Tho' Matters go not to your mind;
Tho' Britain you ungrateful find;
Belinda false, and Fortune blind,
Leave you for this your native shore,
As wand'ring cou'd your Peace restore?
Alas! this Toil you well may spare;
You cou'd not, Friend , out-travel Care ,
Around all Europe shou'd you strole,
Or visit either distant Pole:
Tho' all her Sails the Vessel crouds,
Sorrow will fit upon her shrowds ,
Swift as the strongest Gale that blows;
And in all Climes Affliction grows:
The Cure must in your self be found,
In a firm Mind, serene , and sound .
From the bright East whence Sol ascends,
To where his rapid Journey ends,
Wretches in his Carreer he sees
In ev'ry Land , of all Degrees ,
From Monarchs to the Slave , who waits
Obsequious at their lofty Gates.

Yet Nature none to want design'd:
Vain Man on Nature has refin'd ;
His fond Desires breed Discontent ,
The kind Creator never meant.

Turn o'er our Annals , or the Page,
Which paints the Greek , and Roman Age,
Ambition 's dire Effects you'll find,
And how Excesses make us blind .

Content is in the golden Mean ,
And Fortune but an arrant Qucan:
Still make the best of what you have,
And you'll no longer be her Slave ;
But live, a quiet, happy Man,
Here, or at Thule , or Japan .