106
The Complaint.
Night 5.
Some, o'er-enamour'd of their Bags, run mad,
Groan under Gold, yet weep for want of Bread.
Together some (unhappy Rivals!) seize,
And rend Abundance into Poverty;
Loud croaks the Raven of the Law, and smiles:
Smiles too the Goddess; but smiles most at these,
(Just Victims of exorbitant Desire!)
Who perish at their own Request, and, whelm'd
Beneath her Load of lavish Grants, expire.
Fortune is famous for her Numbers slain.
The Number small, which Happiness can bear.
Tho' various for a while their Fates; at last
One Curse involves them All: At Death's Approach,
All read their Riches backward into Loss,
And mourn, in just Proportion to their Store.
And Death's Approach (if orthodox my Song)
Is hasten'd by the Lure of Fortune's Smiles.
And art thou still a Glutton of bright Gold?
And art thou still rapacious of thy Ruin?
Death loves a shining Mark, a signal Blow;
A Blow, which, while it executes, alarms;
And startles Thousands with a single Fall.
As when some stately Growth of Oak, or Pine,
Which nods aloft, and proudly spreads her Shade,
The Sun's Defiance, and the Flock's Defence;
By the strong Strokes of lab'ring Hinds subdu'd,
Loud groans her last, and, rushing from her Height,
In cumb'rous Ruin, thunders to the Ground:
The conscious Forest trembles at the Shock,
And Hill, and Stream, and distant Dale, resound.
These high-aim'd Darts of Death, and these alone,
Should I collect, my Quiver would be full.
A Quiver, which, suspended in mid Air,
Or near Heav'n's Archer, in the Zodiac, hung,
Groan under Gold, yet weep for want of Bread.
Together some (unhappy Rivals!) seize,
And rend Abundance into Poverty;
Loud croaks the Raven of the Law, and smiles:
Smiles too the Goddess; but smiles most at these,
(Just Victims of exorbitant Desire!)
Who perish at their own Request, and, whelm'd
Beneath her Load of lavish Grants, expire.
Fortune is famous for her Numbers slain.
The Number small, which Happiness can bear.
Tho' various for a while their Fates; at last
One Curse involves them All: At Death's Approach,
All read their Riches backward into Loss,
And mourn, in just Proportion to their Store.
And Death's Approach (if orthodox my Song)
Is hasten'd by the Lure of Fortune's Smiles.
And art thou still a Glutton of bright Gold?
And art thou still rapacious of thy Ruin?
Death loves a shining Mark, a signal Blow;
A Blow, which, while it executes, alarms;
And startles Thousands with a single Fall.
As when some stately Growth of Oak, or Pine,
Which nods aloft, and proudly spreads her Shade,
The Sun's Defiance, and the Flock's Defence;
By the strong Strokes of lab'ring Hinds subdu'd,
Loud groans her last, and, rushing from her Height,
In cumb'rous Ruin, thunders to the Ground:
The conscious Forest trembles at the Shock,
And Hill, and Stream, and distant Dale, resound.
These high-aim'd Darts of Death, and these alone,
Should I collect, my Quiver would be full.
A Quiver, which, suspended in mid Air,
Or near Heav'n's Archer, in the Zodiac, hung,
(So
