University of Virginia Library

CANTO I.

How is it none contented lives With the fair lot which reason gives,
Or chance presents or labour gains! Why in our pleasures or our pains
Does want disturb or envy wound,
And calm enjoyment's rarely found?
—May not this answer meet the ear,
That life is not th'appointed sphere,
Where, by the wise design of Heaven, A cloudless joy is ever given?
For that e'en virtue's self must wait
Till death has clos'd our mortal state;
And then our virtue's promis'd meed Of endless pleasure will succeed.
'Tis true experience sage has said, And as a real truth pourtray'd,
That happy hours may be our own, But happy days are never known.
The morn may smile, the noon may weep,
While pain at night may banish sleep:
Our own or some dear friend's distress May check a smiling happiness:
E'en while it mantles on the brow The heart may feel a sense of woe.
Thus throughout life 'tis man's frail nature
To be a discontented creature,
Indeed, we must the truth confess, How oft we look for happiness
From what we never may possess;
But ask, in life's continu'd chase,
For change of things and change of place,
And as our real good pursue, What we behold in distant view,
Beyond possession's present hour;—
'Tis that we wish within our power,
And o'er a something seem to brood, Contrasted with our present good.
If you ask where doth dwell content
'Neath cot or lofty battlement,
Whether in car of state it ride Or by the humble peasant's side?
Or in the court of kings doth dwell Or in the hermit's lonely cell?
Say does it dance in lover's bower, Or pass in smiles the rural hour?
Do laurel leaves entwine it round, Or is it at the banquet found?
Say does it crouch 'neath Cupid's wing,
Or play upon the minstrel's string?
No—this is the keen mind's reply, Such is the world's philosophy.
—When in the car of state you ride Content is by the peasant's side:
Whene'er you gaze from mountain's brow
You see him in the vale below;
And when you join the courtly train, He doth appear a rustic swain.
Nay, when in splendid halls you're seen, He dances on the village green.
Thus in vain your time is spent, For never will you find content.
As you pursue, he flies for ever, Nor will you overtake him—never.
Or high or low, whate'er our lot, We view him on some envied spot,
But dimly seen, where we are not.
Broken with toils, with arms opprest,
The soldier thinks the merchant blest,
Who calmly sits at home at ease, While fortune, with her fav'ring breeze,
Wafts him her treasures o'er the seas.
And when the threatening tempests rise,
War is my choice the merchant cries;
For battle ends th'hero's story, Or brings him death or gives him glory.
—When the country 'Squire is seen At number six in Lincoln's-Inn,
With healthy look and ruddy face To give his fee and state his case,
The wearied lawyer 'midst his books,
With gaping yawn and pallid looks,
Longs to buy lands and country-seat
To give him health and calm retreat;
While as th'admiring client's eye Beholds the vast variety
Of stately forms and the gay measure
Of each embroider'd scene of pleasure
Which the vast city's limits give, He longs in Portland-Place to live.
As we pass life's uncertain day, We may submit, but must obey;
And all that we are called to do, Is to keep virtue in our view.
Not all the dignity of power Can quicken life's sad lagging hour;
Nor glutted avarice impart A pleasure to the aching heart.
If fortune's gifts you truly rate,
Then tell me what would mend your state.
If real joy on wealth is built, Villains might comfort find in guilt:
But when he sees th'increasing store
The miser's fears increase the more.
Is happiness the point in view? I mean the real and the true;
She nor in camps nor courts resides, Nor in the humble cottage bides:
Seek her alike in ev'ry sphere, Where virtue is, for she is there.
'Tis to no rank of life confin'd, But dwells in ev'ry honest mind,
As much, at least, as e'er is known For mortal man to call his own.
To shine and glitter all in gold, To be in words and science bold,
Wealth to enjoy and dainty fare,
The monarch's friend, the people's care;
To all that's gay and proud and great, Although such gifts may elevate,
The groaning gout, and racking stone
May change the mirth to bitter moan.
But e'en though sickness ne'er annoys, Riches and honours are but toys,
If Conscience be not firm and free, And wrapp'd in its fidelity.
The peaceful conscience is the boon
That keeps the jarring mind in tune:
O 'tis the heart's so cheering guest,
Which had—a rush for all the rest.
Thus Syntax, as he view'd the throng Who sped the jovial hours along,
And took a short-liv'd leave of care, Amid the gambols of a fair,
From Rect'ry porch indulg'd the hour
In letting loose his well-known power,
When, without any social friend, He did his studious mind unbend.
Thus with many a maxim fraught That play'd upon his busy thought,
He from his easy-chair arose And did again his thoughts disclose
That bore the air, though 'twas not meant,
Of calm but tender discontent.
“The Worthies now have left their home
For many a week or month to come;
And since their heiress has been tied In wedlock and become a bride,
They with parental joy imprest Are now their daughter's welcome guest.
Thus since my much-lov'd friends are gone,
I feel what 'tis to be alone.
Nor do my Classic shelves supply The cheerless dull vacuity:
They help to pass an hour away, But cannot serve me through the day;
While sluggard time appears to crawl
Through the unwelcome interval:
Nor does my reason feel it good To lead this life of solitude.
With many a blessing I must own, I'm almost discontented grown,
And if I check it not ere long I shall be thinking very wrong:
