« ZurückWeiter »
He did his best to seem to eat,
The veriest hermit in the nation
Behold the place where if a poet
Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.' Was ever such a happy swain! He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. • I'm quite asham'd—'tis mighty rude To eat so much—but all's so good I have a thousand thanks to give My lord alone knows how to live.' No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all : • A rat, a rat! clap to the doorThe cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the art of Homer's mice, Or gods to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence, they think, For your damn'd stucco has no chink) * An't please your honour,' quoth the peasant, • This same dessert is not so pleasant : Give me again my hollow tree, A crust of bread, and liberty!'
THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK
TO LORD BOLINGBROKE.
St. John, whose love indulg'd my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last ! Why will you break the sabbath of my days? Now sick alike of envy and of praise.
Public too long, ah ! let me hide my age :
A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear,) • Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take And never gallop Pegasus to death ; [breath, Lest stiff and stately, void of fire or force, You limp, like Blackmore, on a lord mayor's horse.'
Farewell then verse, and love, and every toy, The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; What right, what true, what fit, we justly call, Let this be all my care-for this is all ; To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste What every day will want, and most the last.
But ask not to what doctors I apply; Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock, And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke. Sometimes a patriot, active in debate, Mix with the world, and battle for the state; Free as young Lyttelton, her cause pursue, Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: Sometimes with Aristippus or St. Paul, Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; Back to my native moderation slide, And win my way by yielding to the tide.
Long as to him who works for debt the day, Long as the night to her whose love's away, Long as the year's dull circle seems to run When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one; So slow th' unprofitable moments roll That lock up all the functions of my soul, That keep me from myself, and still delay Life's instant business to a future day; That task which, as we follow or despise, The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise ; , Which done, the poorest can no wants endure; And which not done, the richest must be poor.
Late as it is, I put myself to school, And feel some comfort not to be a fool. Weak though I am of limb, and short of sight, Far from a lynx, and not a giant quite, I'll do what Mead and Cheselden 2 advise, To keep these limbs, and to preserve these eyes. Not to go back is somewhat to advance, And men must walk, at least, before they dance.
Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move With wretched avarice, or as wretched love? Know there are words and spells which can control, Between the fits, this fever of the soul; :. Know there are rhymes which, fresh and fresh
See Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. cxii.
A Switz, a High-Dutch or a Low-Dutch bear; All that we ask is but a patient ear.
'Tis the first virtue vices to abhor, And the first wisdom to be fool no more: But to the world no bugbear is so great As want of figure and a small estate. To either India see the merchant fly, Scar'd at the spectre of pale poverty ! See him with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole! Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, Nothing to make philosophy thy friend? To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, And ease thy heart of all that it admires ? Here Wisdom calls, Seek virtue first, be bold ! As gold to silver, virtue is to gold.' :There London's voice, Get money, money still! And then let virtue follow if she will. This, this the saving doctrine preach'd to all, From low St. James's up to high St. Paul; From him whose quills stand quiver'd at his ear, To him who notehes sticks at Westminster.
Barnard? in spirit, sense, and truth abounds; * Pray then what wants he ? Fourscore thousand A pension, or such harness for a slave (pounds ; As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have. Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth ; But Bug and D*l, their honours ! and so forth.
? Sir John Barnard, Knight; a citizen eminent for his public spirit and talents in parliament.