Greatness

—Could great men thunder, As Jove himself doth, Jove would ne'er be quiet; For every pelting petty officer Would use his heav'n for thunder: Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heav'n! Thou rather with thy sharp and sulph'rous bolt Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle: O, but man! proud man! Dress'd in a little brief authority, (Most ignorant of what lies most assur'd, His glassy essence,) like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heav'n, As make the angels weep: who with our spleens Would all themselves laugh mortal.

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man; to day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him, The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root; And then he falls as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new opened.

—Since by your greatness, you Are nearer heav'n in place, be nearer it In goodness. Rich men should transcend the poor As clouds th' earth; rais'd by the comfort of The sun, to water dry and barren grounds.

They that are great and worthy to be so, Hide not their rays from meanest plants that grow. Why is the sun set on a throne so high, But to give light to each inferior eye? His radiant eyes distribute lively grace To all according to their worth and place; And from the humble ground these vapours drain, Which are sent down in fruitful drops of rain.

Oh greatness! bane of virtue and honor! Sure great and good can never meet in one. Who would not rather wish in homely cells, Or meanest cottages to lead his life, Where dwells content, inestimable prize!

—What a scene Of solemn mockery is all human grandeur? Thus worshipp'd, thus exalted by the breath Of adulation, are my passions sooth'd? My secret pangs asswag'd? The peasant-hind Who drives his camel o'er the burning waste, With heat and hunger smote, knows happier days, And sounder nights than I.

Thrice happy they, who sleep in humble life, Beneath the storm ambition blows. 'Tis meet The great should have the fame of happiness, The consolation of a little envy; 'Tis all their pay, for those superior cares, Those pangs of heart, their vassals ne'er can feel.