The hopes and fears of a plebeian's mind
To outward objects only are confin'd;
Riches and pleasures are his chief delight,
The prizes which engage his appetite:
These he thinks make him fortunate, if won,
And if he fail, he's ruin'd and undone;
Nor has the sordid, thoughtless thing, a sense
Of a more noble inward excellence.
But the philosopher's exalted soul
No little outward trifles can controul;
No promis'd joy, nor fear his mind affects,
His good and ill he from himself expects;
Secure within himself, he can despise
The gaieties that charm the vulgar's eyes,
And accidents, which weaker minds surprise.