Bring then these blessings to a strict account; Make fair deductions; see to what they mount: 270 How much of other each is sure to cost; How each for other oft is wholly lost; How inconsistent greater goods with these; How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease: Think, and if still the things thy envy call, Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall? To sigh for ribands if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy: Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife: 280 If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind: Or, ravish'd with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell,[93] damn'd to everlasting fame! If all, united, thy ambition call, From ancient story learn to scorn them all. There, in the rich, the honour'd, famed, and great, See the false scale of happiness complete! In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay, How happy! those to ruin, these betray. 290 Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows, From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose; In each how guilt and greatness equal ran, And all that raised the hero, sunk the man: Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold, But stain'd with blood, or ill exchanged for gold: Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease, Or infamous for plunder'd provinces. Oh wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame! 300 What greater bliss attends their close of life? Some greedy minion, or imperious wife. The trophied arches, storied halls invade, And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade. Alas! not dazzled with their noontide ray, Compute the morn and evening to the day; The whole amount of that enormous fame, A tale that blends their glory with their shame! VII. Know then this truth (enough for man to know) 'Virtue alone is happiness below.' 310 The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill; Where only merit constant pay receives, Is bless'd in what it takes, and what it gives; The joy unequall'd, if its end it gain, And if it lose, attended with no pain: Without satiety, though e'er so bless'd, And but more relish'd as the more distress'd: The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears, Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears: 320 Good, from each object, from each place acquired, For ever exercised, yet never tired; Never elated, while one man's oppress'd; Never dejected, while another's bless'd; And where no wants, no wishes can remain, Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.