TO
THE
Discontented
and
Unquiet
.
Vertue
alone
makes
the
Mind
Easie
.
Imitated
partly
from
Casimire
:
Book
4.
Ode
15.
Nil
est
,
Munati
,
nil
iterum
canam
Mortale
nil
est
immedicabilis
Immune
taedî
,
&c.
MADAM
,
There's
nothing
here
that's
free
From
wearisome
Anxiety
:
And
the
whole
Round
of
Mortal
Joys
With
short
possession
tires
and
cloys
:
'Tis
a
dull
Circle
that
we
tread
Just
from
the
Window
to
the
Bed
,
We
rise
to
see
and
to
be
seen
,
Gaze
on
the
World
a
while
,
and
then
We
Yawn
and
Stretch
to
Sleep
again
.
But
FANCY
,
that
uneasie
Guest
Still
holds
a
Lodging
in
our
Breast
;
She
finds
or
frames
Vexations
still
,
Her
self
the
greatest
Plague
we
feel
.
We
take
strange
Pleasure
in
our
Pain
,
And
make
a
Mountain
of
a
Grain
,
Assume
the
Load
,
and
pant
and
sweat
Beneath
th'
Imaginary
Weight
.
With
our
dear
selves
we
live
at
strife
,
While
the
most
constant
Scenes
of
Life
From
Peevish
Humours
are
not
free
;
Still
we
affect
Variety
:
Rather
than
pass
an
Easie
Day
,
We
Fret
and
Chide
the
Hours
away
,
Grow
weary
of
this
Rolling
Sun
,
And
vex
that
he
should
ever
run
The
same
old
Track
;
and
still
,
and
still
Rise
red
behind
yon
Eastern
Hill
,
And
chide
the
Moon
that
darts
her
Light
Thro'
the
same
Casement
every
Night
.
We
shift
our
Chambers
and
our
Homes
To
dwell
where
Trouble
never
comes
:
Sylvia
has
left
the
City
Croud
,
Against
the
Court
exclaims
aloud
,
Flies
to
the
Woods
;
a
Hermit-Saint
!
She
loaths
her
Patches
,
Pins
,
and
Paint
,
Dear
Diamonds
from
her
Neck
are
torn
:
But
HUMOUR
,
that
Eternal
Thorn
Sticks
in
her
Heart
:
She's
hurry'd
still
'Twixt
her
Wild
Passions
and
her
Will
:
Haunted
and
hagg'd
where're
she
roves
By
purling
Streams
,
and
silent
Groves
,
Or
with
her
Furies
,
or
her
Loves
.
Then
our
own
Native
Land
we
hate
,
Too
Cold
,
too
Windy
,
or
too
Wet
;
Change
the
thick
Climate
,
and
repair
To
France
or
Italy
for
Air
;
In
vain
we
change
,
in
vain
we
fly
;
Go
Sylvia
,
mount
the
Whirling
Sky
,
Or
ride
upon
the
Feather'd
Wind
;
In
vain
;
If
this
Diseased
Mind
Clings
fast
and
still
sits
close
behind
.
Faithful
Disease
,
that
never
fails
Attendance
at
her
Ladies
side
Over
the
Desart
or
the
Tide
On
rolling
Wheels
or
flying
Sails
.
Happy
the
Soul
that
Vertue
shows
To
fix
the
place
of
her
Repose
,
Needless
to
move
;
for
she
can
dwell
In
her
Old
Grandsire's
Hall
as
well
.
VERTUE
that
never
loves
to
roam
,
But
sweetly
hides
her
self
at
Home
,
And
easy
on
a
Native
Throne
Of
humble
Turf
sits
gently
down
.
Yet
should
Tumultuous
Storms
arise
And
mingle
Earth
and
Seas
,
and
Skies
,
Should
the
Waves
swell
,
and
make
her
roll
Across
the
Line
or
near
the
Pole
,
Still
She's
at
Peace
;
for
well
She
knows
To
lanch
the
Stream
that
Duty
shows
,
And
makes
her
Home
wher'ere
She
goes
.
Bear
her
,
ye
Seas
,
upon
your
Breast
,
Or
waft
her
,
Winds
,
from
East
to
West
On
the
soft
Air
;
She
cannot
find
A
Couch
so
easie
as
her
Mind
,
Nor
breathe
a
Climate
half
so
kind
.