Peace, where art thou to be found,
Where, in all the spacious round,
May thy footsteps be persued?
Where, may thy calm seats be view'd?
On some Mountain doest thou lie
Securely, near the ambient Skie,
Smiling at the Clouds below,
Where rough Storms, and Tempest grow;
Or in some retired Plain,
Undisturb'd does thou remain.
Whre no angry whirl-winds passe,
Where no streames oppresse the grasse,
High above, or deep below,
Fain I thy retreate wou'd know;
Fain, I thee alone wou'd find
Balm, to my ore'wearied mind;
Since what here to World enjoys
Or our Passions most employs,
Shakes thy Empire, or destroys.
Pleasure's a tumultuous thing,
Busy still, and still on wing;
Fed by Luxury and Vice
Midnight Revells, Balls, and Dice;
Flying swift from place to place
Darting from each beauteous Face;
From each strongly mingl'd Bowle
Through th'inflam'd and restlesse Soul.
Sovereign Pow'r, who fondly craves
For one King, makes thousands Slaves;*
Stands the envy of Mankind,
Peace in vain, attempts to find.
Thirst of Wealth no Quiet knows,
But near the Death-bed fiercer grows;
Wounding Men with secret Stings,
For Evils it on Others brings,
War, who not discreetly Shuns,
Thorough life, the Gauntlet runs;
Swords, and Pikes, and Waves, and Flames
Each, their stroke, against him aims.
Love (if such a thing there be)
Is all Dispair, or Extasie
Poetry's the raving fitt,
And ferment of unruly Witt--
(MS Folger 65-6)