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IV.

I, like you, was born a woman,
Well I know what vapours mean:
The disease, alas! is common;
Single, we have all the spleen.
V.

All the morals that they tell us,
Never cur'd the forrow yet:
Chufe, among the pretty fellows,
One of honour, youth, and wit.
VI.

Prithee hear him every morning,
At the leaft an hour or two;
Once again at night returning-
I believe the dofe will do.

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The SP LE E N.

An EPISTLE to Mr. C— J——.

By Mr. MATTHEW GREEN of the Custom-house.

HIS motly piece to you I fend,

ΤΗ

Who always were a faithful friend;
Who, if difputes fhould happen hence,
Can beft explain the author's fense;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I fing, so often feel.

The want of method pray excufe,
Allowing for a vapour'd Mufe;
Nor to a narrow path confin'd,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

The child is genuine; you may trace
Throughout the fire's tranfmitted face.
Nothing is ftol'n: my Mufe, tho' mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within;
Nor vainly buys what Gildon fells,
Poetick buckets for dry wells.

School-helps I want, to climb on high,
Where all the ancient treasures lie,

And

And there unfeen commit a theft

On wealth in Greek exchequers left.

Then where? from whom? what can I fteal,
Who only with the moderns deal?
This were attempting to put on
Raiment from naked bodies won :
They fafely fing before a thief,
They cannot give who want relief;
Some few excepted, names well known,
And justly laurel'd with renown,

Whose stamp of genius marks their ware,
And theft detects of theft beware;
From Moore fo lafh'd, example fit,
Shun petty larceny in wit.

First know, my friend, I do not mean
To write a treatise on the Spleen;
Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;
Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse.
If I am right, your question lay,
What courfe I take to drive away
The day-mare Spleen, by whofe falfe pleas
Men prove mere fuicides in eafe ;
And how I do myself demean

In ftormy world to live ferene.

When by its magick lantern Spleen With frightful figures fpreads life's fcene, And threat'ning profpects urg'd my fears, A ftranger to the luck of heirs;

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Reafon, fome quiet to restore

Shew'd part was fubftance, fhadow more ;
With Spleen's dead weight tho' heavy grown,
In life's rough tide I funk not down,
But fwam, till Fortune threw a rope,
Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.
I always choose the plainest food
To mend vifcidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor;

Thy help love's confeffors implore,
And doctors fecretly adore;

To thee I fly, by thee dilute

Thro' veins my blood doth quicker shoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolifick particles of Spleen.

I never fick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And feldom Cloe's lodgings haunt,
Thrifty of fpirits, which I want.
Hunting I reckon very good

To brace the nerves, and ftir the blood;
But after no field-honours itch,

Atchiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch.
While Spleen lies foft relax'd in bed,
Or o'er coal fires inclines the head,
Hygeia's fons with hound or horn,
And jovial cry awake the morn.

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Thefe fee her from the dusky plight,
Smear'd by th' embraces of the night,
With roral wash redeem her face,
And prove herself of Titian's race,
And, mounting in loose robes the skies,
Shed light and fragrance as fhe flies.
Then horfe and hound fierce joy display,
Exulting at the Hark-away,

And in pursuit o'er tainted ground
From lungs robust field-notes refound.
Then, as St. George the dragon flew,
Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view;
While all their fpirits are on wing,

And woods, and hills, and vallies ring.
To cure the mind's wrong biafs, Spleen;
Some recommend the bowling-green;
Some, hilly walks; all, exercise ;
Fling but a ftone, the giant dies;
Laugh, and be well. Monkeys have been
Extreme good doctors for the Spleen;

And kitten, if the humour hit,

Has harlequin'd away the fit.

Since mirth is good in this behalf,

At fome partic❜lars let us laugh.

Witlings, brifk fools, curs'd with half fenfe,

That ftimulates their impotence;

Who buz in rhyme, and, like blind flies,

Err with their wings for want of

eyes.

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