Whilom a fool saw where a fiddle lay;
And after pouring round it, strove to play:
Above, below, across, all ways he tries;
He tries in vain, 'tis discord all and noise:
Fretting he threw it by: then thus the lout;
"There's musick in it, could I fetch it out."
If life does not its harmony impart,
We want not instruments, but have not art.
'Tis endless to defer our hopes of ease,
Till crosses end, and disappointments cease.
The sage is happy, not that all goes right,
His cattle feel no rot, his corn no blight;
The mind for ease is fitted to the wise,
Not so the fool's; — 'tis here the difference lies:
Their prospect is the same, but various are their eyes.