From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause; What is it?--'tis the cradle of the soul, From Instinct sent, to rock her in disease, Which her physician, Reason, will not cure. A poor expedient! yet thy best; and while 910 It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too. Such are Lorenzo's wretched remedies! The weak have remedies; the wise have joys. Superior wisdom is superior bliss. And what sure mark distinguishes the wise? Consistent wisdom ever wills the same; Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing. Sick of herself, is Folly's character, As Wisdom's is, a modest self-applause. A change of evils is thy good supreme; 920 Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest. Man's greatest strength is shown in standing still. The first sure symptom of a mind in health, Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home. False pleasure from abroad her joys imports; Rich from within, and self-sustain'd, the true. The true is fix'd, and solid as a rock; Slippery the false, and tossing, as the wave. This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain; That, like the fabled, self-enamour'd boy,[48] 930 Home-contemplation her supreme delight; She dreads an interruption from without, 932 Smit with her own condition; and the more Intense she gazes, still it charms the more. No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth There breathes not a more happy than himself: Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on all; And love o'erflowing makes an angel here. Such angels, all, entitled to repose On Him who governs fate. Though tempest frowns, 940 Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven! To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean! With inward eyes, and silent as the grave, They stand, collecting every beam of thought, Till their hearts kindle with divine delight: For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of old In Israel's dream, come from, and go to, heaven. Hence are they studious of sequester'd scenes; While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee. Were all men happy, revellings would cease, 950 That opiate for inquietude within. Lorenzo! never man was truly blest, But it composed, and gave him such a cast, As folly might mistake for want of joy. A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud; A modest aspect, and a smile at heart. O for a joy from thy Philander's spring! A spring perennial, rising in the breast, And permanent, as pure! no turbid stream Of rapturous exultation, swelling high; 960 Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while, Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire. What does the man, who transient joy prefers? What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream? Vain are all sudden sallies of delight; Convulsions of a weak, distemper'd joy. 966