Some foreign help-mates I must call To aid me ere this sense enthrall
My spirits, 'gainst whose powers I preach
And prove the doctrines which I teach.
—Besides when I am thus alone I think upon my Dolly gone:
I see her wheresoe'er I stray In open walk or woodland way.
When I an ev'ning saunter take Beside the margin of the lake,
I recollect the tender charm When she hung fondly on my arm,
Where, when the day was almost done,
We had talk'd down the ev'ning sun.
Nay I perceive my erring mind Is to her loss far less resign'd,
Than when the power we must obey, Consign'd her to her native clay;
Nay, resignation, ev'ry hour Appears to lose its wholesome power.
This is not as it ought to be, Nor reason, nor philosophy,
Nor pious duty can forbear To disapprove such worldly care.
If then this lonely life appears T'engender sighs and ask for tears,
I must th'untoward system change, In wider fields of converse range;
Nor fear to mingle in the strife, As chance directs, that chequers life;
And, by new, varying, scenes restore My mind to what it was before.
Though my earlier years have been Of study the laborious scene,
Yet social pleasure bore a part To quicken sense and cheer the heart;
Nor did my spirits ever feel When at the foot of fortune's wheel,
And life scarce knew its due supply, The tremors of despondency;
Such as of late I'm doom'd to find The jaundic'd temper of the mind.
What's to be done, how can I cure This restless something I endure?
A learn'd Divine, it may be said, Should know where to apply for aid,
And he who doth to others preach,
Should have the means himself to teach.
It is not that my mind's embued With any act of turpitude;
'Tis not an error deep and grave That doth the virtuous wish enslave,
Which may awake the fear of Heaven,
And doubts it may not be forgiven;
That doth for pale repentance call To change the sorrowing prodigal;
No, 'tis the feeling heart's vagary
Which chance may give and time may vary:
That from some nat'ral cause arises,
Which neither angers, nor surprises:
But still it plagues while it doth last, Nor must we let it hold us fast;
For should we not its power oppose At length it into habit grows,
And may become a rooted feature
T'encrease the weaknesses of nature;
While full enough, none will contest, Are to be found among the best.
But is he not the weakest, who Suffers his fancy to pursue
That train of thought which may augment
The source of idle discontent?
And after all, 'tis this same folly That serves to make me melancholy.
'Tis plain then, I have nought to do,
But these weak symptoms to subdue.
From this dull slumb'ring to awake,
From these disheart'ning thoughts to break,
To form new schemes, to leave off talking,
And set my better mind a walking.”
Here Syntax paus'd and silent stood,
In grave and contemplative mood,
When ancient Madge, who wound the reel,
And gave the movement to her wheel,
Tow'rds Heaven appear'd to cast her eye
And gave a deep and heart-felt sigh.
Old Marg'ret, of a village race, Was the sage gran'nam of the place.
The dame had pass'd her early day In service of the great and gay;
And was well pleas'd to have it known,
What stations she had held in town;
Would gravely boast where she had been,
And tell the fine things she had seen:
In short, at threescore years of age, She was become a rural sage.
It is not needful to relate What was her lot in married state;
'Twas like what others feel, who try Their chance in marriage lott'ry.
But time had pass'd full many a year,
Since she first shed a widow's tear,
And now she rul'd in due degree, The household of the Rectory;
Where she did all her duties tend, Less as a servant than a friend.
And now old Margaret sigh'd again As if she suffer'd real pain;
When Syntax thus the dame address'd—
“What anxious thought disturbs your breast,
And wherefore do you lift your eye As if commercing with the sky?”
Now Madge it seems had caught the sense
Of all the Doctor's eloquence,
And, with kind feelings for her guide,
She thus, in measur'd speech, replied—
“It is not for myself I sue To Heaven's mercy, 'tis for you.
I could well scold you if I dare,
And your whims almost make me swear;
You may keep talking on for ever 'Twill never do you good, no never.
What is your fending and your proving,
'Tis nonsense all—I say, keep moving.
Do you not hear what pleasures reign
Among the crowd on yonder plain?
Quit, my sad Sir, that odious chair,
With your grave melancholy air, And join the pastimes of the fair.
See 'midst the bustle what is done,
Look on the sports and view the fun:
Who knows but a good donkey race May plant a smile upon your face.
Of this I'm sure, that when you see The scene of harmless revelry,
And from the happy people hear The untaught joke, the merry jeer,
Their honest pleasures will impart Smiles to your sympathising heart.
You know the joy your flock will share
To view their much-lov'd pastor there;—
And when you see how they receive it,
You'll feel it two-fold, you who give it.
Do as I say—you'll find it right, 'Twill prove a most enliv'ning sight,
And save you from a restless night.
Keep moving—quit your studious labours,
Set off and visit all your neighbours.
A change of scene, a change of place,
Will from your mind these whimsies chase,
And soon I with delight shall see My master from his meagrims free.”
Syntax.—
“Thank you for that, my vet'ran lady,
I'll go and try to get a gay day;
'Twas rare, sound common-sense, that brought
Such good advice into your thought.
To-morrow, I'll clap spurs to horse,
And, in good earnest, take my course
To Billy Bumpkin, who will greet me
With his loud laughs, and kindly treat me:
Yes, with his broad-face mirth he'll try The power of hospitality.”

