Chorus 1. Of Seneca's Agamemnon

FOrtune! thou slippery Stage of Kings,
Upon whose Smiles or Frowns
Depends the Settlement or Fall of Crowns!
What various Chances treacherous Fortune brings,
Mounting on deceitful Wings!
To Monarchs Scepters gives, and sets them up on high
Upon the tottering Spires of Dignity;
Then leaves them all alone,
Hung in the Air, upon a Windy Throne,
Volatil Fortune must be gone:
So let them fall or rise,
Away the base perfidious Juggler flies.
How canst thou put a Cheat on us, so bare,
Give us but Tinsel Goods for Solid Ware?
Wouldst have them rich and gay appear,
Thô truly little worth, and truly very dear.

'Tis not a Conqueror's Sword or Crown,
A Prince's Smile, or Tyrant's Frown,
Can make Cares at distance keep,
Or buy one short-liv'd moment's sleep.
Greatness is nothing but a pleasant Fable,
Nor can it make a Soul invulnerable.
The Court is no security from pains,
Princes have wore their Chains.
One Misery on another's neck does ride;
'Tis a troubled Sea, when Fortune is our Guide;
And 'tis a rare unusual sight,
In Fate's black Webs to see one thread of white.
The raging Waves tear up the Sand,
And foaming beat against the Land;
Yet not so fast the Tyde can flow,
Yet not so fast the Wind can blow,
As giddy Fortune rashly throw
Out of her careless hand, the doubtful Die,
When in the twinkling of an Eye,
Kings Beggars, Beggars Kings, turn'd at her Lottery.
Kings would be fear'd, but even Kings we see,
Fear, lest they that fear them, should use Treachery.

'Tis not the Night can give the Balm of Rest
To those whose Spirits are opprest
With Care, that Night-Mare on their breast.
Sleep is no Antidote t' expel
Fear, that Firebrand of Hell.
What City will not impious Arms destroy?
Slight was the Cause, great was the Fall of Troy.
Bloud-thirsty War swallows whole Kingdoms down,
Nor makes two mouthfuls of a Crown.
See the vast Pyramids that once ev'n reach'd the Skie,
Like Mole-hills in the dust, or Atoms lie.
Chastity is at Court a hateful name,
And silenc'd Justice put to shame:
They laugh at Wedlock's Sacred Tye,
Stifle gasping Innocence,
Perjure their Reason, and debauch their Sence,
And impudently give ev'n Truth it self the Lye.

But War in Hostile manner stands
With Spear advanc'd, and bloudy hands:
And there Jove's Executioners all wait
To overturn those Pinacles of State.
Furies in the Triumphant Chariot ride,
With Whips to check the Consul's pride.
Death in a thousand dreadful shapes appears,
And gnaws on Conscience prepossest with fears.
Crowns from weight, and care from Kings,
Are both inseparable things.

Yet suppose Fate offers no Violence,
Publick Peace, private Innocence,
Still things that are so high and great,
Cannot support their feeble height,
But tottering down, sink under their own weight.
If Sails be fill'd, thô by a prosperous wind,
Those Gales may prove unkind.
A Whirlwind overturns the Tower that shrouds
Its lofty top amongst the Clouds.
The little Shrubs in humble shades that spread,
See the vast Oak, whose proud aspiring head
Defied the Thunderer, in the Forrest lie
Sapless, wither'd, crackt, and drie.
Flashes of Lightning only Mountains strike;
In this alone are Fortune's Scales alike:
Whatever's above weight must over fall,
Without exception, All.
Great Bodies, too luxurious grown
With something more than properly their own,
Predominant Diseases feed
Corruption in the Bloud, and Humours breed.
The fattest Cattel are for slaughter chose,
To dangers Greatness must expose.
Whatever tottering Fortune does exalt,
Has only Crutches lent to learn to halt.

Low moderate things must needs bear longest date,
That man is truly, and is only Great,
That lives contented with a mean Estate.
Thrice happy is that man whose Means do lie
Above, or else below curst Fortune's Eye;
Nor like a Coward to the shore does creep,
Nor rashly thrusts himself into the deep,