Dost think that power’s disguise Can make thee mighty seem? It may in folly’s eyes, But not in worth’s esteem: When all that thou canst ask, And all that she can give, Is but a paltry mask Which tyants wear and live. Go, let thy fancies range And ramble where they may; View power in every change, And what is the display? —The country magistrate, The lowest shade in power, To rulers of the state, The meteors of an hour:— View all, and mark the end Of every proud extreme, Where flattery turns a friend, And counterfeits esteem; Where worth is aped in show, That doth her name purloin, Like toys of golden glow That’s sold for copper coin. Ambition’s haughty nod, With fancies may deceive, Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god,— And wilt thou such believe? Go, bid the seas be dry, Go, hold earth like a ball, Or throw her fancies by, For God can do it all. Dost thou possess the dower Of laws to spare or kill? Call it not heav’nly power When but a tyrant’s will; Know what a God will do, And know thyself a fool, Nor tyrant-like pursue Where He alone should rule. Dost think, when wealth is won, Thy heart has its desire? Hold ice up to the sun, And wax before the fire; Nor triumph o’er the reign Which they so soon resign; In this world weigh the gain, Insurance safe is thine. Dost think life’s peace secure In houses and in land? Go, read the fairy lure To twist a cord of sand; Lodge stones upon the sky, Hold water in a sieve, Nor give such tales the lie, And still thine own believe. Whoso with riches deals, And thinks peace bought and sold, Will find them slippery eels, That slide the firmest hold: Though sweet as sleep with health, Thy lulling luck may be, Pride may o’erstride thy wealth, And check prosperity. Dost think that beauty’s power, Life’s sweetest pleasure gives? Go, pluck the summer flower, And see how long it lives: Behold, the rays glide on, Along the summer plain, Ere thou canst say, they’re gone,— And measure beauty’s reign. Look on the brightest eye, Nor teach it to be proud, But view the clearest sky And thou shalt find a cloud; Nor call each face ye meet An angel’s, ‘cause it’s fair, But look beneath your feet, And think of what ye are. Who thinks that love doth live In beauty’s tempting show, Shall find his hopes ungive, And melt in reason’s thaw; Who thinks that pleasure lies In every fairy bower, Shall oft, to his surprise, Find poison in the flower.