9
Grant me the better pleasures of the mind,
Pleasures, which only in pursuit of thee we find,
Which fortune cannot mar, nor chance destroy.
One moment in thy blessed enjoyment is
Worth an eternity of that tumultuous bliss,
Which we derive from sense,
Which often cloys, and must resign to impotence.
Grant me but this, how will I triumph in my happy state,
Above the chances and reverse of fate;
Above her favours and her hate.
I'll scorn the worthless treasures of Peru,
And those of the other Indies too;
I’ll pity Caesar's self, with all his trophies and his fame,
And the vile brutish herd of epicures contemn,
And all the under-shrievalties of life not worth a name;
Nor will I only owe my bliss,
Like others, to a multitude,
Where company keeps up a forcèd happiness;
Should all mankind surcease to live,
And none but individual I survive,
Alone I would be happy, and enjoy my solitude.
Thus shall my life in pleasant minutes wear,
Calm as the minutes of the evening are,
And gentle as the motions of the upper air;
Soft as my muse, and unconfined as she,
When flowing in the numbers of Pindaric liberty.
And when I see pale ghastly death appear,
That grand inevitable test which all must bear,
Which best distinguishes the blessed and wretched here,
I'll smile at all its horrors, court my welcome destiny,
And yield my willing soul up in an easy sigh;
And epicures that see shall envy and confess
That I, and those who dare like me be good, the chiefest good possess.
