Soon from this work returning tir’d and lean,
  More tann’d than though you’d twenty summers seen,
  The wonted gard’ning tools again you’d take
  Your long-accustom’d shovel and your rake;
  And then exclaiming, you would surely say,
  ’Twere better far to labour many a day
  Than e’er attempt to take such useless flights,
  And vainly strive to gain poetic heights,
  Impossible to reach—­I might as soon
  Ascend at once and land upon the moon!

  Come, Anthony, attend:  let me explain
  (Although an idler) weariness and pain. 
  Man’s ever rack’d and restless, here below,
  And at his best estate must labour know. 
  Then comes fatigue.  The Sisters nine may please
  And promise poets happiness and ease;
  But e’en amidst those trees, that cooling shade,
  That calm retreat for them expressly made,
  No rest they find—­there rich effusions flow
  In all the measures bardic numbers know: 
  Thus on their way in endless toil they move,
  And spend their strength in labours that they love. 
  Beneath the trees the bards the muses haunt,
  And with incessant toil are seen to pant;
  But still amidst their pains, they pleasure find
  An ample entertainment for the mind. 
  But, after all, ’tis plain enough to me,
  A man unstudious, must unhappy be;
  Who deems a dull, inactive life the best,
  A life of laziness, a life of rest;
  A willing slave to sloth—­and well I know,
  He suffers much who nothing has to do. 
  His mind beclouded, he obscurely sees,
  And free from busy life imagines ease. 
  All sinful pleasures reign without control,
  And passions unsubdued pollute the soul;
  He thus indulges in impure desires,
  Which long have lurk’d within, like latent fires: 
  At length they kindle—­burst into a flame
  On him they sport—­sad spectacle of shame. 
  Remorse ensues—­with every fierce disease. 
  The stone and cruel gout upon him seize;
  To quell their rage some fam’d physicians come
  Who scarce less cruel, crowd the sick man’s room;
  On him they operate—­these learned folk,
  Make him saw rocks, and cleave the solid oak;[8]
  And gladly would the man his fate resign
  For such an humble, happy state as thine. 
  Be thankful, Anthony, and think with me,
  The poor hardworking man may happier be
  If blest with strength, activity, and health,
  Than those who roll in luxury and wealth.

  Two truths important, I proceed to tell,
  One is a truth, you surely know full well;
  That labour is essential here below
  To man—­a source of weal instead of woe: 
  The other truth, few words suffice to prove,
  No blame attaches to the life I love. 
  So still attend—­but I must say no more,
  I plainly see, you wish my sermon o’er;
  You gape, you close your eyes, you drop your chin,
  Again methinks I’d better not begin.