Epistles 1.8 (Creech): Celso Gaudere

GO prithee, Muse, my loving thoughts express,
And wish my Celsus Health and good success:
And if by chance He asks thee how I do,
Tell him I make a noise, a gawdy show;
I promise mighty Things, I nobly strive;
Yet say what ill, unpleasant Life I live:
Not cause the Hail doth break my Vines, or beat
My Corn, nor cause my Olives shrink with heat;
Or Herds grow sickly in my Foreign Plain;
No, but because my Soul is vex't with Pain,
(The Body sound) it is a sharp Disease,
And yet I can't endure to hear of ease:
I strom at my Physitian, hate my Friend,
Because they strive to wake my drowsie Mind:
What's good I hate, and what will hurt approve,
Unsettled still, and as wild fancies rove,
At Tyber, Rome, at Rome I Tyber love.
Then ask him how He doth with his Command,
And how he pleaseth Claudius and his Band;
If He says well, then first be sure rejoice,
And after with a small instructive voice
Infuse this Precept at his list'ning Ear,
We will bear You, as You Your Fortune bear.