On the next morn his breakfast done,
With not a cloud to hide the sun,
The Doctor did his way pursue, And, in a trotting hour or two
Bumpkin's old hall appear'd in view.
When soon he saw its hearty host Leaning most idly 'gainst a post,
And letting loose loud fits of laughter To see boys bathing in the water;
Who with their splash of mud and mire
Amus'd the humour of the 'Squire.
Syntax, in sober, solemn state, With Pat behind drew near the gate;
And when he their approach espied,
Bill Bumpkin clapp'd his hands and cried;
“My worthy Parson is it you? The same i' fackins, I've in view.
Six months, I think, are gone and past
And more since I beheld you last!
Whate'er I knew I left at college,
And you like none but men of knowledge;
Yet, in plain English, I declare, I do delight to see you here.
I have no learn'd or Latin lingo, But a fresh tap of foaming stingo,
Which will make you to jabber Greek, As nat'rally as pigs can squeak.
And, if your heart is out of tune,
Will make you long to stride the moon.”
“—Not quite so high as that my friend,
But something which doth that way tend:
Not quite so high,” the Doctor said,
“But yet some choice enliv'ning aid
My slacken'd spirits have in view When I pay my respects to you;
For here, I'm sure, that humour gay
And the frank smile will crown the day.
You, my good-hearted friend, must know
The cause of my domestic woe.
Of my friends too I am bereft, The Worthies have the country left,
And when they may return to cheer
My drooping heart doth not appear:—
Thus dulness now is found to reign Within the verge of Sommerden,
And doth a full possession take Of its fair borders of the Lake.
Thus 'tis my joyless fate to roam For comfort that's not found at home.”
“—Then find it here,” replied the 'Squire,
“New scenes will other thoughts inspire,
My means of pleasure you shall share:
I'll teach you how to banish care.”
Though Syntax did not trust the skill
That such a promise would fulfil,
He gave assent with nodding head, And followed where his leader led.
He took the Doctor through his grounds,
Display'd his kennel and his hounds,
Their diff'rent ages, old and young,
Their speed, their noses and their tongue;
Then order'd forth his hunting stud,
Dwelt on their merits and their blood;
While to their diff'rent feats, and more,
The green-clad huntsman stoutly swore.
He then described some arduous chase
That did his Nimrod annals grace;
Show'd many a brush that cover'd o'er
The purlieus of the kennel door:
Nor did a hero ever prize The trophies gain'd in victories,
Whose flutt'ring ensigns might display
The pride of many a well-fought day,
With more exulting sense of fame,
Than Bumpkin told the boasted name,
Which his equestrian powers command
Among the woods of Westmoreland.
The Doctor heard and made pretence To listen to his eloquence;
But though with certain science fraught,
It could not charm his serious thought;
Nor did it seem to chase away The gloomy humour of the day.
“Why still so grave my worthy friend,”
The 'Squire exclaim'd, “where will this end?
I prithee, why make all this pother;
You've lost one wife—then get another;
And sure, in all this country round, Another may be quickly found.
From different motives people grieve,
For wives that die and wives that live.
—That scare-crow Death is oft a sad one,
Takes the good wife and leaves the bad one,
As sure as that bright sun doth shine, I wish that he had taken mine.
Not that I suffer such disaster As to let madam play the master,
Nor yet, to let the lady boast That o'er her lord she rules the roast.
I learn'd not, where I went to school, In such a way to play the fool.
'Tis true from harshness I refrain, But then I always hold the rein:
For he who ventures on a wife, To be the comfort of his life,
Should never this advice refuse:—
Take her down in her wedding shoes.”
—Syntax his fancy to beguile Here sunk his laughter in a smile.
For it was known to great and small
How things went on at Bumpkin-Hall:
Nay, 'twas a well-known standing joke,
Among the neighb'ring country folk,
That when the lady's in the way The 'Squire would ne'er say yea or nay
But as her ruling spirit told him, Or with a certain look control'd him:
Though now his tongue ne'er seem'd to rest,
And thus his invitation press'd.—
“Doctor come here, next hunting-season,
And faith, my friend, I'll shew you reason;
You shall mount on my Yorkshire grey,
And gallop all your cares away.”
“I doubt not,” Syntax smiling said, “Your recipe would be obey'd;
It would afford a speedy cure For every evil I endure;
But for my kind physician's sake, I do not wish my neck to break.”
They talk'd, when soon the bell's shrill chime
Declar'd it to be dinner time,
Nor was it an unwelcome call That bade their footsteps seek the hall;
For though the Doctor's whims prevail'd, His appetite had never fail'd.
By madam he was kindly greeted,
As, “How d'ye do?” and “pray be seated.
It doth a perfect age appear Since we enjoy'd your presence here;
I feel it always as a treasure, And wish I oft'ner felt the pleasure.”
“Bumpkin, I pray you move the dish,
And help the Doctor to some fish.”
“Indeed I hope, 'tis in your view To pass with us a day or two.
Nay I could wish it might be more, And lengthen'd out unto a score.”
“Bumpkin, you think not as we dine,
That some folks love a glass of wine.”
“I have not seen you for an hour,
Since you have made your charming Tour,
And I shall ask you to display Its hist'ry in your rapid way.”
“Husband, I'll bet my life upon it,
Our kind guest's plate has nothing on it;
Make haste and give it a supply Of that well-looking pigeon-pye.”
“'Tis a fine match Miss Worthy made: A charming girl, I always said;
And does those qualities possess That claim the promis'd happiness.
Some may think one thing, some another;
But is she handsome as her mother?
Her mamma's auburn locks, I own,
Are better than her daughter's brown,
Although the latter you may see, Dame nature has bestow'd on me.”
“'Squire Bumpkin, were it not my care To see how all about me fare,
Our Rev'rend friend would have good luck,
To get a wing of that fine duck.”
“Since, Doctor, you were here before, I've added to my Floral store,
And some fine specimens have got Which are not ev'ry Florist's lot.
They're in the happiest state to view, And will be much admir'd by you.”
“As some folk do not seem to think
That when we eat, we want to drink,
I ask you, Doctor, if you'll join Your Hostess in a glass of Wine?
Your better taste, Sir, will prevail, Nor share in vulgar cups of Ale.”
“My new Piano has a tone Which your judicious ear will own,
At least to me it so appears, Such as one very seldom hears.
I too of late have practis'd much, And am improv'd in time and touch;
Thus with your fiddle's well-known power,
We shall delight an evening hour.”
The Doctor made his frequent bow, And yes replied, or answer'd no,
Just as the lady's words required, Or as his empty plate inspir'd.
Indeed it clearly must appear He'd nought to do but eat and hear:
While the calm Husband's sharpen'd knife
Obey'd the orders of his Wife.
Thus Madam, with habitual art, Continued her presiding part;
Did with her smiles the Doctor crown, Or silence Billy with a frown;
And, in a well-adapted measure, Alternately display'd her pleasure;
Her tongue was never at a stand, But play'd at Question and Command:
She could affirm and could deny With mild impetuosity,
And scarce her question could be heard,
Ere she an answer had preferr'd:
Thus, till the absence of the cloth, She to and fro employ'd them both;
At once th'attention to delight And give a grace to appetite.
The dinner pass'd as dinners do;
Ma'am's health was drunk and she withdrew;
But as the lady left the chair With solemn smile but gracious air,
“Doctor,” she said, “I know your taste
Is not your time and thoughts to waste
In that intemp'rance which gives birth
To boist'rous noise and vulgar mirth,
Which, with its loud and clam'rous brawls,
Too oft has echoed in these walls;
But, if I can such feats restrain, Shall seldom echo here again.
Pray let not that good man prevail To swill yourself with sluggard ale:
But when you've sipp'd a glass or so Of wine that makes the bosom glow,
Let him go booze his fav'rite liquor With the exciseman and the vicar,
While I expect my rev'rend friend Will in the drawing-room attend.”
The rev'rend Friend bow'd his assent, And with a flirt the lady went.
The 'Squire who scarce had spoke a word
While dinner smok'd upon the board,
No sooner was the fair-one gone But he assum'd a lofty tone.
Bumpkin.—
“Doctor, I hope you know me better
Than to suppose that I can fetter
My sports and pleasures to the will
Of that same tongue that ne'er lies still:
You saw what pretty airs she gave As if I were a very slave;
But, my good friend, as you were by I did not chuse to look awry.
Nor would I wound your rev'rend cloth,
By rapping out a swinging oath,
Which, but from my respect to you, I was full well inclin'd to do,
And would at once have brought her to.
Yes, she may toss her head and hector,
But she shall have a curtain lecture:
I'll make the saucy madam weep, Believe me, ere she goes to sleep.
I married Mary for her beauty, And faith I'll make her do her duty.
Pray tell me, friend, what means you took
When a pert speech or haughty look
Was darted at you from your wife, And threaten'd matrimonial strife?”

