COME, y'are deceiv'd, and what you do Esteem a happy life's not so; He is not happy that excels I' th' Lapidary's bagatelles; Nor he, that when he sleeps doth lie Under a stately canopy; Nor he, that still supinely hides, In easy down, his lazy sides; Nor he, that purple wears, and sups Luxurious draughts in golden cups; Nor he, that loads with princely fare, His bowing tables, whilst they'll bear; Nor he, that has each spacious vault With deluges of plenty fraught, Cull'd from the fruitful Libyan fields, When autumn his best harvest yields; But he whom no mischance affrights, Nor popular applause delights, That can unmov'd, and undismay'd, Confront a ruffian's threatening blade: Who can do this; that man alone Has power Fortune to disthrone. |