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Friendly reply'd; plump gentleman,
Get out as fast as e'er you can:
Or cease to push, or to exclaim :
You make the very croud you blame.
Says Dick, your moral does not need
The least return; fo e'en proceed :
Your tale, howe'er apply'd, was hort;
So far, at least, I thank you for't.
Mat. took his thanks, and in a tone
More magifterial, thus went on.
Now Alma fertles in the head ;
As has before been fung, or said:
And here begins this farce of life.;
Enter revenge ambition, strife;
Behold on both sides men advance,
To form in earnest Bays's dance.
L'Avare pot using half his store,
Still grumbles, that he has no more;
Strikes not the present tun, for fear
The vintage should be bad next year;
And eats to-day with in ward sorrow,
And dread of fancy'd want to-morrow.
Abroad if the sur-tout you wear
Repells the rigor of the air;
you be warmer, if at home
You had the fabric, and the loom?
And if two boots keep out the weather
What need you have ewo hides of leather?
Could Pedro, think you, make no trial.
Of a Sonata on his viol,
Unless he had the total gut,
Whence every ftring at first was cut ?
When Rarus shows
He always tell you, with a groan,
Where two of that fane hand were torn,
Long before you, or he were born.
Poor Vento's mind fo much is croft,
For part of his Petronius loft;
That he can never take the pains
To understand what yet remains.
What toil did honeft Curio take?
What strict enquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman sett?
'Tis found : and O his happy lot!
'Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot :
Of these no more you hear him speak :
He now begins upon the Greek.
These rang'd and show'd, shall in their turns
Remain obscure, as in their urns.
My copper-lamps at any rate,
For being true antique, 1 bought;
Yet wisely melted down my plate,
On modern models to be wrought:
And trifles I alike pursue ;
Because they're old; because they're new.
Dick, I have seen you with delight,
For Gregory make a paper kite.
And fimple odes too many show ye,
My servile complaisance to Cloe.
Parents and lovers are decreed
By nature fools -That's brave indeed!
Quoth Dick : such truths are worth receiving:
Yet still Dick look'd as not believing.
Now, Alma, to divines and prose
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 fting :
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 fell, a butter-fly can do't.
Er'n a romance, a tune, a rhime,
Help thee to pass the tedious time,
Which else would on thy band remain :
Though flown, it ne'er looks back again.
And cards are dealt, and chess-boards brought,
"To case the pain of coward-thought.
Happy result of human wit'!
That Alma may herself forget.
Dick, thus we act ; and thus we are,
Or toss’d by hope, or Yunk by.care.
With endless pain this man pursues
What, if he gain’d, he could not use:
And t'other fondly hopes to see
What never was, nor e'er shall be.
We err by use, go wrong by rules,
In gesture grave, in action fools :
We join hypocrify to pride,
Doubling the faults, we strive to hide.
Or grant, that with extreme surprizo,
We find ourselves at Gxty wise ;
And twenty precty things are known,
Of which we can't accomplish one ;
Whilst, as my system says, the mind
Is to these upper rooms confind :
Should I, my friend, at large repeat
Her borrow'd sense, her fond conceit;
The bede-roll of her vicious tricks;
My poem would be too prolix.
For could I my remark sustain, ,
Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne ;
Who in these times would read my books,
But Tom o' Stiles, or John o'Nokes?
As Brentford kings discreet and wise,
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 ;
Stunn'd and worn out with endless chaty
Of Will did this, and Nan said that ;
She finds, poor thing, fome little crack,
Which nature forc'd by time, must make;
Through which she wings her diftant way :
Upward the foars : and down drops clay :.
While some surviving friend supplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.
O Richard, cill that day appears,
Which must decide our hopes and fears,
Would Fortune calm her present rage,
And give us play-things for our age :
Would Clotho wash 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 ;
(Else those two passions by the way,
May chance to show us (curvy play :)
Then Richard, then should we sit down,
Far from the tumult of this town :
I fond of my well-chosen feat,
My pictures, medals, books compleat:
Or should we mix our friendly talk,
O’er-thaded 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 reflexion
Would spoil thy grove, and my collection :
Thy son, and his, e'er that, may die ;
And time fome uncouth heir supply i
Who shall for nothing else be known,
But spoiling all, that thou hast done.
Who set the twigs, shall he remember,
That is in haste to sell 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 bold the plough, or skim the dairy)
My fav’rite books and pictures sell
To Smart, or. Doiley by the ell?