Syntax.—
“She never spoke a saucy word,
She ne'er an angry look preferr'd:
Affection dwelt within her eye And all her speech was harmony:
But let I pray that subject rest, Nor wake the sorrows of my breast.
For here I came on pleasure bent
To share your well-known merriment,
And find good humour and content;
My gloomy fancies to beguile And learn from you a cordial smile.
Come, come, a foaming bumper quaff,
And let me hear you loudly laugh.”
This counsel given in solemn measure,
Appear'd to check the 'Squire's displeasure;
But though his spirits ceas'd to flutter,
His pouting lips were seen to mutter.
At length the coffee was announc'd:
Again he swell'd, look'd big and bounc'd:
But when the bell was made to ring,
For well he knew who pull'd the spring,
Another song he chose to sing.
“My worthy friend as you are here, I in good humour will appear,
And since the meagre slip-slop's made, I think the call should be obey'd.
But one glass more I must engage, My present feelings to assuage,
Though, to speak truth, I'm always dry
When this same bev'rage meets my eye.”
Now led by fragrance and perfume,
They pass'd into the drawing-room,
Which, from its bright display of flowers,
Might pass for one of Flora's bowers.
—Syntax enchanted at the sight, Broke forth in language of delight.
“—When the Creator's works I view
And, wond'ring, the bright course pursue;
And from sublimest objects range To most minute in endless change,
If in those works that meet the eye,
From sky to earth, from earth to sky,
He in the greatest stands confest, Still is he greater in the least.”
Thus as he spoke, with ardent glow,
Of all the various tribes that grow
Or in the garden or the field, Or which the rock or mountain yield,
From the wide spreading cedar tall, To the low hyssop on the wall,
The yawning 'Squire devoid of thought,
With lazy stride the sofa sought,
The cushions cuff'd with all his strength,
And then laid down his listless length.
Madam grew red, and then grew white, And gave her rosy lips a bite,
Which might denote an inclination To gratify a rising passion:
When the Divine to turn aside The rising burst of wounded pride,
Continued, with encreasing force, The fervour of his sage discourse;
But as the lady lent her ear, To what she was so charm'd to hear,
Poor Bumpkin with a snort and snore, Roll'd from the sofa on the floor:
The servants did their master shake, But he was not dispos'd to wake:
“There,” said their mistress, “let him lay, To pass another hour away.
Oh Doctor! ought I not to bless My share of married happiness!
Is not this quite enough to shame me?
Nay, can you for my anger blame me?
Excuse me, but I scarce should weep If this were his eternal sleep.
—Where the taste and tempers vary, O what a folly 'tis to marry!
The greatest fortune will not suit The gentle spirit with the brute:
Nor the fond, tender inclination, With a mere instinctive passion,
Nor the affection of the soul
With the rude mind that claims the whole,
And will not share the kind controul.
—'Tis true I have a coach-and-four, Whene'er I call it, at my door:
Or, as I please to take the air Command the ponies to a chair:
And when I ride, I also see The Beauty Mare reserv'd for me.
I decorate my drawing room With earliest flowers to breathe perfume,
And if I chuse, I have the power Winter to clothe with vernal bower:
And if it should my fancy suit, To taste in Spring the Summer fruit;
While my gay pride, may, to excess, Enjoy the toilette's happiness.
I can make this old mansion gay, With song or dance in any way
That my fond vanity may chuse The neighb'ring circle to amuse.
All this you know, perhaps, but still It does not my fond wish fulfil.
You, Sir, may ask, the question's fair, What 'tis I want I do not share?
What is it I do not receive Which a fond husband's bound to give?
That secret, Doctor, I'll impart: I want what he has not—a heart:
Yes one, where tender feeling rules, And warm affection never cools.
I want a character refin'd Grac'd by a cultivated mind,
Where taste and science are enshrin'd;
With manners that from kindness flow,
Speech that is chaste, and thoughts that glow.
Failings e'en in the best must be, But love would ne'er those errors see,
When it th'enraptur'd power possest To nestle in a noble breast.
—On shaggy mountain's lofty brow, Or in the woody vale below,
Or by the ocean's craggy side, Believe me, I would rather bide,
With such a being by my side,
Than with stupidity to live And all the show which wealth can give;
Though that show tempted me to join, A Booby's lasting lot with mine:
Such is my fate, for you must see To whom false fortune coupled me.”
The slumb'ring 'Squire now op'd his eyes,
Look'd round the room with dull surprise,
Then slowly rose and shook his head,
Call'd for a light and went to bed.

