Let not these thoughts torment you:
I alas!
In low ignoble poverty shall pass
My wretched days, and unregarded lie
Buried alive, in dark obscurity;
No honour, no preferment shall I have,
But 'Scutcheonless descend into the grave.

This as a wondrous hardship you bemoan,
A grievous ill, when really 'tis none;
The outward want of pow'r, preferment, place,
Is no more misery, than 'tis disgrace:
And that 'tis no disgrace I shall envince;
Where's the disgrace you are not made a prince?
Or that you're not invited to a feast?
'Tis none, by every man of sense confest:
For where's the man in's wits that can expect
That things not in his pow'r he should effect?
And why of want of powe'r should you complain?
Who can no place or honour justly claim
Excepting things in your own pow'r; in these
You may be great, and pow'rful as you please.
But then you plead; 'I thus shall useless grow

To those I love, nor shall I kindness shew,
Nor wealth nor pow'r on my best friends bestow,
Nor by my int'rest cause them to become,
Free of each gainful privilege in Rome,
Nor, when I please, an officer create,
Nor raise them to be utensils of state.

And whoe'er told you yet, that these things lie
Within your power or capacity?
Or where's the man; that can to others grant
That place or honour he himself doth want?
But they're importunate, alas! and cry,

Get it, that we your friends may gain thereby,

Answer them thus, 'I'll do it if I can,

So I may keep myself a modest man,
Just to myself, still innocent and free,
A man of honour and integrity,
I'll use my best endeavours; if I may
Gain it on these conditions, shew the way;
But if you think I'll this true wealth forgo,
That you may something gain, that is not so:
See, how unjust this self-partiality!
And, to be plain, you are no friends for me,
If you prefer a base penurious end,
Before an honest and modest friend:
Suppose your choice were such, then shew me how,
What you so earnestly desire to do,
And keep my principles of freedom too;
But think not I will part with happiness,
That you some worthless pleasure may possess.

But thus your country nothing by you gains:
What's this advantage that your country claims?
Is it that baths you make, with cost and charge?
Or porches build inimitably large,
Where late posterity may read your name,
Which there you consecrate to lasting fame?
These gifts from you your country can expect,
No more than physick from an architect,
Or that a shoemaker should armour make,
Or of your foot a smith the measure take;
For 'tis enough, if each perform in's trade
The work for which he seems by nature made.
If each man mind the way in which he's plac'd,
The smith his anvil, shoemaker his last.
And thus if you the height of wisdom reach,
And, what so well you know, as well can teach,
If by these noble methods you profess,
You with another honest man can bless
The city where you dwell, you give no less
Than he, who on his country doth confer
Porches, or baths, or amphitheatre.

Well then i'th' city, where I useful am,
What office shall I have?
Such as you can,
Keeping your honour, and your conscience free,
With spotless innocence and modesty:
But if while fondly you desire to please
Your fellow-citizens, you part with these,
You labour but in vain; for where's the use
Of one grown impudent and scandalous?