Odes 3.1 (Creech): Odi Profanum

BEgon, begon, I hate ye all
Both you great Vulgar, and you small;
Nor Mysteries, Prophane, behold:
To Boys and Maids unstain'd with Crimes
The Muses Priest in Sacred Rhimes
Doth unknown Songs, and wondrous Truths unfold:

The awful Kings o're Nations sway,
Their Subjects tremble and obey;
The Kings themselves are rul'd by Jove,
Who broak the Giants Pride, and won
Eternal safety to his Throne
And by his powerful Nod doth all things move:

One man doth larger Fields possess,
One stands more fair for Offices,
The drudging Darling of the Crowd
Whilst One his Manners, or his Friends,
Or his Obsequious Train commends,
And One in Fame is greater, or in Blood:

Yet equal Death doth strike at all,
The haughty Great, and humble Small,
She strikes with an impartial Hand;
She shakes the vast capacious Urn,
And each Man's Lot must take his turn;
Thro every glass she presses equal Sand:

Whilst Swords hung o're proud Damocles,
Not all the Tyrant's sweets could please:
Not Musicks Airs could calm his Breast:
The black remembrance of his faults
Still crowding back upon his thoughts,
Disturb'd and rob'd his troubled Soul of rest.

But humble quiet ne're flies o're
The lowly Cottage of the Poor:
The pleasing Shade and purling Streams
She loves to haunt, she loves the Plains,
And cheers the Plough-man loos'd from Pains
With still Security, and easy Dreams:

He that desires but what's enough
Against the force of Fate is proof:
Unstain'd He lives, and pure from Sin:
Let violent Tempests break the Woods,
And angry Whirlwinds toss the Floods;
He still hath Quiet, and a Calm within.

Let Hail his ripening Olives beat,
Or let them shrink with too much heat,
His barren Field deceive his hopes;
Or let his naked Trees complain
Of too much Drought, or too much Rain;
Or Frost untimely nip his rising Crops:

Now still our stately Squares encrease,
The Fish will find their Ocean less;
The Moles thrown in extend the Shoar;
The Lord grown weary of the Land
Now builds upon the Ocean's Sand;
And scorns the Bounds that Nature fixt before.

But Fear, and Melancholly Cares attend,
And where the Master climbs, ascend;
They soon o'retake his flying Mind:
Born on by the same nimble gales
They press the Poop where e're He sails,
And when he rides black Care sits close behind.

Well then, since neither Gold, nor Gain,
Can quiet bring or fears restrain;
Since Purple bright as shining Stars
Can ne're dispel our Cloudy Cares;
Since all the Spices of the East

Can never calm our troubled Breast,
Why should I madly toyl to raise
On envy'd Pillars Palaces?
Why spend my time, and wast my health?
Why should I strive to change my Field,
And those delights my Farm can yield,
For larger Lands, and more disturbing Wealth?