Nothing on earth, nothing at all
Can be exempted from the thrall
Of peevish weariness! The sun,
Which our forefathers judg'd to run
Clear and unspotted, in our days
Is tax'd with sullen eclips'd rays.
Whatever in the glorious sky
Man sees, his rash audacious eye
Dares censure it, and in mere spite
At distance will condemn the light.
The wholesome mornings, whose beams clear
Those hills our fathers walk'd on here,
We fancy not; nor the moon's light
Which through their windows shin'd at night
We change the air each year, and scorn
Those seats in which we first were born.
Some nice, affected wand'rers love
Belgia's mild winters, others remove,
For want of health and honesty,
To summer it in Italy;
But to no end; the disease still
Sticks to his lord, and kindly will
To Venice in a barge repair,
Or coach it to Vienna's air;
And then—too late with home content—
They leave this wilful banishment.
But he, whose constancy makes sure
His mind and mansion, lives secure
From such vain tasks, can dine and sup
Where his old parents bred him up.
Content—no doubt!—most times doth dwell
In country shades, or to some cell
Confines itself; and can alone
Make simple straw a royal throne.