Contentation — Directed to my Dear Father, and most Worthy Friend, Mr. Isaac Walton

Heav'n, what an Age is this! what Race
Of Giants are sprung up, that dare
Thus fiy in the Almighty's Face,
And with his Providence make War!

I can go no where but I meet
With Malecontents, and Mutineers,
As if in Life was nothing sweet,
And we must Blessings reap in Tears.

O senseless Man, that murmurs still
For Happiness, and does not know,
Even though he might enjoy his Will,
What he would have to make him so.

Is it true Happiness to be
By undiscerning Fortune plac't,
In the most eminent Degree,
Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

Titles and Wealth are Fortune's Toyls
Wherewith the Vain themselves ensnare?
The Great are proud of borrow'd Spoils,
The Miser's Plenty breeds his Care.

The one supinely yawns at rest,
Th' other eternally doth toyl,
Each of them equally a Beast,
A pamper'd Horse, or lab'ring Moyl.

The Titulado's oft disgrac'd,
By publick hate, or private frown,
And he whose Hand the Creature rais'd,
Has yet a Foot to kick him down.

The Drudge who would all get, all save,
Like a brute Beast both feeds, and lies,
Prone to the Earth, he digs his Grave,
And in the very labour dies.

Excess of ill got, ill kept Pelf,
Does only Death, and Danger breed,
Whilst one rich Worldling starves himself
With what would thousand others feed.

By which we see what Wealth and Pow'r
Although they make men rich and great,
The sweets of Life do often four,
And gull Ambition with a Cheat.

Nor is he happier than these,
Who in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at case,
Has Lusts that are immoderate.

For he, by those desires misled,
Quits his own Vine's securing shade,
T' expose his naked, empty head
To all the Storms Man's Peace invade.

Nor is he happy who is trim,
Trick't up in favours of the Fair,
Mirrors, with every Breath made dim,
Birds caught in every wanton snare.

Woman, man's greatest woe, or bliss,
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the Magick of a Kiss,
Destroys whom she was made to save.

Oh fruitful Grief, the World's Disease!
And vainer Man to make it so,
Who gives his Miseries encrease
By cultivating his own woe.

There are no ills but what we make,
By giving Shapes and Names to things;
Which is the dangerous mistake
That causes all our Sufferings.

We call that Sickness, which is Health,
That Persecution, which is Grace;
That Poverty, which is true Wealth,
And that Dishonour, which is Praise.

Providence watches over all,
And that with an impartial Eye,
And if to Misery we fall,
'Tis through our own Infirmity.

'Tis want of foresight makes the bold
Ambitious Youth to danger climb,
And want of Vertue, when the old
At Persecution do repine.

Alas, our Time is here so short,
That in what state soe're 'tis spent,
Of Joy or Wo does not import,
Provided it be innocent.

But we may make it pleasant too,
If we will take our Measures right,
And not what Heav'n has done, undo
By an unruly Appetite.

'Tis Contentation that alone
Can make us happy here below,
And when this little Life is gone,
Will lift us up to Heav'n too.

A very little satisfies
An honest, and a grateful heart,
And who would more than will suffice,
Does covet more than is his part.

That man is happy in his share,
Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed,
Whose Necessaries bound his Care,
And honest Labour makes his Bed.

Who free from Debt, and clear from Crimes,
Honours those Laws that others fear,
Who ill of Princes in worst Times
Will neither speak himself, nor hear.

Who from the busie World retires,
To be more useful to it still,
And to no greater good aspires,
But only the eschewing ill.

Who, with his Angle, and his Books,
Can think the longest day well spent,
And praises God when back he looks,
And finds that all was innocent.

This man is happier far than he
Whom publick Business oft betrays,
Through Labyrinths of policy,
To crooked and forbidden ways.

The World is full of beaten Roads,
But yet so slippery withall,
That where one walks secure, 'tis odds
A hundred and a hundred fall.

Untrodden Paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure,
And he comes soonest to his rest,
Whose Journey has been most secure.

It is Content alone that makes
Our Pilgrimage a Pleasure here,
And who buyes Sorrow cheapest, takes
An ill Commodity too dear.

But he has Fortunes worst withstood,
And Happiness can never miss,
Can covet nought, but where he stood,
And thinks him happy where he is.