Mrs. Bumpkin.—
“Since, my good Sir, what has appear'd,
Which you have seen as well as heard,
You must acknowledge my complaint
Doth ask the patience of a Saint.”

Syntax.—
“Excuse the liberty I take
When thus I most sincerely speak;
But that same virtue would confer Perfection on your character.
O let me beg you to attend To the kind counsels of a friend!
The die is cast, the deed is done, The cord is fast that makes you one:
Though, if well order'd, I confess I see no bar to happiness.
When I perceive the nat'ral state Of reason in your married mate,
I would consent, in word and deed,
That you, fair Dame, should take the lead;
But then employ your better powers To rule by sweets and not by sours.
Madam, the ancient proverb says, Which words can never duly praise,
That one rich drop of Honey sweet, As an alluring, luscious treat,
Is known to tempt more flies, by far, Than a whole tun of Vinegar.
—Ask with kind words, he'll ne'er deny,
Give winning looks and he'll comply With waken'd sensibility.
If you but smile and never frown He'll shape his wishes to your own:
Nay, symptoms of obedience show, Whether you do obey or no.
Thus blest with temper's cloudless ray
Your morrow will be like to-day.
O let him not perceive you rule, Nor ever treat him like a fool;
Do not, at least to others show, If he be such, you think him so.
O ne'er again delight to tease him, But look as if you wish to please him,
Check notions, that so idle prove, Of Shepherds and Arcadian love:
Your active, well instructed mind, To such vagaries should be blind,
Let not your fancy e'er refine Beyond calm reason's fair design,
But leave to Misses of eighteen The raptures they from Novels glean,
You surely have the means to bless Your life with social happiness;
And O beware you do not spoil Your comforts with domestic broil!”

