Whither thou goest conceive, and to what end,
When thy bold feet the House of God ascend.
There rather hear His life-directing rules
Than offer up the sacrifice of fools.
For sinful are their gifts who neither know
What they to God should give, or what they owe.
The riot of thy tongue let fear restrain,
Nor with rash orisons His ears profane.
God sits in heav'n, with rays of beauty crown'd;
Thou a poor mortal creep'st upon the ground.
Since nothing lies concealed from His view,
Nor 'scapes His knowledge, let thy words be few.
As dreams proceed from multitude of cares,
So multitude of words a fool declares.
Perform thy vows to God without delay:
Fools please not Him: thy vows sincerely pay.
Since they are off'rings of the grateful will,
Vow not at all, or else thy vows fulfill.
Let not thy tongue oblige thy flesh to sin,
Nor say, I err'd; by that pretext to win
Thy angel's pardon. Why should'st thou incense
Thy God, and draw His wrath on thy offence?
In multitudes of words and dreams appear
Like vanities: my son, Jehovah fear.
Nor let it quench thy piety, when thou
Shalt see the poor beneath the mighty bow;
All laws perverted, justice cast aside,
As if the universe had lost her guide;
That Pow'r to Whom all are subordinate,
Shall crush them with an unsuspected fate.
The mother earth to all her bosom yields:
Ev'n princes are beholding to the fields.
Who silver covet and excess of gain,
Shall ever want: this folly is as vain.
As riches multiply, ev'n so do they
Who feed thereon, and on their plenty prey.
What profit to the owner can arise,
But to behold them with his careful eyes?
Sweet is the sleep which honest toil begets,
Whether he liberally, or little eats:
When ever-troublesome abundance keeps
The wealthy waking, and affrights his sleeps.
What penury than riches can be worse,
If by the owner turn'd into a curse?
Or to consuming vice become a spoil?
Who sons begets to misery and toil.
Naked he issu'd from his mother's womb,
And naked must descend into his tomb.
Of all, with travail got, and kept with fear,
He nothing to the house of death shall bear,
But must return as empty as he came,
His entry and his exit but the same.
What boots it then to labour for the wind?
This is a sore affliction to the mind.
He feeds his sorrow in continual night,
Replete with anguish, fury, and despite.
This truth have I found out in her pursuit:
To feed our bodies, to enjoy the fruit
Of our enrich'd endeavours, and to give
Ourselves their comforts, whilst on earth we live,
Is good and pleasurable: this alone
Is all we have that can be call'd our own.
For to have riches, and the pow'r withal
To use them freely, is the principal
Of earthly benefits; for God on those
He most affects this happiness bestows.
That man retains no sense of former ills,
Whose heart the Lord of life with gladness fills.