The Miseries of Man. In that so temperate Soil _Arcadia_ nam'd, For fertile Pasturage by Poets fam'd; Stands a steep Hill, whose lofty jetting Crown, Casts o'er the neighbouring Plains, a seeming Frown; Close at its mossie Foot an aged Wood, Compos'd of various Trees, there long has stood, Whose thick united Tops scorn the Sun's Ray, And hardly will admit the Eye of Day. By oblique windings through this gloomy Shade, Has a clear purling Stream its Passage made, The _Nimph_, as discontented seem'd t'ave chose This sad Recess to murmur forth her Woes. To this Retreat, urg'd by tormenting Care, The melancholly _Cloris_ did repair, As a fit Place to take the sad Relief Of Sighs and Tears, to ease oppressing Grief. Near to the Mourning _Nimph_ she chose a Seat, And these Complaints did to the Shades repeat. Ah wretched, truly wretched Humane Race! Your Woes from what Beginning shall I trace, Where End, from your first feeble New-born Cryes, To the last Tears that wet your dying Eyes? Man, Common Foe, assail'd on ev'ry hand, Finds that no Ill does Neuter by him stand, Inexorable Death, Lean Poverty, Pale Sickness, ever sad Captivity. Can I, alas, the sev'ral Parties name, Which, muster'd up, the Dreadful Army frame? And sometimes in One Body all Unite, Sometimes again do separately fight: While sure Success on either Way does waite, Either a Swift, or else a Ling'ring Fate. But why 'gainst thee, O _Death!_ should I inveigh, That to our Quiet art the only way? And yet I would (could I thy Dart command) Crie, Here O strike! and there O hold thy Hand! The Lov'd, the Happy, and the Youthful spare, And end the Sad, the Sick, the Poor Mans Care. But whether thou or Blind, or Cruel art, Whether 'tis Chance, or Malice, guides thy Dart, Thou from the Parents Arms dost pull away The hopeful Child, their Ages only stay: The Two, whom Friendship in dear Bands has ty'd, Thou dost with a remorseless hand devide; Friendship, the Cement, that does faster twine Two Souls, than that which Soul and Body joyn: Thousands have been, who their own Blood did spill, But never any yet his Friend did kill. Then 'gainst thy Dart what Armour can be found, Who, where thou do'st not strike, do'st deepest wound? Thy Pitty, than thy Wrath's more bitter far, Most cruel, where 'twould seem the most to spare: Yet thou of many Evils art but One, Though thou by much too many art alone. What shall I say of _Poverty_, whence flows? To miserable Man so many Woes? Rediculous Evil which too oft we prove, Does Laughter cause, where it should Pitty move; Solitary Ill, into which no Eye, Though ne're so Curious, ever cares to pry, And were there, 'mong such plenty, onely One _Poor Man_, he certainly would live alone.