Mrs. Bumpkin.—
“Doctor, I do admire your plan,
And I'll pursue it—if I can:—
But as so learn'd you seem to be In all domestic policy,
'Tis pity you do not again Assume the matrimonial chain.”

Syntax.—
“Madam, you've touch'd the tender string,
That doth to my remembrance bring
The heavy loss I have sustain'd Of virtues ne'er to be regain'd.
My dearest Dolly was to me What I wish ev'ry wife to be:
And since the darling saint is gone, I feel it sad to be alone;
But still my doubts I cannot smother, Of ever getting such another.”

Mrs. Bumpkin.—
“You have my happiness in view,
And I must feel the same for you.
I have a very pleasing friend
Whom to your thoughts I shall commend;
And, if my judgment does not err, In form and age and character,
Dear Mrs. Hyacinth will prove An object fit for you to love.
She in retirement's peaceful dell Doth in her widow cottage dwell,
Though if her thoughts to me are known,
She wishes to live less alone.
Her mind employs the quiet hours In study, and in nursing flowers,
For, as I hope, you soon will see, She has a taste for Botany;
And her delight as well as glory Is in her gay conservatory.
Nor is this all—for you will find, That with chaste manners is combin'd
A well-form'd and accomplish'd mind.
At all events my friend may call To make his bows at Tulip-Hall;
(For by that name the place is known
Which she is proud to call her own.)
While I its mistress will prepare To give you a kind welcome there:
And much I wish that Heaven may bless
My friends with mutual happiness.
That flowers which sweetest fragrance breathe
May form an Hymeneal wreath,
With fairest hopes your life to crown,
When this fair Dame may be your own.”
—The Doctor promis'd to obey, And in high spirits more than gay,
He joyous kiss'd the lady's hand, And bade her all his soul command.
—Brief was the evening's calm repast:
The time of rest arriv'd at last,
When the sage pass'd its balmy hours
In dreams of Hymen crown'd with flowers.
The morning came when a smart stroke
At chamber-door, the Doctor woke;
And strait, in rather serious mood,
By the bed-side 'Squire Bumpkin stood.
Syntax now rubb'd his eyes, amaz'd, And on the intruding figure gaz'd;
Who lolling on an elbow-chair, Began his errand to declare,
“—To wake you thus may be distressing,
But let me speak while you are dressing.”
Syntax soon shook off his alarms,
Yawn'd wide, and stretching out his arms,
“Speak on,” he said, “my worthy friend,
And I will to your words attend.”

Bumpkin.—
“You must have seen, with half an eye
The kind of animosity,
In greater or in less degree, That reigns between my wife and me:
And as you are a man of science, On whom I have profound reliance,
Tell me the track I should pursue; What to avoid and what to do,
When to controul it would be fit, And when 'twere better to submit:
In short, that this great house may be A scene of greater harmony.
I do not such a polish wear As doth the exterior form prepare,
To rank among the dandy fools, Who are gay fashion's fribbling tools:
But what I do should not provoke Her saucy wit's sarcastic joke,
And, showing off her lively sense, Make others laugh at my expense,
Of which she's sometimes too profuse,
But I think worse than rank abuse;—
For if in that she chose to stir I fancy I could equal her.
But, to my friend, I here declare it,
I've sometimes said I will not bear it.”

