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The Discontent Analysis

Author: Poetry of Anne Killigrew Type: Poetry Views: 226

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1Here take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse,

2Nor ought of Art or Labour use:

3But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go,

4Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow.

5The ruggeder my Measures run when read,

6They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread.

7Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents,

8Which flatt'ring Hope presents,

9Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake;

10But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make:

11For 'tis not long before their Feet,

12Inextricable Mazes meet,

13Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way,

14Mountains with-stand them of Dismay;

15Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead,

16Where's nought their Ruine to impede,

17In vain for Aide they then to Reason call,

18Their Senses dazle, and their Heads turn round,

19The sight does all their Pow'rs confound,

20 And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall:

21Where storms of Sighs for ever blow,

22Whre raped streams of Tears do flow,

23Which drown them in a Briny Floud.

24 My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good,

25Nought that the World can show,

26Nought that it can bestow.


27Not boundless Heaps of its admired Clay,

28Ah, too successful to betray,

29When spread in our fraile Vertues way:

30For few do run with so Resolv'd a Pace,

31 That for the Golden Apple will not loose the Race.

32And yet not all the Gold the Vain would spend,

33Or greedy Avarice would wish to save;

34Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth send,

35Or in the Sea has found a Grave,

36Joyn'd in one Mass, can Bribe sufficient be,

37The Body from a stern Disease to free,

38Or purchase for the Minds relief

39 One Moments sweet Repose, when restless made by grief,

40 But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move:

41When some the Price of what they Dear'st Love

42Are Masters of, and hold it in their Hand,

43To part with it their Hearts they can't command:

44But chose to miss, what miss't does them torment,

45And that to hug, affords them no Content.

46Wise Fools, to do them Right, we these must hold,

47Who Love depose, and Homage pay to Gold.


48Nor yet, if rightly understood,

49Does Grandeur carry more of Good;

50 To be o'th' Number of the Great enroll'd,

51 A Scepter o're a Mighty Realm to hold.

52For what is this?

53If I not judge amiss.

54 But all th'Afflicted of a Land to take,

55 And f one single Family to make?

56The Wrong'd, the Poor, th'Opprest, the Sad,

57The Ruin'd, Malecontent, and Mad?

58Which a great Part of ev'ry Empire frame,

59And Interest in the common Father claime.

60Again what is't, but always to abide

61A Gazing Crowd? upon a Stage to spend

62A Life that's vain, or Evil without End?

63 And which is yet not safely held, nor laid aside?

64 And then, if lesser Titles carry less of Care,

65 Yet none but Fools ambitious are to share

66 Such a Mock-Good, of which 'tis said, 'tis Best,

67 When of the least of it Men are possest.


68But, O, the Laurel'd Fool! that doats on Fame,

69Whose Hope's Applause, whose Fear's to want a Name;

70Who can accept for Pay

71Of what he does, what others say;

72Exposes now to hostile Arms his Breast,

73 To toylsome Study then betrays his Rest;

74Now to his Soul denies a just Content,

75Then forces on it what it does resent;

76And all for Praise of Fools: for such are those,

77Which most of the Admiring Crowd compose.

78O famisht Soul, which such Thin Food can feed!

79O Wretched Labour crown'd with such a Meed!

80Too loud, O Fame! thy Trumpet is, too shrill,

81To lull a Mind to Rest,

82Or calme a stormy Breast,

83Which asks a Musick soft and still.

84'Twas not Almaleck's vanquisht Cry,

85Nor Israels shout of Victory,

86That could in Saul the rising Passion lay,

87 'Twas the soft strains of David's Lyre the Evil Spirit chace't away.


88But Friendship fain would yet it self defend,

89And Mighty Things it does pretend,

90To be of this Sad Journey, Life, the Baite,

91 The Sweet Refection of our toylsome State.

92But though True Friendship a Rich Cordial be,

93Alas, by most 'tis so alay'd,

94Its Good so mixt with Ill we see,

95That Dross for Gold is often paid.

96And for one Grain of Friendship that is found,

97Falshood and Interest do the Mass compound,

98 Or coldness, worse than Steel, the Loyal heart doth wound.

99Love in no Two was ever yet the same,

100No Happy Two ere felt an Equal Flame.


101Is there that Earth by Humane Foot ne're prest?

102That Aire which never yet by Humane Breast

103Respir'd, did Life supply?

104Oh, thither let me fly!

105Where from the World at such a distance set,

106 All that's past, present, and to come I may forget:

107The Lovers Sighs, and the Afflicted Tears,

108What e're may wound my Eyes or Ears.

109The grating Noise of Private Jars,

110The horrid sound of Publick Wars,

111Of babling Fame the Idle Stories,

112The short-liv'd Triumphs Noysy-Glories,

113The Curious Nets the subtile weave,

114The Word, the Look that may deceive.

115 No Mundan Care shall more affect my Breast,

116My profound Peace shake or molest:

117 But Stupor, like to Death, my Senses bind,

118That so I may anticipate that Rest,

119 Which only in my Grave I hope to find.


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