TO THE Discontented and Unquiet. Isaac Watts Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T82397 K067329.000 Watts, Isaac, 1674-1748. Horæ lyricæ: Poems, chiefly of the lyric kind. In two books. ... By I. Watts. London Printed by S. and D. Bridge, for John Lawrence at the Sign of the Angel in the Poultrey. MDCCVI. 1706 pp. 189-193. [20],267,[1]p.; 8⁰.

This e-text is part of the Works section of the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

XML created for the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

The text has been typographically modernized, but without any silent modernization of spelling, capitalization, or punctuation. The source of the text is given and all editorial interventions have been recorded in textual notes. Based on the electronic text originally produced by the TCP project, this text has been edited to conform to the recommendations found in Level 5 of the Best Practices for TEI in Libraries version 4.0.0.

Library of Congress Name Authority File (LCNAF) text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center; text-align: right; text-align: left; display: inline font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;
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 .