And we feel, day and night,
The burden of ourselves:
Well, then, the wiser wight
In his own bosom delves,
And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can.
The sophist sneers, "Fool, take
Thy pleasure, right or wrong."
The pious wail, "Forsake
A world these sophists throng."
Be neither saint- nor sophist-led, but be a man!
These hundred doctors try
To preach thee to their school.
"We have the truth!" they cry;
And yet their oracle,
Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine.
Once read thy own breast right,
And thou hast done with fears;
Man gets no other light,
Search he a thousand years.
Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine.
What makes thee struggle and rave?
Why are men ill at ease?
'Tis that the lot they have
Fails their own will to please;
For man would make no murmuring, were his will obeyed.
And why is it, that still
Man with his lot thus fights?
'Tis that he makes this will
The measure of his rights,
And believes nature outraged if his will's gainsaid.
