TO THE Discontented and Unquiet. 

Vertue alone makes the Mind Easie.

MADAM, There's nothing here that's free
 From wearisome Anxiety:
 And the whole Round of Mortal Joys
 With short possession tires and cloys:
 'Tis a dull Circle that we tread
 Just from the Window to the Bed,
 We rise to see and to be seen,
 Gaze on the World a while, and then
 We Yawn and Stretch to Sleep again. 
But FANCY, that uneasie Guest
 Still holds a Lodging in our Breast;
 She finds or frames Vexations still,
 Her self the greatest Plague we feel. 

We take strange Pleasure in our Pain,
 And make a Mountain of a Grain,
 Assume the Load, and pant and sweat
 Beneath th' Imaginary Weight. 
With our dear selves we live at strife,
 While the most constant Scenes of Life
 From Peevish Humours are not free;
 Still we affect Variety:
 Rather than pass an Easie Day,
 We Fret and Chide the Hours away,
 Grow weary of this Rolling Sun,
 And vex that he should ever run
 The same old Track; and still, and still
 Rise red behind yon Eastern Hill,
 And chide the Moon that darts her Light
 Thro' the same Casement every Night. 

We shift our Chambers and our Homes
 To dwell where Trouble never comes:
 Sylvia has left the City Croud,
 Against the Court exclaims aloud,
 Flies to the Woods; a Hermit-Saint! 
She loaths her Patches, Pins, and Paint,
 Dear Diamonds from her Neck are torn:
 But HUMOUR, that Eternal Thorn
 Sticks in her Heart: She's hurry'd still
 'Twixt her Wild Passions and her Will:
 Haunted and hagg'd where're she roves
 By purling Streams, and silent Groves,
 Or with her Furies, or her Loves. 

Then our own Native Land we hate,
 Too Cold, too Windy, or too Wet;
 Change the thick Climate, and repair
 To France or Italy for Air;
 In vain we change, in vain we fly;
 Go Sylvia, mount the Whirling Sky,
 Or ride upon the Feather'd Wind;
 In vain; If this Diseased Mind
 Clings fast and still sits close behind. 
Faithful Disease, that never fails
 Attendance at her Ladies side
 Over the Desart or the Tide
 On rolling Wheels or flying Sails. 

Happy the Soul that Vertue shows
 To fix the place of her Repose,
 Needless to move; for she can dwell
 In her Old Grandsire's Hall as well. 
VERTUE that never loves to roam,
 But sweetly hides her self at Home,
 And easy on a Native Throne
 Of humble Turf sits gently down. 

Yet should Tumultuous Storms arise
 And mingle Earth and Seas, and Skies,
 Should the Waves swell, and make her roll
 Across the Line or near the Pole,
 Still She's at Peace; for well She knows
 To lanch the Stream that Duty shows,
 And makes her Home wher'ere She goes. 
Bear her, ye Seas, upon your Breast,
 Or waft her, Winds, from East to West
 On the soft Air; She cannot find
 A Couch so easie as her Mind,
 Nor breathe a Climate half so kind.