Of DESIRE. An Epistle to the Hon. Miss LOVELACE. Whence these impetuous movements of the breast? Why beat our hearts, unknowing where to rest? Must we still long untasted joys to taste, Pant for the future, yet regret the past? Can reason, can a stoic's pride control This unremitting sickness of the soul? Reason! what's that, when lawless Passion rules? The jest of sense, and jargon of the schools. Some few perhaps have by its lore been taught To think, and wish, just only what they ought: Sufficient to themselves, their wants are such, They neither ask amiss, nor wish too much. Here freedom dwells, and revels unconfin'd, With plenty, ease, and indolence of mind; True greatness, wisdom, virtue, hence must rise; And here that home-felt joy, Contentment, lies. O Thou! for whom my fancy prunes her wing, For whom I love to tune the trembling string, What would we more than wisdom, virtue, ease? Tell, if you can, for you're content with these. Why reason some, and some why passion rules, Is because some are wise, and some are fools; Their reason and their passion still at strife, Like some meek pair in wedlock yok'd for life: In the same int'rest, tugging diff'rent ways, What one commands, the other disobeys. Blest state! where this alone is fixt and sure, To disagree, while sun and moon endure. Hence listless, weary, sick, chagrin'd at home, In search of happiness abroad we roam: And yet the wisest of us all have own'd, If 'twas not there, 'twas no where to be found. There ev'n the poor may taste felicity, If with contentment any such there be. "Monstrous! (cries Fulvia) 'twou'd a stoic vex! For what's content without a coach and six?" — So humble, Fulvia! so deserving too! Pity such worth should unregarded go — Down on your knees again, and beg of fate, Instead of six, to give your chariot eight. Elvira's passion was a china jar; The brute, her lord, contemns such brittle ware. No matter. — See! the glitt'ring columns rise, Pile above pile, and emulate the skies. Fresh cargoes come, fresh longings these create; And what is twenty pieces for a plate? Debates ensue; he brandishes his cane, Down go the pyramids of Porcellane. She faints, she falls, and in a sigh profound, Yeilds her high soul, and levels with the ground. "Cruel! farewel! — (were the last words she spoke) For what is life, now all my China's broke!" Few can the stings of Disappointment bear! One sends a curse to Heav'n, and one a pray'r; The pious motive's much the same in both, In him that swears, and him that fears an oath. The servent curse, and penitential pray'r, Proceed alike from anguish, pride, despair. Hence sober Catius lifts his hands and eyes, And mad Corvino curses God, and dies. "What joy, (cries Cotta in his calm retreat) Had I but such an office in the state! That post exactly suits my active mind, And sure my genius was for courts design'd." Thou hast it, friend, — for 'tis in Fancy's pow'r; Learn to be thankful, and teaze Heav'n no more. See! how kind Fancy gen'rously supplies What a whole thankless land thy worth denies. See! how she paints the lovely flatt'ring scene, With all the pleasure, and wihout the pain. Make much of Fancy's favours, and believe You'll hardly match the pleasures she can give. Of injur'd merit some aloud complain; "My cruel angel!" — cries the love-sick swain. Her marble heart at length to love inclin'd, His cruel angel grows perversely kind. What would he more? — One wish remains to make, That Heav'n, in pity, would his angel take. Oft on events most men miscalculate, Then call misfortune, what indeed was fate. We see a little, and presume the rest, And that is always right which pleases best. Why supple Courtine miss'd of such a post, Was not his want of conduct, or of cost, For he brib'd high; five hundred pieces gave; But ah! hard fate! his patron scorns a knave. "O for a husband, handsome and well-bred!" (Was the last pray'r the chaste Dyctinna made.) Kind Heav'n at length her soft petition heeds, But one wish gain'd, a multitude succeeds — She wants an heir, she wants a house in town, She wants a title, or she wants a gown. Poor Cornus! make thy will, bequeath, and give; For if her wants continue, who would live? Sure to be wishing still, is still to grieve; And proves the man or poor, or much a slave. Will none the wretched crawling thing regard, Who stoops so very low, and begs so hard? You call this meanness, and the wretch despise; Alas! he stoops to soar, and sinks to rise: Now on the knee, now on the wing is found, As insects spring with vigour from the ground. Bless me! the Doctor! — what brings him to court? It is not want; for lo! his comely port. The lion's lack, and hunger feel, I grant; But they who serve the Lord can nothing want. Why stands he here then, elbow'd to and fro? Has he no care of souls? No work to do? Go home, good doctor, preach and pray, and give; By far more blessed this, than to receive. — Alas! the doctor's meek, and much resign'd; But all his tenants pay their tithes in kind: So that of debts, repairs, and taxes clear, He hardly saves — two hundred pounds a year. Then let him soar, 'tis on devotion's wing; Who asks a bishopric, asks no bad thing: A coach does much an holy life adorn; Then muzzle not the ox who treads the corn. "Enough of these. Now tell us, if you can, Is there that thing on earth, a happy man? " Well then, the wondrous man I happy call, Has but few wishes, and enjoys them all. Blest in his fame, and in his fortune blest, No craving void lies aching in his breast. His passions cool, his expectations low, Can he feel want, or disappointment know? Yet if success be to his virtues giv'n, Can relish that, and leave the rest to Heav'n. What, tho' for ever with our selves at strife, None wishes to lay down his load of life. The wretch who threescore suns has seen roll o'er, His lungs with lacerating ulcers sore, Sollicits Heav'n to add the other score. To day, indeed, his portion's pain and sorrow; But joy and ease are hoarded for tomorrow. Soft smiling Hope! thou anchor of the mind! The only resting-place the wretched find; How dost thou all our anxious cares beguile! And make the orphan, and the friendless smile. All fly to thee, thou gentle dawn of peace! The coward's fortitude, the brave's success, The lover's ease, the captive's liberty, The only flatt'rer of the poor and me. With thee, on pleasure's wings, thro' life we're born, Without thee, wretched, friendless, and forlorn. Possest of thee, the weary pilgrim strays Thro' barren desarts, and untrodden ways: Thirsty and faint, his nerves new vigour strings, And full of thee he quaffs immortal springs. The martyr'd saint, whom anguish and the rod Have prov'd, thro' thee walks worthy of his God. In vain are axes, flames, and tort'ring wheels; He feels no torment, who no terrour feels: Thro' thee his well-try'd spirit upward springs, And spurns at titles, scepters, thrones, and kings. O full of thee! in quiet may I live, The few remaining moments Heav'n shall give! Come then, thou honest flatt'rer, to my breast! Friend of my health, and author of my rest! Thro' thee, the future cloudless all appears, A short, but smiling train of happy years. Pass but this instant, storms and tempests cease, And all beyond's the promis'd land of peace. No passion's mists, by no false joys misled, No ties forgot, no duties left unpaid, No lays unfinish'd, and no aching head. Born with a temper much inclin'd to ease, Whatever gives me that, is sure to please. I ask not riches; yet alike would fly The friendless state of want and penury. This wish howe'er be mine: to live unknown, In some serene retreat, my time my own, To all obliging, yet a slave to none. Content, my riches; silence be my fame; My pleasures, ease; my honours, your esteem. And you, blest maid! who all you want possess, Already to your self your happiness, This modest wish methinks you now let fall, "O give me Wisdom, Heav'n! and I have all."