Nor pack'd committees break his rest,
Nor avarice sends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the sun.

Short is our span; then why engage
In schemes, for which man's transient age
Was ne'er by Fate designed?
Why slight the gifts of Nature's hand?
What wanderer from his native land
E'er left himself behind?

The restless thought, and wayward will,
And discontent attend him still,
Nor quit him while he lives;
At sea care follows in the wind,
At land it mounts the pad behind,
Or with the postboy drives.

He would happy live to-day
Must laugh the present ills away,
Nor think of woes to come,
For come they will or soon or late,
Since mix'd at best is man's estate,
By Heaven's eternal doom.

To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd,
With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd,
His valour's well-earn'd meed;
Too long, alas! he lived to hate
His envied lot, and died [22] too late,