Oft from the body, by long ails mistun’d, These evils sprung the most important health, 135 That of the mind, destroy: And when the mind They first invade, the conscious body soon In sympathetic languishment declines. These chronic passions, while from real woes They rise, and yet without the body’s fault 140 Infest the soul, admit one only cure; Diversion, hurry, and a restless life. Vain are the consolations of the wise, In vain your friends would reason down your pain. Oh ye whose souls relentless love has tam’d 145 To soft distress, or friends untimely slain! Court not the luxury of tender thought: Nor deem it impious to forget those pains That hurt the living, nought avail the dead. Go, soft enthusiast! quit the cypress groves, 150 Nor to the rivulet’s lonely moanings tune Your sad complaint. Go, seek the chearful haunts Of men, and mingle with the bustling croud; Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wish Of nobler minds, and push them night and day. 155 Or join the caravan in quest of scenes New to your eyes, and shifting every hour; Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines. Or, more advent’rous, rush into the field Where war grows hot; and, raging thro’ the sky, 160 The lofty trumpet swells the maddening soul: And in the hardy camp and toilsome march Forget all softer and less manly cares.