Most Wretched Man, were th'Ills I nam'd before All which I could in thy sad State deplore, Did Things without alone 'gainst thee prevail, My Tongue I'de chide, that them I did bewaile: But, Shame to Reason, thou art seen to be Unto thy self the fatall'st Enemy, Within thy Breast the Greatest Plagues to bear, First them to breed, and then to cherish there; Unmanag'd Passions which the Reins have broke Of Reason, and refuse to bear its Yoke. But hurry thee, uncurb'd, from place to place, A wild, unruly, and an Uncouth Chace. Now cursed Gold does lead the Man astray, False flatt'ring Honours do anon betray, Then Beauty does as dang'rously delude, Beauty, that vanishes, while 'tis pursu'd, That, while we do behold it, fades away, And even a Long Encomium will not stay. Each one of these can the Whole Man employ, Nor knows he anger, sorrow, fear, or joy, But what to these relate; no Thought does start Aside, but tends to its appointed Part, No Respite to himself from Cares he gives, But on the Rack of Expectation lives. If crost, the Torment cannot be exprest, Which boyles within his agitated Breast. Musick is harsh, all Mirth is an offence, The Choicest Meats cannot delight his Sense, Hard as the Earth he feels his Downy Bed, His Pillow stufft with Thornes, that bears his Head, He rolls from side to side, in vain seeks Rest; For if sleep comes at last to the Distrest; His Troubles then cease not to vex him too, But Dreams present, what he does waking do. On th'other side, if he obtains the Prey, And Fate to his impetuous Sute gives way, Be he or Rich, or Amorous, or Great, He'll find this Riddle still of a Defeat, That only Care, for Bliss, he home has brought, Or else Contempt of what he so much sought. So that on each Event if we reflect, The Joys and Sufferings of both sides collect, We cannot say where lies the greatest Pain, In the fond Pursuit, Loss, or Empty Gain.