Still those are restless, discontented these,
The poor for riches sigh, the rich for ease.
Thus  pines with envy at the great,
While you, my Lord, are sick of pomp and state.
"My fate is hard, (cries one) o'erlook'd! forgot!
Yet all life's comforts are my neighbour's lot.
See, he's posless'd of all that Heav'n can grant,
But I, unhappy! ev'ry blessing want;
His life, tho' vile, is one luxurious treat,
Whilst I have virtue, but not bread to eat."
Well, but you've friends, in health too pretty sound.
"That's not the case; I want — tenthousand pound."
Still you have — "What! no reason to complain?"
Perhaps not much. However, think again.
As yet but half this envy'd man you've seen,
The outside's fair indeed, but look within;
Perhaps there's something there corrodes his breast,
That cruel something, common to the rest:
Some fav'rite wish too wild, or weak to own,
Some secret pang, to all besides unknown.
Or with his blessings, count his want of health,
And to the pleasures, add the plagues of wealth:
On ev'ry side the envy'd creature view,
Then tell me which is happiest, He or You?