These, ranged and showed, shall in their
Remain obscure 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 looked as not believing.
Now, Alma, to divines and
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 sting;
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;
Even a romance, a tune, a rhyme,
Help thee to pass the tedious time,
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 tossed by hope, or sunk by care.
With endless pain this man pursues
What, if he gained, he could not use:
And th' 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 sixty wise;
And twenty pretty things are known,
Of which we can't accomplish one;
Whilst, as my system says, the mind
Is to these upper rooms confined:
Should I, my friend, at large repeat
Her borrowed sense, her fond conceit,
The bead-roll of her vicious tricks,
My poem will 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?
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;
Wearied of being high or great,
And nodding in her chair of state;
Stunned and worn out with endless chat
Of Will did this, and Nan said that;
She finds, poor thing, some little crack,
Which Nature, forced by Time, must make,
Through which she wings her destined
Upward she 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 playthings for our age;
Would Clotho wash her hands in milk,
And twist our thread with gold and silk;
Would she, in friendship, peace, and plenty
Spin out our years to four times twenty;
And should we both in this condition
Have conquered love, and worse ambition;
(Else those two passions, by the way,
May chance to show us scurvy play);
Then, Richard, then should we sit down,
Far from the tumult of this town;
I fond of my well-chosen seat,
My pictures, medals, books complete.
Or, should we mix our friendly talk,
O'ershaded in that favourite walk,
Which thy own hand had whilom planted, 1620 Both pleased with all we thought we
Yet then, even then, one cross reflection
Would spoil thy grove, and my collection.
Thy son, and his, ere that may die,
And Time some uncouth heir supply,
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 hold the plough, or skim the dairy)
My favourite books and pictures sell
To Smart, or Doiley, by the ell;
Kindly throw in a little figure,
And set the price upon the bigger!
Those who could never read the grammar,
When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books best, as richest bound;
My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned justice weighed;
To turn the balance, Otho's head
May be thrown in; and for the metal,
The coin may mend a tinker's kettle.
Tired with these thoughts-Less tired than I, Quoth Dick, with your philosophyThat people live and die, I knew An hour ago, as well as you. And, if Fate spins us longer years, Or is in haste to take the shears, 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 muddled 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 pleasing notion:
But, if you would depress my thought,
Your system is not worth a groat.
For Plato's fancies what care I!
I hope you would not have me die,
Like simple Cato, in the play,
For anything that he can say;
Even let him of ideas speak
To heathens in his native Greek.
If to be sad is to be wise,
I do most heartily despise
Whatever Socrates has said,
Or Tully writ, or Wanley 1 read.
Dear Drift, to set our matters right,
Remove these papers from my sight;
Burn Mat's Descartes and Aristotle:
Here! Jonathan, your master's bottle.
1 Humphrey Wanley, librarian to the Earl of Oxford, author of the 'Wonders of the Little World.'- Mr Prior's Secretary and Executor.
|
