BALLAD. (Propitious gods that rule our fate)

Propitious gods that rule our fate, Whose ears are tired with idle prayers, To banish ills that men create, And chase imaginary cares.

And first they ask in rank and power, A fate from every care exempt: Vain hope!—ambition lasts its hour, Then dwindles into just contempt.

Next reputation in the field, Renown, and to be great in story:— I all such horrid honours yield, No brother's blood shall buy my glory.

A sumptuous palace, gorgeous board, A train of followers next they crave: Poor fools! his guests retir'd, the lord Is but a solitary slave.

Next to their memories they'd erect A statue, lasting fame to give:— I ask but reason, and expect My little pleasures while I live.

Happy in honours, power, wealth, If you but grant my fond desire, A blameless heart, unshaken health, My friends, my bottle, and my lyre.