IX.

Fortune, that with malicious joy Does man, her slave, oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, Is seldom pleased to bless: Still various, and unconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, And makes a lottery of life. I can enjoy her while she's kind; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes the wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away: The little or the much she gave, is quietly resigned; Content with poverty my soul I arm, And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.