ESSAY on HAPPINESS. Mary Leapor 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. T127827 p. 413 K101776.000 Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746. Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor of Brackley in Northamptonshire. London printed: and sold by J. Roberts 1748 pp. 54-60. 15,[5],282p. ; 8⁰.

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ESSAY on HAPPINESS . NOTHING , dear Madam , nothing is more true , Than a short Maxim much approv'd by you ; The Lines are these : " We by Experience know " Within ourselves exists our Bliss or Woe . " Tho' round our Heads the Goods of Fortune roll , Dazzle they may , but cannot chear the Soul . Content , the Fountain of eternal Joy , Can Riches purchase , or can Want destroy ? No . Born of Heav'n , its Birth it will maintain , No Slave to Power nor the Prize of Gain : Say , who can buy what never yet was sold ? No Wealth can bribe her , nor no Bonds can hold : Sometimes she deigns to shine in lofty Halls , But found more frequent in a Cottage Walls ; Her Flight from thence too often is decreed , Then Poverty is doubly curs'd indeed . Content and Bliss , which differ but in Name , Alike their Natures and their End the same , Fast bound together in eternal Chains . This as the End — The other , as the Means , Will ne'er divide . But who enjoys the one , Must find the other ere the setting Sun . Then where ? Ah where do these fair Sisters fly ? Beneath the northern or the southern Sky . Courts do they love ? The Senate or the Town , Or the still Village and the healthful Down . Say , do they like Humilo's humble Vest , Or the gay Diamonds on Belinda's Breast . To none of these , alas , are they confin'd , But the still Bosom and the virtuous Mind . See Glaro feated on his gilded Car , Whose stubborn Passions wage continual War . Who cannot call that ravag'd Heart his own , Where Vice and Virtue struggle for the Throne . See Rage appearing in that hostile Frown : Now Fears distract him and now Pleasures drown , Now turns to Heav'n with repentant Tears : But the next Hour at his Chaplain sneers : This day a Beast , the next a reas'ning Man : Behold him right , then envy , if you can , Pale Livia too — Who pants beneath the weight Of irksom Jewels and afflicting State ; Whose Glass and Pillow do her Time divide , At once oppress'd with Sickness and with Pride . The shapely Stays her aking Ribs confine , And in her Ears the sparkling Pendents shine . Yet not a Joy the tortur'd Wretch can feel , Beyond Ixion on his rolling Wheel . See restless Cloe , fond to be admir'd , Of Joy impatient and as quickly tir'd , When first her Eye-lids open on the Day , With eager haste she gobbles down her Tea , And to the Park commands her rolling Wheels , Yet sighs and wishes for the rural Fields : Then back to Cards and Company she flies , Then for the Charms of melting Musick dies . At Eve the Play , Assembly , or the Ball : She hates them singly , yet wou'd grasp 'em all : With languid Spirits and appal'd Desires , She to her Closet and her Book retires . But Solitude offends the sprightly Fair ; Reading she loaths , and Thought she cannot bear . Then to her Chamber and her Couch she flies , Where gilded Chariots swim before her Eyes . In vain for Sleep she folds her weary Arms , Who wou'd be Cloe to enjoy her Charms ? In yonder Path Sir Thrifty we behold , With Beaver drooping and with Garments old ; Whose dirty Linen shews no Mark of Pride , Nor sparkling Laces deck his slender Side ; Whose heavy Soul a saucy Wit wou'd swear , Was made exactly to his easy Chair . Whose tasteless Senses ask for nothing new , Whose Meals are temp'rate and whose pleasures few : " Is this Man blest ? — He may be so . — But when ? " Why , when his Thousands rise to number ten , " From ten to twenty , and from twenty — Hold , " To one round Million of bright Sterling Gold ; " Not there we stop , for Avarice will crave Till it shall meet with its grand Cure , the Grave . Lavinia's blest with all that Man desires , With Eyes that charm and Reason that inspires ; Youth , Wealth , and Friends , to gild her shining Days , The poor Man's Blessing and the rich Man's Praise . With Judgment sound and touch'd by no extreme , Speech gently flowing and a Soul serene , For ever pleasing and for ever true , By all admir'd , envy'd by a few : Then she is happy , tho' beneath the Sky , Hold , not so hasty : — Let her Husband die . Then who are happy , 'twill be hard to say , Since undisturb'd it seldom lasts a Day : For who in Smiles beholds the Morning Sun , May weed before his short-liv'd Journey's done . All Pleasures satiate and all Objects cloy ; We crave , we grasp , but loath the tasted Joy : Nor Wealth nor Beauty , Friend's nor Fortune's Smile , Can bless our Moments , tho' they may beguile : Nor Wit with Happiness can often grow , A helpless Friend , if not an arrant Foe . Where then ? O where shall Happiness be found ? Say , shall we search the rolling World around , On borrow'd Pinions travel through the Sky , Or to the Centre drive our piercing Eye ? Cease , busy Fool : Is Happiness thy Care ? Pierce thy own Breast , and thou wilt find it there : Drive thence the Passions , and the Guilt expel , And call fair Virtue to the polish'd Cell . Call soft Content with all her smiling Train ; Peace for thy Health , and Patience for thy Pain : Then not till then , O Man , thy Heart shall know Bliss so ador'd , but seldom found below .