TO
My
Brothers
E.
and
T.
W.
False
Greatness
.
1698.
I.
BROTHERS
,
forbear
to
call
him
Blest
That
only
has
a
large
Estate
,
Should
all
the
Treasures
of
the
West
Meet
and
Conspire
to
make
him
Great
.
Let
a
broad
Stream
with
Golden
Sands
Thro'
all
his
Meadows
roll
,
He's
but
a
Wretch
with
all
his
Lands
That
wears
a
narrow
Soul
.
II
.
He
swells
amidst
his
wealthy
Store
,
And
proudly
poizing
what
he
weighs
,
In
his
own
Scale
he
fondly
lays
Huge
Heaps
of
Shining
Oar
,
He
spreads
the
Balance
wide
to
hold
His
Mannors
and
his
Farms
,
And
cheats
the
Beam
with
Loads
of
Gold
He
hugs
between
his
Arms
.
So
might
the
Plough-boy
climb
a
Tree
,
When
Craesus
mounts
his
Throne
,
And
both
stand
up
and
smile
to
see
How
long
their
Shadow's
grown
;
Alass
!
how
vain
their
Fancies
be
,
To
think
that
Shape
their
own
.
III
.
Thus
mingled
still
with
Wealth
and
State
Craesus
himself
can
never
know
;
His
true
Dimensions
,
and
his
Weight
Are
far
inferiour
to
their
show
;
Were
I
so
tall
to
reach
the
Pole
,
Or
grasp
the
Ocean
with
my
Span
,
I
must
be
measur'd
by
my
Soul
.
The
Mind's
the
Standard
of
the
Man
.