And every glittering gewgaw, on her sight, 904 To dazzle, and debauch it from its mark. Death's dreadful advent is the mark of man; And every thought that misses it, is blind. Fortune, with youth and gaiety, conspired To weave a triple wreath of happiness (If happiness on earth) to crown her brow. 910 And could Death charge through such a shining shield? That shining shield invites the tyrant's spear. As if to damp our elevated aims, And strongly preach humility to man. O how portentous is prosperity! How, comet-like, it threatens, while it shines! Few years but yield us proof of Death's ambition, To cull his victims from the fairest fold, And sheath his shafts in all the pride of life. When flooded with abundance, purpled o'er 920 With recent honours, bloom'd with every bliss, Set up in ostentation, made the gaze, The gaudy centre, of the public eye, When Fortune thus has toss'd her child in air, Snatch'd from the covert of an humble state, How often have I seen him dropp'd at once, Our morning's envy! and our evening's sigh! As if her bounties were the signal given, The flowery wreath to mark the sacrifice, And call Death's arrows on the destined prey. 930 High Fortune seems in cruel league with Fate. Ask you for what? To give his war on man 932 The deeper dread, and more illustrious spoil; Thus to keep daring mortals more in awe. And burns Lorenzo still for the sublime Of life? to hang his airy nest on high, On the slight timber of the topmost bough, Rock'd at each breeze, and menacing a fall? Granting grim Death at equal distance there; Yet peace begins just where ambition ends. 940 What makes man wretched? Happiness denied? Lorenzo! no: 'tis happiness disdain'd. She comes too meanly dress'd to win our smile; And calls herself Content, a homely name! Our flame is transport, and Content our scorn. Ambition turns, and shuts the door against her, And weds a toil, a tempest, in her stead; A tempest to warm transport near of kin. Unknowing what our mortal state admits, Life's modest joys we ruin, while we raise; 950 And all our ecstasies are wounds to peace; Peace, the full portion of mankind below. And since thy peace is dear, ambitious youth! Of fortune fond! as thoughtless of thy fate! As late I drew Death's picture, to stir up Thy wholesome fears; now, drawn in contrast, see Gay Fortune's, thy vain hopes to reprimand. See, high in air, the sportive goddess hangs, Unlocks her casket, spreads her glittering ware, And calls the giddy winds to puff abroad 960 Her random bounties o'er the gaping throng. All rush rapacious; friends o'er trodden friends; Sons o'er their fathers, subjects o'er their kings,