Of Imprudence

WHat is't that thus frail Men with Errour blinds?
Who bear Heav'n's Gifts in such imprudent Minds;
The Poor with Eyes, and Hearts dejected go,
Charging the Gods as Authors of their Woe;
They suit their Habit to their humble State,
And scarce their Minds with Vertues cultivate;
How they should speak, or move, they stand in fear,
When 'mongst the Rich, and Pow'rful they appear;
They ev'ry Gesture do to Sadness frame,
And blushing Faces shew their inward Shame.

But he whom Heav'n has blest with lib'ral Hand,
And giv'n him o'er his Fellow Men Command,
Forgets he on the Earth his Feet does place,
Or that his Parents were of Mortal Race;
He, swell'd with Pride, in Thunder speaks like Iove,
Does in a Sphere above his Betters move.
But thô so Rich, so Stately, and so Grave,
Has not more stock of Brains than others have.
Yet would he climb to Heav'n to find a Seat
Amongst the Gods, and at their Banquets eat.
Till swift-wing'd Ate, Mischief's Deity,
Light on his Head, e'er he her Coming spy;
Who can her self in various Shapes disguize,
When Old or Young, she would in Snares surprize;
She on Poor Fools, as well as those in Height,
Does to great Iove, and to Astraea Right.