CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XV.
Nothing on earth, nothing at all Can be exempted from the thrall Of peevish weariness! The sun, Which our forefathers judg'd to run Clear and unspotted, in our days Is tax'd with sullen eclips'd rays. Whatever in the glorious sky Man sees, his rash audacious eye Dares censure it, and in mere spite At distance will condemn the light. The wholesome mornings, whose beams clear Those hills our fathers walk'd on here, We fancy not; nor the moon's light Which through their windows shin'd at night We change the air each year, and scorn Those seats in which we first were born. Some nice, affected wand'rers love Belgia's mild winters, others remove, For want of health and honesty, To summer it in Italy; But to no end; the disease still Sticks to his lord, and kindly will To Venice in a barge repair, Or coach it to Vienna's air; And then--too late with home content-- They leave this wilful banishment. But he, whose constancy makes sure His mind and mansion, lives secure From such vain tasks, can dine and sup Where his old parents bred him up. Content--no doubt!--most times doth dwell In country shades, or to some cell Confines itself; and can alone Make simple straw a royal throne.