LXXXVII Contentation
Directed to My Dear Father, and Most Worthy Friend, Mr. Isaac Walton
Heaven, 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!
I can go nowhere but I meet 5
With malcontents and mutineers,
As if in life was nothing sweet,
And we must blessings reap in tears.
O senseless man! that murmurs still
For happiness, and does not know, 10
Even though he might enjoy his will,
What he would have to make him so.
Is it true happiness to be
By undiscerning Fortune placed
In the most eminent degree, 15
Where few arrive, and none stand fast?
Titles and wealth are Fortune’s toils,
Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare:
The great are proud of borrowed spoils,
The miser’s plenty breeds his care. 20
The one supinely yawns at rest,
The other eternally doth toil;
Each of them equally a beast,
A pampered horse, or labouring moil:
The titulados oft disgraced 25
By public hate or private frown,
And he whose hand the creature raised,
Has yet a foot to kick him down.
The drudge who wold all get, all save,
Like a brute beast both feeds and lies; 30
Prone to the earth, he digs his grave,
And in the very labour dies.
Excess of ill-got, ill-kept, pelf
Does only death and danger breed;
Whilst one rich worldling starves himself 35
With what would thousand others feed.
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. 40
Nor is he happier than these,
Who in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at ease,
Has lusts that are immoderate.
For he, by those desires misled, 45
Quits his own vine’s securing shade,
To’ expose his naked, empty head
To all the storms man’s peace invade.
Nor is he happy who is trim,
Tricked up in favours of the fair, 50
Mirrors, with every breath made dim.
Birds, caught in every wanton snare.
Woman, man’s greatest woe or bliss,
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the magic of a kiss 55
Destroys whom she was made to save.
Oh! fruitful grief, the world’s disease!
And vainer man, to make it so,
Who gives his miseries increase
By cultivating his own woe. 60
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.
We call that sickness, which is health; 65
That persecution, which is grace;
That poverty, which is true wealth;
And that dishonour, which is praise.
Alas! our time is here so short,
That in what state soe’er ’tis spent, 70
Of joy or woe, does not import,
Provided it be innocent.
But we may make it pleasant too,
If we will take our measures right,
And not what Heaven has done, undo 75
By an unruly appetite.
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. 80
Untrodden paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure;
And he comes soonest to his rest,
Whose journey has been most secure.
It is content alone that makes 85
Our pilgrimage a pleasure here;
And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes
An ill commodity too dear.
Charles Cotton.