Isaac Watts (1674-1748), "False Greatness," in his Horae Lyricae
, 2nd ed. (London: Printed by J. Humfreys, for N. Cliff, 1709), pp. 173-174:
Mylo, forbear to call him blest
That only boasts a large Estate,
Should all the Treasures of the West
Meet, and conspire to make him Great.
I know thy better Thoughts, I know
Thy Reason can't descend so low.
Let a broad Stream with Golden Sands
Thro' all his Meadows roll,
He's but a Wretch with all his Lands
That wears a narrow Soul.
He swells amidst his wealthy Store,
And proudly poizing what he weighs,
In his own Scale he fondly lays
Huge Heaps of shining Oar.
He spreads the Ballance wide to hold
His Mannors and his Farms,
And cheats the Beam with Loads of Gold
He hugs between his Arms.
So might the Plough-Boy climb a Tree
When Croesus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their Shadow's grown.
Alas! how vain their Fancies be
To think that Shape their own!
Thus mingled still with Wealth and State
Croesus himself can never know;
His true Dimensions and his Weight
Are far inferiour to their Show.
Were I so tall to reach the Pole,
Or grasp the Ocean with my Span,
I must be measur'd by my Soul:
The Mind's the standard of the Man.