Classic Poem

Casimirus, Lib. 4. Ode 15.

Nothing on Earth , nothing at all
Can be exempted from the thrall
Of peevish weariness ! The Sun
Which our fore-fathers Judg'd to run
Clear and unspotted , in our dayes
Is tax'd with sullen , Ecclip'd rayes .
What ever in the glorious skie
Man sees, his rash, audacious Eye
Dares Censure it, and in meer spite
At distance will condemn the light .
The wholsome mornings , whose beams cleer
Those hills our fathers walkt on here
Wee fancy not, nor the Moons light
Which through their windows shin'd at night ,
Wee change the Aire each year, and scorn
Those Seates , in which we first were borne .
Some nice, affected wand'rers love
Belgia 's mild winters, others remove
For want of health and honestie
To Summer it in Italie ;
But to no end: The disease still
Sticks to his Lord , and kindly will
To Venice in a Barge repaire,
Or Coach it to Vienna's aire,
And then (too late with home Content,)
They leave this wilfull banishment .
But he, whose Constancie makes sure
His mind and mansion , lives secure
From such vain tasks , can dine and sup
Where his old parents bred him up.
Content (no doubt!) most times doth dwell
In Countrey-shades , or to some Cell
Confines it selfe, and can alone
Make simple straw , a Royall Throne .