On DISCONTENT. To STELLA. SAY, dearest Stella, why this pensive Air? Tell me, O tell thy Sorrows and thy Care; Why thy Lips tremble, and thy Cheeks are pale? Why heaves thy Bosom with a mournful Gale? Let not thy Eyes for distant Evils flow, Nor rack thy Bosom with prophetick Woe: Imagin'd Ills deceive our aking Eyes, As lengthen'd Shades appear of monstrous Size, When setting Phoebus gilds the Ev'ning Skies. Tho' pictur'd Joy deludes our panting Souls, When round the Heart its smiling Phantom rolls; The gay Impostor mocks our reaching Arms; Yet while it lasts, the pleasing Vision charms: Not so Distrust, her gloomy Forehead rears; She brings cold Anguish and a crowd of Fears: Ah lovely Stella! as you prize your Rest, Expel this Fury from your guiltless Breast. The wise and mighty Guardian of Mankind, To each Dividual has their Draught assign'd; And tho' no Pearls shou'd in our Potion fall, Let us be chearful while he spares the Gall: Unmeaning Transports for a Moment please, Yet Peace alone can bless your equal Days. But coldly view'd or quickly thrown aside, See cringing Merit at the Gates of Pride; See Wit and Wisdom (that our Fathers priz'd) In Youth neglected as in Age despis'd: Behold (the Scorn, as late the Dread of all) The Politician from his Glory fall: He whose sly Genius cou'd a Kingdom rule, Shall have his Exit hiss'd by ev'ry Fool: With aking Bosom and a streaming Eye The hoary Soldier sees his Honour fly; Who in his Age must to Oppression bow, And yield his Laurels to a younger Brow: Those Laurels shall the proud Successor wear A while; then strip and leave 'em to his Heir. If these are wretched let not us repine, Whose meaner Talents ne'er were made to shine: Our Good and Ill, our Vice and Virtue falls Within the compass of domestick Walls: To those small Limits be thy Views confin'd, And bless thy Cottage with an humble Mind. Look not at Joys that dazzle from afar, Nor envy Glaro on his gilded Car; For all Degrees their Days of Anguish know, And the most happy have a taste of Woe: Then calmly take what Providence ordains, He swells the Load who murmurs and complains: For all things vary: And who sits to day Half-drown'd in Tears; to-morrow may be gay.