Syntax as he his garters tied, Thus with half-open'd eyes, replied,
“You have, all know, a generous heart,
That spurns the unmanly tricks of art;
Nor are you wanting to pursue
What common-sense holds forth to view,
And these short precepts you will find The best directors of your mind;
Nay, be assur'd, they will succeed, To set you right in word and deed.
A sportsman knows 'tis to his cost
Who takes the wrong side of the post:
As on the course, so in life's stake, You must agree to give and take:
To bear and forbear is a rule, A lesson prime, in reason's school.
Try, as you can, your best to please, And, when she that endeavour sees,
I'm sure she will no longer tease.”
“This is good preaching,” Bumpkin said,
“For you well understand your trade.
That it is true must be confest, And, faith I'll try to do my best.”
—He kept his word, and so did she; At breakfast all was pleasantry;
And thus, the gloomy season past,
'Twas hop'd the Halcyon time might last.
When Syntax rose to take his leave,
He said, “this counsel kind receive:
I do prefer it nothing loth; And mind—I give it to you both.
—For trifles ne'er contest the field, But rather struggle who shall yield.
Let but affection bear the sway, And you will struggle to obey:
That feeling ever checks the strife Which tends to poison wedded life.
Call but affection to your aid, And the tongue never will upbraid;
The heart is then a kind of Heaven, Where ev'ry failing is forgiven.
Without it, sad is Hymen's reign, And fortune's smiles are shed in vain:
O let but that the union bless, And the sure boon is happiness.”
The Doctor now his way pursued
Through verdant dale and shady wood,
While he reflected on the scene Of Hymen's joys, where he had been,
And rather doubted if again He should receive the marriage chain.
“Patrick,” he said, “How did you find
The place which we have left behind?
Had you kind hospitable fare, In the domestic regions there?
And were you free and joyous all, In butler's room and servants' hall?”
“Oh, as for those things,” Pat replied,
“Plenty and joy do there reside:
But though I've travell'd kingdoms o'er,
I never heard such things before.
The lady doth a form display But seldom seen in summer's day:
Nor, than 'Squire Bumpkin, doth the sun A finer figure shine upon;
And, in some way, I understood
From morn to night they're doing good.
The poor are never seen to wait In vain attendance at their gate;
Nor pain nor sickness ever feel The want of means to soothe and heal;
While children, ere they run along,
Are taught to know the right from wrong.
—But here, and please you, Sir's the bother,
They're kind to all but one another;
And scarce there passes on a day, But they're engag'd in angry fray,
When, by her woman, I was told, He's heard to growl, and she to scold,
Though, as she said, things might be worse,
For the grey mare's the better horse.
You may explain, Sir, if you please,
Such uncouth odds and ends as these;
But faith, to me it doth belong, To shut my eyes and hold my tongue,
Unless you do the fancy take, By way of joke, to hear Pat speak.”
Thus as they went, a coming storm Did the sky's azure face deform,
Whose menace bade them look around
To where a shelter might be found;
And soon a pleasing cot was seen Amid the hamlet on the green:
The honeysuckle flaunted o'er The porch that stood before the door:
Nor did the ivy fail to crawl, In spreading verdure, o'er the wall:
Away from the world's noisy din, It look'd the seat of peace within.
Thither they did in haste repair And found a smiling welcome there.
All look'd so nice, so clean and warm, Within the comfortable farm,
When she appear'd, the way to show,
Whose household care had made it so.
The Dame with smiles, the Doctor greeted,
Desired his Rev'rence would be seated,
And did, with curtsying grace, prepare The comforts of an easy chair;
Hasten'd his gaiters to untie, And hung them at the fire to dry:
Then humbly hop'd he would receive The entertainment she could give.
“There is a pye in oven baking,
There are hog's puddings of my making,
And no rich 'Squire, throughout the vale, Can give a better cup of ale.”
Nay, Syntax, e'en with well lin'd purse,
Might have gone farther and far'd worse.
“—I here,” he said, “see children four,
Pray, Goody, have you any more?”
“Not yet, Sir, but, as I'm their mother, I hope in time to give another;
Which I, it seems, begin to show, As all who use their eyes may know.”
“Well my good woman,” Syntax said,
“I see one great command obey'd;
With that you piously comply:—
I mean—Increase and Multiply.”
—Himself and the good dame to please,
He took the children on his knees;
Then danc'd the urchins to and fro, And sung as nurses often do.

Song.

“O Sir,” she said, “you are too good
Thus to delight my pretty brood:
Not one of whom I e'er would give
Though the king's crown I should receive:
But, as you have a foot to spare, Will you just rock the cradle there.”
The Doctor was in full content, When he perceiv'd a certain scent,
Which was not like the sweets of spring
That he had just been pleas'd to sing:
But the Muses' dainty noses Are so used to pinks and roses,
That they know not how to tell The nature of a vulgar smell.
“What mischief,” Goody cried, “is brewing!
God bless the child, what is he doing;
And now, indeed, I do perceive, As I must tell you by your leave,
The worm-pills which he takes, good Sir,
Have just begun to make a stir:
But still, I hope, no harm is done.
Come, sweetest babe, beneath the sun!”
And with the child away she run.
Into such laugh the Doctor broke
That made him look as he would choke.
And still, with ridicule at heart, He sung and play'd the nurse's part.
Then lifted up his eyes to Heaven, As if some blessing had been given.
“'Tis thus,” he said, “Affection grows,
And thus the fond deceit bestows:
See what a mother will not do, What will she not, when, to her view,
The fondling in her arms doth rest, Or seeks the fluid from her breast.
'Tis the same glowing sense that burns In father's breast, as he returns
From hardy toil, and doth repay The labour of each passing day,
When on his knees an infant pair Ask by their looks the kiss to share.”
To give that kiss, to feel that glow,
John enter'd with submissive bow,
Nor did he want the smiling grace Of welcome on his ruddy face.
Farmer John.—
“An' please your Rev'rence here we are
Attending on our daily care:
I through my little fields must roam
While Mary governs things at home:
She is a kind industrious wife The blessing of a husband's life;
And she, I doubt not, would agree To speak with same content of me.
We, it is true, must have our cares,
Which mortal man in common shares.
The storm will sometimes blast the field,
And fruit-trees will refuse to yield;
While some incurable disease Does on our flocks and cattle seize:
But then fair plenty comes again, And flocks and herds adorn the plain.
Though whether it be good or ill, We patient bear our maker's will,
Conscious we ought not to repine:
At least that's Mary's way and mine.
Thus time our chequer'd way beguiles,
I never frown, she always smiles;
For Heaven is kind, and, as you see,
Gives us both health and industry:
While it will be our constant care These little bantlings here to rear,
In what our humble state demands, The honest labour of their hands.
That they when our old course is run,
May toil and thrive as we have done.
—And now, I hope you will think fit Of what we've got to pick a bit.
The oven does a pye afford, The ale looks bright upon the board,
The liquor's good and brisk and humming,
And soon the puddings will be coming.
Here is not much to cut and carve, But still I hope we shall not starve;
While I a grateful welcome give To what your kindness may receive.”

