To the Honourable Charles Montague, Esq.

HOWE'ER 'tis well, that while Mankind
Thro' Fate's perverse Meander errs,
He can imagin'd Pleasures find.
To combat against real Cares.

Fancies and Notions He pursues,
Which ne'er had Being but in Thought :
Each, like the Grecian Artist, woo's
The Image He himself has wrought.

Against Experience He believes:
He argues against Demonstration,
Pleas'd, when his Reason He deceives;
And sets his Judgment by his Passion.

The hoary Fool, who many Days
Has struggl'd with continu'd Sorrow,
Renews his Hope, and blindly lays
The desp'rate Bett upon To-morrow.

To-morrow comes : 'tis Noon : 'tis Night :
This Day like all the former flies :
Yet on He runs to seek Delight
To-morrow, 'till To-night He dies.

Our Hopes, like tow'ring Falcons, aim
At Objects in an airy height :
The little Pleasure of the Game
Is from afar to view the Flight.

Our anxious Pains We, all the Day,
In search of what We like, employ:
Scorning at Night the worthless Prey,
We find the Labour gave the Joy.

At Distance thro' an artful Glass
To the Mind's Eye Things well appear:
They lose their Forms, and make a Mass
Confus'd and black, if brought too near.

If We see right, We see our Woes :
Then what avails it to have Eyes?
From Ignorance our Comfort flows:
The only Wretched are the Wise.

We wearied should lie down in Death:
This Cheat of Life would take no more;
If You thought Fame but empty Breath ;
I, Phyllis but a perjur'd Whore.