’Tis strange what different thoughts inspire
In men, Possession and Desire! 
Think what they wish so great a blessing;
So disappointed when possessing! 
  A moralist profoundly sage
(I know not in what book or page,
Or whether o’er a pot of ale)
Related thus the following tale. 
  Possession, and Desire, his brother,
But still at variance with each other,
Were seen contending in a race;
And kept at first an equal pace;
’Tis said, their course continued long,
For this was active, that was strong: 
Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt,
Misled them many a league about;
Seduced by some deceiving light,
They take the wrong way for the right;
Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep,
They often climb, and often creep. 
  Desire, the swifter of the two,
Along the plain like lightning flew: 
Till, entering on a broad highway,
Where power and titles scatter’d lay,
He strove to pick up all he found,
And by excursions lost his ground: 
No sooner got, than with disdain
He threw them on the ground again;
And hasted forward to pursue
Fresh objects, fairer to his view,
In hope to spring some nobler game;
But all he took was just the same: 
Too scornful now to stop his pace,
He spurn’d them in his rival’s face. 
  Possession kept the beaten road,
And gather’d all his brother strew’d;
But overcharged, and out of wind,
Though strong in limbs, he lagg’d behind. 
  Desire had now the goal in sight;
It was a tower of monstrous height;
Where on the summit Fortune stands,
A crown and sceptre in her hands;
Beneath, a chasm as deep as Hell,
Where many a bold adventurer fell. 
Desire, in rapture, gazed awhile,
And saw the treacherous goddess smile;
But as he climb’d to grasp the crown,
She knock’d him with the sceptre down! 
He tumbled in the gulf profound;
There doom’d to whirl an endless round. 
  Possession’s load was grown so great,
He sunk beneath the cumbrous weight;
And, as he now expiring lay,
Flocks every ominous bird of prey;
The raven, vulture, owl, and kite,
At once upon his carcass light,
And strip his hide, and pick his bones,
Regardless of his dying groans.

ON CENSURE 1727

Ye wise, instruct me to endure
An evil, which admits no cure;
Or, how this evil can be borne,
Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. 
Bare innocence is no support,
When you are tried in Scandal’s court. 
Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit;
All others, who inferior sit,
Conceive themselves in conscience bound
To join, and drag you to the ground. 
Your altitude offends the eyes
Of those who want the power to rise. 
The world, a willing stander-by,
Inclines to aid a specious lie: 
Alas! they would not do you wrong;
But all appearances are strong. 
  Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay