Classic Poem

Your Man of Bus'ness, is your idlest Ass,
Doing most, what he least can bring to pass;
To satisfie vain Aims, at Wealth, Praise, Pow'r,
Which but augment, by their Additions, more;
Whose Bus'ness is, to gain himself more Ease,
Whilst that his Pains, his Labours but increase
His Aim at Rest, becomes his Restlesness;
Since his desires, with his Success, augment,
Till his Success does his Desires prevent,
The more he gains, to have but less Content;
To have his Pains, his Ends but more impede,
For as one Wave, another does succeed,
So the first Bus'ness does another breed;
And that a Third, by more Gain, but the more,
To make a Man more restless than before;
As one Wave, its impetuous Course does run,
To make but room, to bring another on;
So Men's Thoughts, still fluctuate to and fro,
Till that one Bus'ness does another grow,
And a Third does succeed the other Two;
Till the Full Tide of Bus'ness, like the Seas,
Does slacken, and decrease, to its Increase,
And seeks its End, more to its Restlesness;
Till we, by Bus'ness are, o'er Head and Ears,
O'erwhelm'd in Troubles, and oppress'd with Cares.

Bus'ness, the Monster, errant Fools pursue,
Is like the Hydra , which Alcides slew,
(Against whom, others their vain Weapons drew;)
Who, by dispatching of each single Head,
A Couple made, to rise up in its stead,
Till his Pains, but more Bus'ness for him bred;
Our Action puts itself so to its Stay,
Our Bus'ness does but its own End delay,
More hastily our Purpose, 'twou'd obey;
Becomes but more, as we wou'd make it less,
And makes us less at Ease, for our Success;
As Usurers, but by their Gold's Increase,
Are farther from acquiring sought-for Ease;
So Bus'ness is the Bane of Active Life,
Which shou'd procure our Ease, maintains our Strife;
Which, wears out Life, whilst Life it shou'd sustain,
Till our Death, by our Livelihood, we gain,
Who Life, in quest of Sustenance, destroy,
Our Lives so, but against our Lives, employ,
For Bus'ness lets none, Wealth it brings, enjoy;
So Man, by Bus'ness, loses all he gains,
By that, gets but his Labour for his Pains;
A Sign of Emptiness then Action is,
Circular Motion causing Ciddiness;
For Bus'ness, active Idleness is found,
Which weakens Heads, the more 'twou'd prove 'em found,
And turns their Brains, by too much Motion, round;
By Busie-Bodies, Light-Heads, best are known,
Whose hasty'st Action brings 'em soonest down;
Their Slips and Falls, by too much Motion get,
To make their Speed, but their Advancement's lett;
Till their vain Action, Idleness does grow,
Their Diligence, their Interruption too,
Who less dispatch, the more still they wou'd do;
Till their Excess of Busie-Motion, will
But seem, and be too, next to standing still;
As the Boy's Top, the faster it runs round,
The stiller for it, seems to stand its ground;
Whilst it, itself, by Motion, up does keep,
Which is, for its Excess, call'd by him, Sleep;
So Bus'ness, as the more 'tis in Excess,
Becomes, but by more Pains, more Idleness;
Since he sure, for less Idle, ought to go,
Who nothing does at all, than that Man, who,
Does all he does still, but still more in vain,
And there is sure no other Brute, than Man,
But knows, when he, for his Use, has enough,
(More to his Judgment's, and his Reason's Proof;)
Who his own Use, of his hard-gotten Store,
Will not lose, by vain Hopes, to make it more;
Will not seek more his Riches vain Increase,
By more, to lose his Quiet, Rest, or Peace,
To prove his Sense less, by his Restlesness;
Mad-men are restless, whilst Sobriety,
Does in a constant Courle, and Staidness lie;
Then Bus'ness is Laborious Idleness,
Which, undertaking more, dispatches less;
Since our Desires, Pains, by it more increase;
So busie Men are Beasts, for Pains they take,
Who, Bus'ness seem to love, for Bus'ness sake,
And End else of their Bus'ness wou'd they make;
Not change their Ease, they seek, for Drudgery,
Their Peace of Mind, to live more anxiously,
Their solid Sense, for light Activity;
Whilst Idleness, Ease, Peace, (as all pretend,)
Of all their Bus'ness, is but all their End;
Then, if Ease, Peace, are th' Ends of Pain, and Care,
As they, who still take most, but most declare,
Why shou'd they not their Pains, Care, Trouble spare?
If Bus'ness, Wise Men follow, for its End,
Why their Ease, Peace, Rest, to which they pretend,
Disturb, delay, but by their Restlesness?
Whilst their End of their Labour, is their Ease,
Their End of their Contention too, their Peace;
Which, they might have, and more enjoy, (we know,)
But the less they wou'd for 'em, care, or do;
Why still for Gain, shou'd Men with Pain, Care, Grief,
Shorten, designing the Prolonging Life?
Whilst of it they, for others are profuse,
And out of Self-Love, but for others Use;
Since they, who Life in getting most employ,
Can least themselves, their Lives, or Gains enjoy;
Who themselves, by their Care for them, destroy:
To spend their Lives for filthy Lucre, chuse;
But by their Gains, their use of them to lose,
Can of 'em less, as they have more, dispose:
Nay, most improvidently, (to gain more)
Lose more the Use of what they had before,
By their Desires increasing with their Store;
To grow more poor still, but as more they gain;
And but more idle, for their Pains in vain;
By Love of Bus'ness, idle Industry,
Which Ease, its End does to itself deny;
Whose wisest Bus'ness shou'd be, none to have,
And wisest Care, not to lose what they save;
To part with Wealth, to make it more their own,
For Pleasures, which are to them yet unknown;
But Bus'ness, the Seducer of Mankind,
Enslaves the Body, and deludes the Mind;
As Spirits, who betray Men's Liberty
By their Hopes, lead 'em into Slavery;
By their Aims vain, as t'other's Promises
Of better Life, more Riches, and more Ease;
To spirit them, from Friends and Kindred too,
To Foreign Soils, and Bondage make 'em go;
More Slaves to grow, but for more Liberty,
And for more Ease, to live more painfully:
Thus, a False Guide, and Cheat sure, Bus'ness is;
Makes men more Fools, for seeming the more Wise;
And but more Brutish, sensless Beasts to grow,
As they wou'd for more Wise and Thoughtful go;
Whose Reason less, by more Thought does appear,
By which, they have but much more Care, or Fear;
Whose Brutishness is for their Reason more,
Have for it less their Passions in their Pow'r;
Whose Bus'ness, like the Beasts, is drudging on;
Doing what least can, whilst they live, be done,
To make themselves, but by more Bus'ness, none:
Whilst Sense or Thought, the Soul's best Exercise,
Make Man in Want, by his Content, most Wise,
Gold to despise, for Freedom, Pleasure, Ease,
Best Ends of Wealth, and Proofs of Happiness,
When busi Crackt-Brains, are known only by
Their restless, yet idle Activity;
As Changlings, who have less Sense, so more Will,
Feet, Hands, Heads, hold from Emptiness less still;
Whilst he that's truly Sensible and Wise,
Shows it by staidness of Feet, Hands, and Eyes;
Since of a Light-Head there's no greater Sign,
Than the perpetual Motion it is in;
So Changlings still, from their Head's Emptiness,
But move them more, as they can use 'em less;
Their Hands, Feet, Heads, imploy incessantly
But only of their Imbecillity,
To make yet a more plain Discovery;
So that the Love of Bus'ness, may be said,
To be but the Convulsion of the Head,
Which from the Weakness of the Brain is bred:
By which Tongues, Eyes, the Head, and Feet (we find)
To Motions but unnatural inclin'd;
The Love of Bus'ness then, so boasted of
By Fools, is rather Reason's Shame, than Proof;
Since busie Drudges, are like Hackneys, who
Are hir'd, the World's Work, not their Own, to do;
Let out like Hackneys, to the whole World are,
Burthens (like Asses) of the Wise to bear;
For Life's Support, and galling, heavy Gains,
To kill themselves with idle Care and Pains;
Out of more Pride, to bear more Slavery,
To lose, for more Sway, Life or Liberty,
To die too, but to live Immortally;
To lead a hated Life, for Wealth, or Pow'r,
Less safe and happy, striving to be more;
For other's Pleasure, Credit, or their Use,
Not their's, of their Lives, Liberties, profuse
