Be subject to the heart and head. Withdraw
From city smoke, and trip with agile foot,
Oft as the day begins, the steepy down
Or velvet lawn, earning the bread you eat.
Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed ;
The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of ev'ry flow'r that blows. Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps
Soon as the sun departs? Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite, long ere the moon
Her oriental veil puts off? Think why,
Nor let the sweetest blossom nature boasts
Be thus expos'd to night's unkindly damp.
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose,
Compell❜d to taste the rank and pois'nous steam
Of midnight theatre, and morning ball.
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims,
And from the forehead of the morning steal
The sweet occasion. Oh! there is a charm
Which morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Shed perfumes exquisite. Expect it not,

Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging fev'rous sleep, or wakeful dream
Of happiness no mortal heart has felt
But in the regions of romance. Ye fair,
Like you it must be woo'd or never won:
And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask
For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford
The faded feature to restore: no chain,
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.

But leave we not the gentle Isabel Unsung, though nature on her cheek no rose Has planted, and the lily blossom there Without a rival. Look within; and learn That on the mind internal she bestows What she denies the face. Yes, she is kind, And gives to ev'ry man his proper gift,

To make him needful to his native soil.

There is not inequality so strange

"Twixt man and man, as haughty wits suppose.

The beggar treads upon the monarch's heel
For excellence, and often wears a heart

Of noble temper, under filth and rags :
While he that reigns, in spite of outward pomp,
Is mean and beggarly within, and far outweigh'd
By the offensive lazar at his gate.

Th' unletter'd fool, who daily steers the plough
With vacant head, and heart as unimprov'd
As the dull brute he drives, gives to the world
A necessary good, which all thy pains,
Ingenious Critic, or thy deep research,
Profound Philosopher, thy preaching, Clerk,
Thy prattle, Lawyer, or thy grave demurs,
Costly Physician, hardly shall exceed.

The kingly tulip captivates the eye,

But smelt we loathe; while the sweet violet, Which little beauty boasts, hid from the sight, With such a fragrant perfume hits the sense, As makes us love ere we behold. And thus The gaudy peacock of the feather'd race

The noblest seems, till the sweet note be heard Which nightly cheers the musing poet's ear

Under the thorny brake; and then we grant,
That little Philomel, though unadorn'd,
Needs not the aid of plumes. So, Isabel,
Internal worth upon thy cheek bestows

A rose's beauty, though no rose be there.
A heart which almost breaks to be rebuk'd,
A mind inform'd, yet fearful to be seen,
Kept by a tongue which never but at home,
And cautious then, its golden trust betrays.
These are thy charms, and they are charms for me,
And in my eye as sweet a grace bestow,

As matchless Beauty, trick'd in airy smiles
And suit of fantasy, what time she trips
With foot inaudible the sprightly round
Of fairy dance, outshining ev'ry star
And planet of the night. And these shall last,
As morning fair and fresh as amaranth,

When all thy triumphs, Beauty, are no more.

Here let us pause. For learned jockeys say, "Tis good to give one's steed a morning draught: And he that will may whet his whistle too With cordial peppermint, or baser dram,

The journey scarce begun. Tedious the way,

Through many a dismal lane, and darksome wood In story famous for the murder done

On nightly traveller. And ask the sot,

Who daily drives the clattering stage, with face
Raw as the surloin, wrapt in coat of proof,
Lashing his rawbon'd steeds to distance time,
Now swearing, drinking now, now snarling jokes,
Now laughing loud, and now with surly heel
Stamping the boot-ask him, I say, if drink
Be not the soul of labour. What could he,
The frequent cann denied, the smiling bowl,
And ever-and-again-returning dram?

Or ask the drunken fool, who all day long
Or drinks, or lolls, upon an alehouse bench,
With pot in hand, and thirsty pipe in mouth.
Sons of Anacreon, say whence the laugh
Which shakes the very roof, at ev'ry pause
Of the loud song with Stentrophonic voice
Lustily brayed? Or you, ye gallant bloods,
Say whence your noble exploits, to beset
Fair Thais, kick the waiter, burst the lamp,
Cry fire, and bid defiance to the watch?