Classic Poem

Hence, ye profane! I hate you all;
Both the great vulgar, and the small.
To virgin minds, which yet their native whiteness hold,
Nor yet discolored with the love of gold,
That jaundice of the soul,
(Which makes it look so gilded and so foul,)
To you, ye very few, these truths I tell;
The Muse inspires my song; hark, and observe it well.
We look on men, and wonder at such odds
Twixt things that were the same by birth;
We look on kings, as giants of the earth,
These giants are but pigmies to the gods.
The humblest bush and proudest oak
Are but of equal proof against the thunder-stroke.
Beauty and strength, and wit, and wealth, and power,
Have their short flourishing hours;
And love to see themselves, and smile,
And joy in their preiminence awhile:
Ev'n so in the same land,
Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers, together stand;
Alas! death mows down all with an impartial hand:
And all ye men, whom greatness does so please,
Ye feast, I fear, like Damocles:
If ye your eyes could upwards move,
(But ye, I fear, think nothing is above,)
Ye would perceive by what a little thread
The swords still hangs over your head:
No tide of wine would drown your cares;
No mirth or music over-noise your fears:
The fear of death would you so watchful keep,
As not 't admit the image of it, Sleep.
Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces,
And yet so humble too, as not to scorn
The meanest country cottages:
His poppy grows among the corn.
The halcyon Sleep will never build his nest
In any stormy beast.
'Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and darkness in their mind;
Darkness but half his work will do:
'Tis not enough; he must find quiet too.
The man, who in all wishes he does make
Does only Nature's counsel take,
That wise and happy man will never fear
The evil aspect of the year;
Nor tremble, though two comets should appear;
He does not look in almanacs, to see
Whether he fortunate shall be:
Let Mars and Saturn in the heavens conjoin,
And what they please against the world design,
So Jupiter within him shine.
If of your pleasures and desires no end be found,
God to your cares and fears will set no bound.
What would content you? who can tell?
Yet fear so much to lose what ye have got,
As if ye liked it well:
Ye strive for more, as if ye liked it not.
Go, elvel hills, and fill up seas,
Spare nought that may your wanton fancy please:
But, trust me, when you have done all this,
Much will be missing still, and much will be amiss.