Nor that the worst: ah me! the dire effect Of loitering here, of Death defrauded long; Of old so gracious (and let that suffice), 54 My very master knows me not.-- Shall I dare say, peculiar is the fate? I've been so long remember'd, I'm forgot. An object ever pressing dims the sight, And hides behind its ardour to be seen. When in his courtiers' ears I pour my plaint, 60 They drink it as the nectar of the great; And squeeze my hand, and beg me come to-morrow. Refusal! canst thou wear a smoother form? Indulge me, nor conceive I drop my theme: Who cheapens life, abates the fear of death: Twice told the period spent on stubborn Troy, Court favour, yet untaken, I besiege; Ambition's ill-judged effort to be rich. Alas! ambition makes my little less; Embittering the possess'd: Why wish for more? 70 Wishing, of all employments, is the worst; Philosophy's reverse; and health's decay! Were I as plump as stall'd theology, Wishing would waste me to this shade again. Were I as wealthy as a South Sea dream, Wishing is an expedient to be poor. Wishing, that constant hectic of a fool; Caught at a court; purged off by purer air, And simpler diet; gifts of rural life! Bless'd be that hand divine, which gently laid 80 My heart at rest, beneath this humble shed. The world's a stately bark, on dangerous seas, With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril; Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, I hear the tumult of the distant throng, As that of seas remote, or dying storms: And meditate on scenes, more silent still; Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death. 88 Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut, Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, Eager ambition's fiery chace I see; I see the circling hunt, of noisy men, Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right, Pursuing, and pursued, each other's prey; As wolves, for rapine; as the fox, for wiles; Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame? Earth's highest station ends in "Here he lies:" And "Dust to dust" concludes her noblest song. 100 If this song lives, posterity shall know One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, Who thought even gold might come a day too late; Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme For future vacancies in Church or State; Some avocation deeming it--to die, Unbit by rage canine of dying rich; Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of hell. O my coevals! remnants of yourselves! Poor human ruins, tottering o'er the grave! 110 Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees, Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil?