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Thou wishest I should make to shore ; Yet still putt'st in thy thwarting oar. What I have told thee fifty times In prose, receive for once in rhymes : A huge fat man in country-fair, Or city-church (no matter where), Labour'd and push'd amidst the crowd, Still bawling out extremely loud, Lord save us ! why do people press ! Another, marking his distress, 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 crowd you blame.
Says Dick, your moral does not need The least return ; so e'en proceed : Your tale, howe'er apply'd, was short : So far, at least, I thank you for't.
Mat took his thanks ; and, in a tone More magisterial, thus went on.
Now, Alma settles in the head, As has before been sung, or faid : 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, not 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 inward sorrow,
And dread of fancy'd want to-morrow.
Abroad if the surtout you wear
Repels the rigour of the air ;
Would 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 two hides of leather?
Could Pedro, think you, make no trial
Of a fonata on his viol,
Unless he had the total gut
Whence every string at first was cut?
When Rarus shews you his cartone,
He always tells you, with a groan,
Where two of that fame hand were torn
Long before you or he were born.
Poor Vento's mind so much is crost,
For part of his Petronius loft,
That he can never take the pains
To understand what yet remains.
What toil did honest Curio take,
What strict inquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman fet !
'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 shew'd, shall in their turns
Remain obfcure as in their urns.
My copper-lamps at any rate,
For being true antique, I 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 Georgy * make a paper kite.
And simple odes too many show ye.:
My servile complaisance to Chloe..
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 wise
I do but mention, to despise ;
I view with anger and disdain
How little gives thee joy or pain ;.
A print, a bronze, a flower, a root,
A shell, a butterfly, can do't ;
Ev'n a romance, a tune, a rhyme,, .
Help thee to pass the tedious time,
* Mr. Shelton's fon.
Which else would on thy hand remain ;.
Though, flown, it ne'er looks back again ;
And cards are dealt, and chess-boards brought,
To ease 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 sunk 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 hypocrisy to pride, .
Doubling the faults we strive to hide.
Or grant that, with extreme surprise,
We find ourselves at fixty wise,
And twenty pretty things are known
Of which we can't accomplish one ;
Whilt, as my System says, the mind
Is to these upper rooms confin'd. ..
Should I, my friend, at large repeat ,
Her borrow'd sense, her fond conceit, ..
The bead-roll of her vicious tricks,
My Poem would be too prolix.
For, could I my remarks sustain,
Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne,
Who in these times would read my books,
But Tom o’Stiles, or John o’Nokes? . 515
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 chat
OF Will did this, and Nan said that ;
525 She finds, poor thing, some little crack, Which Nature, forc'd by Time, must make,
Through which the wings her deftin'd way;
Upward the soars, and down drops clay :
While some surviving friend supplies
Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.
O Richard, till 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
540 Have conquer'd Love, and worse Ambition (Else those two pafsions, by the way, . May chance to shew us fcurvy play); Then, Richard, then should we fit down, Far from the tumult of this towns