But not untrod nor tedious; the fatigue
Will soon go off: besides, there's no by-road
To bliss. Then why, like ill-conditioned
children,

Start we at transient hardships in the way
That leads to purer air, and softer skies, 185
And a ne'er setting sun? Fools that we
are!

We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom;

But straight our wish revoke, and will not go.

So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by a rivulet's brink a youngster play:

190

Let hist'ry tell, where rival kings command,

And dubious title shakes the madded land,

30

When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, How much more safe the vassal than the lord; Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of

power,

And leaves the wealthy traitor in the tower, Untouched his cottage, and his slumbers sound,

35

Though confiscation's vultures hover round. The needy traveller, serene and gay, Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy;

Increase his riches, and his peace destroy; 40 Now fears in dire vicissitude invade,

The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade;

Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief, One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief.

Yet still one gen'ral cry the skies assails, 45 And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales;

Few know the toiling statesman's fear or

And senates heard before they judged a

cause;

60 How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe,

Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe!

Attentive truth and nature to descry,
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye.
To thee were solemn toys, or empty show, 65
The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe;
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain,
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs
are vain.

Such was the scorn that filled the sage's mind,

Renewed at ev'ry glance on human kind; 70 How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, Search every state, and canvass ev'ry prayer. Unnumbered suppliants crowd Preferment's gate,

Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great, Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call, 75 They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend, Hate dogs their flight, and insult marks their end,

Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door

Pours in the morning worshipper no more; 80 For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, To growing wealth the dedicator flies, From ev'ry room descends the painted face, That hung the bright palladium of the place; And smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold,

85

To better features yields the frame of gold;
For now no more we trace in ev'ry line
Heroic worth, benevolence divine;
The form distorted, justifies the fall,
And detestation rids th' indignant wall. 90

But will not Britain hear the last appeal, Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal?

Through Freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings,

Degrading nobles and controlling kings; Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,

95

And ask no questions but the price of votes;
With weekly libels and septennial ale,
Their wish is full to riot and to rail.

In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand; 100 To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign,

Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, Turned by his nod the stream of honour

flows,

His smile alone security bestows;

110

Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to
hate.
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers
fly;

Now drops at once the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 115
The liv'ried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies op-
pressed,

He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.
Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of
kings.

120

Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine,

Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine?

Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of

fate,

125

On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight?

Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, With louder ruin to the gulfs below?

What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's