html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }This Atlas gone, what Hero do's remain,
The ponderous Mass of Honours to sustain?
'Tis You, Great Sir, his Rights, his Vertues too,
(That best Succession!) are devolv'd on You.
Your Mind, well-ballass'd, bears the prosperous Gales,
They cannot over-set, scarce fill your Sails.
What a fair, steddy Course you steer along
Thro' Scylla's Barkings, and false Syrens Song!
Your Friendship not debas'd by Treacherous Art,
Your Actions speak the Language of your Heart.
Fortune despairs, or Flattering, or Unkind,
To daunt your Courage, or corrupt your Mind.
Some plac'd in foolish Pride's new tottering Seat,
Grow less from little, labouring to look Great:
Such do not rise, but weigh great Titles down,
Their Misplac'd Coronets but eclipse the Crown:
Whilst your digested Honour easie lies,
Came as a Debt, not taken by Surprize.
Thus Torrents, Creatures of the Winter Sky,
O'erflow whilst hurtful, in the heats grow dry:
But Sacred Nile warm'd by the Rising Sun,
With him a thousand Leagues from his high Source do's run;
With a rich Deluge all the Plains do's bless:
Ægypt were ruin'd, if his Streams were less.