With royal fare to make the tables groan, Or else with what from Libyc fields is mown; Nor in one vault hoard all your magazine: But at no coward's fate t' have frighted bin, Nor with the people's breath to be swoll'n great, Nor at a drawn stiletto basely sweat. He that dares this, nothing to him's unfit, But proud o' th' top of Fortune's wheel may sit. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE UNIMPLORED BELOVED by EDWARD SHANKS ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 12. TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BARONET by MARK AKENSIDE DANTE AND ARIOSTO by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN A SOLILOQUY ON READING 'A DISPUTE ABOUT FAITH AND WORKS' by JOHN BYROM A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 38 by THOMAS CAMPION EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD GRANVILLE by GEORGE CANNING |