So prodigal, vain Fools of Bus'ness are,
Of Life, whilst but for it is all their Care;
Their Money they with Difficulty lend,
To get Acquaintance, or to buy their Friend;
Yet more profuse of precious Time appear,
As they pretend they've less, or none to spare,
Lose Wealth, Life, by their taking for 'em care;
Who, since their Lives, they getting Wealth employ,
Their Lives or Wealth they but the less enjoy;
In Bus'ness idly throwing both away,
To get their Life's Support, by its Decay;
Bus'ness dispatch, but to delay their Ease,
Out of more Love of Life, Wealth, Selfishness,
To have of both, by Care to keep 'em less;
To make their Happiness, their Misery;
Their Parsimony, Prodigality;
Their Wealth, Time, Life (their own not truly) so,
Away, but out of Selfishness, to throw,
For others, which they so profusely save
For them, who for it wish them in their Grave;
Their Young Heir, or their Old Executor,
Who wish their Deaths more, as they'll leave 'em more;
More, as more Kindness, each to each pretends,
Who, since his next Heir, is his last of Friends;
Then the vain hoarding Man of Bus'ness, so,
For the most idle Coxcomb ought to go;
Who, but that his Foe's Bus'ness may be done,
Will his own proper Bus'ness let alone,
And wisest Care, which is but to have none;
Since the best End and Aim (we must confess)
Of Bus'ness is, but careless Idleness;
The selfish busie Man, sure then is less,
Out of his own Self-Love, his own true Friend,
So busie he, can less his Ease attend,
Tho' of his Bus'ness 'tis but all his End:
Then Bus'ness is for Beasts a Drudgery,
To Thought, Ease, Freedom, the worst Enemy,
To Pleasure, Wisdom, Honour, Honesty;
Whence thoughtless, active Fools, thrive most in it,
For which, they hold, all idle Men of Wit,
And Thought, are of all others, most unfit;
Whose just Aversion 'tis, since none but Fools,
Or Knaves, who are in Bus'ness, Wise Mens Tools,
Can brag they love Disquiet, Labour, Pain,
To lose Ease by it, which they'd by it gain;
'Tis want of Parts then, which must Bus'ness do,
Whence busie Fools most prosp'rous in it grow;
And, for their want of Reason, Sense, or Wit,
Show their Capacity, but more in it,
Their Love more to it, as less for it fit;
We'll own, the Lazy Man, of Wit, or Thought,
To suffer it, for Int'rest, may be brought;
But he, who says, that he does Bus'ness love,
By's wrong Sense shows, he'll less fit for it prove;
For which, by Lying, (more than Sense, or Wit,)
He truly wou'd but prove himself more fit;
Since Bus'ness, the most Knowing most despise,
Which, but the Choice of Knaves, or bold Fools, is,
As Imposition, on the Just, or Wise;
Who, but because, that Bus'ness best they know,
Themselves, the medling World, false Mankind too,
With it, and them, wou'd have the less to do;
The most Weak Men most busie then appear,
As they, least fit for Thought, or Action, are;
Fools, Mad-men, Children, thus are busiest,
Whose Pains are most, but as their Sense is least,
And quarrel with their Friends, when put to rest;
'Tis Man on Beasts, does Drudgeries impose,
To which, each Beast his wife Aversion shows,
But them alone, the Two-leg'd Ass wou'd chuse;
So, the Beast-Man, who wou'd not lead, or drive,
An Asses Life, does for the Public, live;
Whilst wiser Beasts, from Curbs, or Burthens run,
Wou'd bear (but by Man's Imposition,) none;
But Man's your only Willing Drudge, (we know,)
So, more a Beast, as against Nature so,
As against Nature, and his Reason, he,
(Who loves his Ease most,) most a Drudge will be;
Whilst Beasts are Drudges, but by Force alone,
But only Man, of his Free-Choice, is one;
And for his Sense, which does his Will dispute,
Is, for his Reason, a more sensless Brute,
Who wou'd be less a Beast, if like one Mute;
Show more his Reason, and Humanity,
If, on his Sense, he stood less senslesly,
And, like a Beast, he hated Drudgery.