Essay on man (da felicidade, para o João) Oh Happiness! our being's end and aim! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name, That something still which prompts th'eternal sigh, For whch we bear to live, or dare to die; Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise: Plant of celestial seed! if dropt below, Say in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? Fair opening to some court's propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field? Where grows?--where grows it not? vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil: Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere; 'Tis nowhere to be found, or ev'rywhere: 'Tis never to be bought, but always free, And fled from monarchs, St. John!, dwells with thee. Alexander Pope --------