Poems by Hugh Crompton, the son of Bacchus, and god-son of Apollo being a fardle of fancies, or a medley of musick, stewed in four ounces of the oyl of epigrams.

20. Chance.

I.

WHat's my offences that my fortunes be Inshrined in the tomb of poverty? But dust I am, from dust I came; And unto dust return I must; And he whom fate doth blesse With health, and wealth, and worthinesse, Is nothing more: and he must do no lesse.

II.

Man, in the noontide of his glorie's but A lump of Clay, where a quick soul is put. All this you know, he is but so; And he that can but say he's man, Though fame and fortune say He's Prince or Pope, yet here I may Presume to match with him: we both are clay.

III.

O me! How comes it then to passe that he Whose corps were gendred in the dirt with me, Should rise so high? and I, poor I Should fall so low as now I do? Is't art? no, that's not it, Our knowledge no such thoughts admit; 'Cause some mens worship are beyond their wit.

IV.

'Tis neither art nor desert that doth bring This man to be a begger, that a King. No vertuous hearts, nor morall parts: But that which still drives up the hill, And daily doth inhaunce Mans greatnesse, and his worth advance, Can be no other then auspicious chance.

V.

Since then by chance we either fall or stand, And fortune playes with such a partial hand; No heart of mine shall ere repine: Nor will I guesse unworthinesse The more in me to rest, Though I conceive I am not blest With Princely honours, or a golden Chest.