False Greatness, by Isaac Watts

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,
Through 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 ore.
He spreads the balance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheat the beams with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.
So might the pough-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 inferior 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.