Let not old Rome boast Fabius’ fate;
    He sav’d his country by delays,
      But you by peace.[1]
    You bought it at a cheaper rate;
Nor has it left the usual bloody scar,
      To show it cost its price in war;
War, that mad game the world so loves to play,
      And for it does so dearly pay;
For, though with loss, or victory, a while
      Fortune the gamesters does beguile,
Yet at the last the box sweeps all away.

VI

      Only the laurel got by peace
        No thunder e’er can blast: 
      Th’artillery of the skies
        Shoots to the earth and dies: 
And ever green and flourishing ’twill last,
Nor dipt in blood, nor widows’ tears, nor orphans’ cries. 
      About the head crown’d with these bays,
      Like lambent fire, the lightning plays;
Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace,
    Makes up its solemn train with death;
It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath.

VII

The wily shafts of state, those jugglers’ tricks,
Which we call deep designs and politics,
(As in a theatre the ignorant fry,
    Because the cords escape their eye,
      Wonder to see the motions fly,)
    Methinks, when you expose the scene,
    Down the ill-organ’d engines fall;
Off fly the vizards, and discover all: 
      How plain I see through the deceit! 
      How shallow, and how gross, the cheat! 
  Look where the pulley’s tied above! 
  Great God! (said I) what have I seen! 
      On what poor engines move
The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states! 
  What petty motives rule their fates! 
How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake! 
The mighty mountain labours with its birth,
  Away the frighten’d peasants fly,
  Scared at the unheard-of prodigy,
Expect some great gigantic son of earth;
        Lo! it appears! 
  See how they tremble! how they quake! 
Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears.

VIII

  Then tell, dear favourite Muse! 
  What serpent’s that which still resorts,
  Still lurks in palaces and courts? 
    Take thy unwonted flight,
    And on the terrace light. 
      See where she lies! 
    See how she rears her head,
    And rolls about her dreadful eyes,
To drive all virtue out, or look it dead! 
’Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence,
And though as some (’tis said) for their defence
    Have worn a casement o’er their skin,
      So wore he his within,
Made up of virtue and transparent innocence;
    And though he oft renew’d the fight,
And almost got priority of sight,
    He ne’er could overcome her quite,
In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite;
    Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease,
Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace.