Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CONTENTATION; DIRECTED TO IZAAK WALTON, by CHARLES COTTON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Heav'n what an age is this! What race Last Line: And thinks him happy where he is. Subject(s): Contentment; Walton, Izaak (1593-1683) | ||||||||
I HEAV'N, what an Age is this! what race Of giants are sprung up, that dare Thus fly in the Almighty's Face, And with his Providence make war! II I can go no where but I meet With malcontents, and mutineers, As if in life was nothing sweet, And we must blessings reap in tears. III O senseless Man, that murmurs still For happiness, and does not know, Even though he might enjoy his will, What he would have to make him so. IV Is it true happiness to be By undiscerning Fortune plac't, In the most eminent degree, Where few arrive, and none stand fast? V Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare; The great are proud of borrow'd spoils, The miser's plenty breeds his care. VI The one supinely yawns at rest, Th' other eternally doth toil, Each of them equally a beast, A pamper'd horse, or lab'ring moil. VII The titulado's oft disgrac'd, By public hate, or private frown, And he whose hand the creature rais'd, Has yet a foot to kick him down. VIII The drudge who would all get, all save, Like a brute beast both feeds and lies, Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, And in the very labour dies. IX Excess of ill got, ill kept pelf, Does only death, and danger breed, Whilst one rich worldling starves himself With what would thousand others feed. X By which we see that wealth and power Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour, And gull ambition with a cheat. XI Nor is he happier than these, Who in a moderate estate, Where he might safely live at ease, Has lusts that are immoderate. XII For he, by those desires misled, Quits his own vine's securing shade, T'expose his naked, empty head To all the storms man's peace invade. XIII Nor is he happy who is trim, Trick'd up in favours of the fair, Mirrors, with every breath made dim, Birds caught in every wanton snare. XIV Woman, man's greatest woe, or bliss, Does ofter far, than serve, enslave, And with the magic of a kiss, Destroy whom she was made to save. XV Oh fruitful grief, the world's disease! And vainer man to make it so, Who gives his miseries increase By cultivating his own woe. XVI There are no ills but what we make, By giving shapes and names to things; Which is the dangerous mistake That causes all our sufferings. XVII We call that sickness, which is health, That persecution, which is grace; That poverty, which is true wealth, And that dishonour, which is praise. XVIII Providence watches over all, And that with an impartial eye, And if to misery we fall, 'Tis through our own infirmity. XIX 'Tis want of foresight makes the bold Ambitious youth to danger climb, And want of virtue, when the old At persecution do repine. XX Alas, our time is here so short, That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, Of joy or woe does not import, Provided it be innocent. XXI But we may make it pleasant too, If we will take our measures right, And not what Heav'n has done, undo By an unruly appetite. XXII 'Tis Contentation that alone Can make us happy here below, And when this little life is gone, Will lift us up to Heav'n too. XXIII A very little satisfies An honest, and a grateful heart, And who would more than will suffice, Does covet more than is his part. XXIV That man is happy in his share, Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed, Whose necessaries bound his care, And honest labour makes his bed. XXV Who free from debt, and clear from crimes, Honours those laws that others fear, Who ill of Princes in worst times Will neither speak himself, nor hear. XXVI Who from the busy World retires, To be more useful to it still, And to no greater good aspires, But only the eschewing ill. XXVII Who, with his angle, and his books, Can think the longest day well spent, And praises God when back he looks, And finds that all was innocent. XXVIII This man is happier far than he Whom public business oft betrays, Through labyrinths of policy, To crooked and forbidden ways. XXIX The world is full of beaten roads, But yet so slippery withal, That where one walks secure, 'tis odds A hundred and a hundred fall. XXX Untrodden paths are then the best, Where the frequented are unsure, And he comes soonest to his rest, Whose journey has been most secure. XXXI It is Content alone that makes Our pilgrimage a pleasure here, And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes An ill commodity too dear. XXXII But he has Fortune's worst withstood, And happiness can never miss, Can covet nought, but where he stood, And thinks him happy where he is. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS: PART 3: 5. WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVE by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. IZAAK WALTON by CHARLES COTTON TO MY OLD AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND MR. IZAAK WALTON, ON LIFE OF DONNE by CHARLES COTTON FOR A COPY OF 'THE COMPLEAT ANGLER' by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON TO EDMUND GOSSE, WITH A COPY OF WALTON'S LIVES by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. ISAAC WALTON ON THE PUBLICATION OF THEALMA by THOMAS FLATMAN FOR IZAAK WALTON by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY IZAAC WALTON, COTTON, AND WILLIAM OLDWAYS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR IZAAK WALTON TO RIVER AND BROOK by EUGENE JACOB LEE-HAMILTON AN EPITAPH ON M.H. by CHARLES COTTON LAURA SLEEPING; ODE by CHARLES COTTON RESOLUTION OF A POETICAL QUESTION CONCERNING FOUR RURAL SISTERS: 2 by CHARLES COTTON |
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