Classic Poem

Your Fate and Foes in vain your Fall conspire,
Your Fortune's broken, but your Mind intire;
Disgrace design'd you does your Honour grow,
Since you so well ill Luck can undergo;
E'en thus in your Decline, so high you soar
Above your grov'ling Foes, that you are more
The Courtier's Envy than you were before.
The same mean Spirits, who, with invet'rate Gall
Envied your Rise, now grutch you e'en your Fall:
And in Revenge the Ills they've done repent,
Which prove not Your, but Their Disparagement.

This Court-Disgrace your Glory is, not Shame,
(Since you in Change of Fortune are the same;)
Your Glory, but your Successor's Disgrace,
Who, after You, so ill supplies your Place.
Let the proud Fools, who doat on Slavery,
And court the Tribute of a suppliant Knee,
Who for a Cringe, a servile Bow, can wait,
And be the worship'd Drudges of a State,
Think you are lessen'd by the Loss of Pow'r,
While you rejoice and bless the blissful Hour,
Which gives you Peace of Mind and Liberty,
And sets you from a vile Dependance free.
The Monarch thus confers a greater Grace,
Than when he chains you to a servile Place:
And your Dismission I congratulate,
Who by your Loss are made more Fortunate.

In Fortune only, not in Mind, brought low,
You'll higher in Esteem with wise Men grow;
For Men, whose Minds by no Change alter'd are,
In their Declension greater still appear:
And, like old Shrines, maintain ev'n in Decay
The Veneration we were wont to pay.