Parents and lovers are decreed
Quoth Dick: fuch truths are worth receiving:
Yet ftill Dick look'd as not believing,
Now, Alma, to divines and profe
I leave thy frauds, and crimes, and woes;
Nor think to night of thy ill-nature,
But of thy follies, idle creature,
The turns of thy uncertain wing,
And not the malice of thy fling:
Thy pride of being great, and wife,
I do but mention, to despise.
I view with anger and disdain,
How little gives thee joy or pain:
A print, a Bronze, a flow'r, a root,
A fhell, a butter-fly can do't.
Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhime
Help thee to pass the tedious time,
Which elfe would on thy hand remain:
Tho' flown, it ne'er looks back again.
And cards are dealt, and chefs-boards brought,
To cafe the pain of coward-thought.
Happy refult of human wit!
That Alma may herself forget.
Dick, thus we act; and thus we are,
Or tofs'd by hope, or funk by care.
With endless pain this man purfues
What, if he gain'd, he could not ufe:
And t'other fondly hopes to fee
What never was, nor e'er fhall be.
We err by ufe, go wrong by rules,
In gefture grave, in action fools:
We join hypocrify to pride,
Doubling the faults, we strive to hide.
Or grant, that with extreme furprize,
We find ourselves at fixty wife; :
And twenty pretty things are known,
Of which we can't accomplish one;
Whilft, as my fyftem fays, the mind
Is to these upper rooms confin'd:
Should I, my friend, at large repeat
Her borrow'd fenfe, her fond conccit;
The bede-roll of her vicious tricks;
My poem would be too prolix.
For could I my remark fuftain,
Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne;
Who in these times would read my books,
But Tom o' Stiles, or John o' Nokes?
As Brentford kings difcreet and wife,
After long thought and grave advice,
Into Lardella's coffin peeping,
Saw nought to cause their mirth or weeping: So Alma now to joy or grief
Superior, finds her late relief:
Weary'd of being high, or great,
And nodding in her chair of state;
Stun'd and worn out with endless chat,
Of Will did this, and Nan faid that;
She finds, poor thing, fome little crack,
Which nature forc'd by time, must make;
Thro' which she wings her deftin'd way:
Upward fhe foars; and down drops clay:
While some surviving friend supplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.
O Richard, 'till that day appears,
Which muft-decide our hopes and fears,
Would Fortune calm her present rage,
And give us play-things for our age:
Would Clotho wafh her hands in milk,
And twist our thread with gold and filk:
Would she in friendship, peace
and plenty,
Spin out our years to four times twenty:
And should we both in this condition,
Have conquer'd love, and worse ambition;
(Elfe those two paffions by the way,
May chance to show us fcurvy play :)
Then Richard, then should we fit down,
Far from the tumult of this town:
I fond of my well chosen seat,
My pictures, medals, books compleat:
Or fhould we mix our friendly talk,
O'er-fhaded in that fav'rite walk;
Which thy own hand had whilom planted,
Both pleas'd with all we thought we wanted:
Yet then, ev'n then one cross reflection
Would fpoil thy grove, and my collection:
Thy fon, and his, e'er that, may die;
And time fome uncouth heir fupply;
Who fhall for nothing else be known,
But spoiling all, that thou hast done.
Who fet the twigs, fhall he remember,
That is in hafte to fell the timber?
And what shall of thy woods remain,
Except the box that threw the main?
Nay may not time and death remove
The near relations, whom I love?
And my coz Tom, or his coz Mary
(Who hold the plough, or skim the dairy)
My fav'rite books and pictures fell
To Smart, or Doiley by the ell?
Kindly throw in a little figure,
And fet the price upon the bigger?
Those who could never read their grammar,
When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books beft, as richest bound.
My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned juftice weigh'd:
To turn the ballance, Otho's head
May be thrown in; and for the mettle,
The coin may mend a tinker's kettle
Tir'd with these thoughts-Lefs tir'd than I, Quoth Dick, with your philosophy
That people live and die, I knew
An hour ago, as well as you.
And if fate spins us longer years,
Or is in hafte to take the fhears;
I know, we must both fortunes try,
And bear our evils, wet or dry.
Yet let the goddess smile, or frown;
Bread we shall eat, or white, or brown:
And in a cottage, or a court,
Drink fine Champaigne, or muddl'd Port.
What need of books these truths to tell,
Which folks perceive, who cannot spell?
And must we spectacles apply,
To view what hurts our naked eye?
Sir, if it be your wisdom's aim,
To make me merrier than I am;
I'll be all night at your devotion-
Come on, friend; broach the pleafing notion;
But if you would deprefs my thought;
Your Syftem is not worth a groat-——
For Plato's fancies what care I?
I hope you would not have me die,
Like fimple Cato in the play,
For any thing that he can say?
E'en let him of ideas fpeak
To Heathens in his native Greek.
If to be fad is to be wife ;
I do most heartily despise
Whatever Socrates has faid,
Or Tully writ, or Wanley read.
Dear Drift, to fet our matters right, Remove these papers from my sight; Burn Mat's Des-cart', and Ariftotle : Here, Jonathan, your master's bottle.
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