Classic Poem

I.

The Source of all our Toils is Ease,
For Ease, the Rustick plows the Shore;
Th' advent'rous Merchant plows the Seas,
And Drudges dig the shining Ore:
By various Arts we multiply our Pains,
And labour with our Bodies, Tongues, or Brains.

II.

For this the Lawyers, at th' Expence
Of Lungs and Conscience, palm the Fees;
In hopes their painful Eloquence
Will purchase large Estates, and Ease:
The Wealth acquir'd does but new Toils create,
And set them farther from a tranquil State.

III.

The Misers, to be more at Ease,
Scarce any to themselves allow;
Whilst with their Gold their Cares increase,
And new Fatigues from Plenty flow:
The darling Treasures, they with Labour gain,
Produce the Harvest of Distrust and Pain.

IV.

Ev'n the proud lazy Courtiers wait
But for their Ease on Regal Pow'r;
In formal Drudgeries of State,
Wasting the tedious, toilsome Hour:
While Place, and Office, all their Rest destroy,
And long Dependance grows laborious Joy.

V.

For This, the soft luxurious Man,
Whose Cares are centred all in Ease;
Provokes his restive Body's Pain,
And gives Distempers their Increase;
By Indolence to lengthen Life essays,
And by that Indolence contracts his Days.

VI.

Who vainly toil for Ease of Mind,
And all the Stoick 's Arts employ;
By anxious Disquisitions find
They their own Quiet but destroy:
Without the sought Repose still drudging on,
'Till Life in the mistaken Chace is run.

VII.

Let Wise Men then, who most seek Ease,
The disappointing Search give o'er,
Since they will but enjoy it less,
As anxiously they seek it more;
Alone at Ease is that well-judging He,
Who thinks, in Life, there no such Thing can be.