The Fifth Epistle of Monsieur Boileau, to Monsieur Guillerague, Secretary of the Kings Cabinet

O Thou whose gallant and sagacious mind,
The Power which form'd it for a Court design'd!
Great Master in the art of pleasing! Who
Know'st how to Speak, and to be silent too!
What course would'st thou advise thy Friend to take,
Say, had I best be silent now or speak?
Shall I still signalize my self by Satyr,
Fruitful in jolly Malice, gay ill Nature?
And in the Field where I'have so often fought,
Make Fopps still shake at ev'ry pointed thought?
A Field that once with tault gain'd me Fame,
When my rash Youth transported with its slame,
To wisdom and to ease preerr'd a noisie name.
But now since time has ripen'd my desires,
Since Toys my thoughtful Soul no more admires,
But at its fortieth rolling Year to wiser joys aspires.
I bid adieu to the diverting Broil,
And choose repose before the illustrious Toil.
Then let a thousand of my scribling Foes
Vainly Conspire to shake this firm repose.
I whom each breath blew once into a flame,
Am an old Lyon Tractable and Tame:
I will no more my blunted Talons arm,
No more my Roar the Forest shall alarm.
For as my sprightly rampant days are ore,
So my provoking chagrin is no more,
Nor the sharp Gall which stung me into rage before
Again let all the scribling Herd appear,
I leave them now a full and free Carrear.
Errour I only hate, and Good esteem,
Studying my self my own perpetual Theme.
Let those who list thro' Tubes the Heavens explore;
But me such vain inquiries touch no more.
As vainly let Rohaut grow pale, t' inquire,
If motion can with plenitude conspire.
Moisture and Drought, let Bernier too compound,
Of bodies wandring thro the Void, of bodies hook'd and round,
I who my reasons dreadful Shipwrack fear,
Whilst on a Sea, thus infamous I steer,
I to provide the Skiff, use all my care
To fit its Rudder and its Oars prepare.
Thus to prevent the storm, and reach the Shore,
Whilst yet prevention may be us'd, before
The Winds run mad, and for their prey the Waves begin to roar.

What do we aim at all but rest of mind?
But we, within, that golden rest must find.
A Blockhead full of faults, pursued by grief,
To whom nor Town nor Country brings relief,
In vain takes Horse, with thought t'out-ride his trouble,
That mounts behind, and with him gallops double.
What think you Alexander the desig'd,
When, hurried by a vast and boundless mind,
He laid all Asia waste, and plunder'd half mankind?
What made him Graecia's gentle Clime forsake?
What made him War on unknown Monarchs make?
In Tumult, Horrour, and in Blood what pleasure could he take?
Why' attack'd by trouble, which he could not tame,
And which this Conquerour of the world o're came,
Himself his deadliest Foe he sought to shun,
And from reflecting solitude to run;
Conquering, he fled before superiour Grief:
This, this transported the Triumphant Thief
T'Arora's native regions, those gay shores
O'e which her purple flood of light she pours,
Where the burnt Persian the bright Star which scorches him adores.
Self-Authors of the Plagues by which we groan,
Far from our selves we're ev'ry moment thrown.
Why all this hazard, all this mighty toil,
T' exhaust the Gold of the Peruvian Soil?
Why are we thro such various Climates hurl'd,
To ransak both the new and antient World?
Fatigu'd by Journies, or by Tempest tost?
Murder'd on Land, or on the Ocean lost?
Surely for happiness we need not roam,
'Tis easiest had with little and at home.
He, whom the Gods best gift Content does bless,
Possessing nothing, does the World possess.