“No,” Syntax said, “no never fear, I stand a hungry figure here,
And thank you for your friendly cheer.
Besides your welcome gives that zest Which turns a morsel to a feast;
That feast, my friend, I now enjoy, Which satisfies, but does not cloy:
I'm as well-pleas'd with your bestowing As I shall be where I am going.
To that point where the sun does rise,
From hence my present journey lies:
To-night, Sir Stately Stirrup's guest, I hope at Stirrup-Hall to rest;
For his grave worship condescends To number me among his friends.”
“He may be proud,” said John, “of you,
But what I tell you, Sir, is true, His flock of friends is very few.”
The Farmer now a pipe propos'd, The Doctor on the offer clos'd;
And John who was not prone to balk The fancy which he had to talk,
Continued with his rustic force To paint the Knight in his discourse.
Farmer John.—
“He's a rum codger you must know;
At least we poor folk find him so.
By his grand politics and law He keeps the country round in awe:
He thinks he knows, puff'd up with pride,
Far more than all the world beside;
But when did any body hear, He for distress e'er shed a tear?
Or when did he a shilling give A wife in labour to relieve?
Or when were seen the hungry poor Receiving scraps before his door?
Nor does he think an orphan's blessing
To be a treasure worth possessing;
But warrants, staves, and mastiffs wait
To guard the approaches to his gate.
Yes, all his acts a tyrant shew him To all degrees that are below him;
But let a man of rank go by, He's ready in the dust to lie.
From me the laws ne'er find a breach,
I therefore keep without his reach;
Though if the hills which rise between us
Could from his paws for ever screen us,
O it would be a blessing found By all the grumbling country round!
—You did not know his former wife:
She led the Knight a precious life:
That over-bearing haughty spirit, Which he from nature does inherit,
She, whene'er she pleas'd, kept under,
With look of flame and voice of thunder.
He went abroad, 'tis true, to rule, But home return'd so calm and cool,
That, but excepting form and name,
None would believe the man the same.
Nor has he ever yet denied He bless'd the day on which she died,
And that he thought her fun'ral rite Was not a very mournful sight.
But you must know, as I suppose, For 'tis what all the country knows,
Ere a few months had pass'd away, Old Stirrup-Hall again was gay
With marriage feast; and a young bride
Was seen to grace Sir Stately's side.
She, foolish thing, thought it a gay day
When golden ring made her a Lady;
But though she now precedence takes
Of 'Squires' wives around the lakes;
And though she doth a rank display,
Which time itself can't take away,
Yet she now finds, as 'tis well known,
She scarce can call her soul her own:
And as for gaiety or pleasure 'Tis dealt to her in grudging measure:
Nay, it is thought, as some folks say, Who see and hear her ev'ry day,
That she oft wishes, though in vain, She were Miss Biddiken again.”

Syntax.—
“I find, my friend, that you know more
Than I have ever heard before:
'Tis strange to me a swain like you Can such a scene as this review;
And how it is you thus can pry Into domestic history.”

Farmer John.—
“On market-days, our bus'ness done,
We sit and chat and have our fun;
And while we handle pipe and pot, Our betters, Sir, are not forgot.
We hear the bad as well as good In ev'ry farmer's neighbourhood.
And broach the news with equal bounty,
From ev'ry corner of the County.”

Syntax.—
“Well, honest John, I ask you then,
What do you say of Sommerden?”

Farmer John.—
“Another cup before I speak,
And then I will the freedom take
To say what's in the country said,
Both of your heart and of your head,
Nor fear offence, though I speak true; For good alone is said of you.
—You're call'd a man of deep discerning,
Fit for a Bishop by your learning;
Pious and good, yet very gay, And that you on the fiddle play:
That in the pulpit you're a rare one,
And lay it on, and never spare one:
As for the bad you ne'er defend 'em,
But headlong to the devil send 'em:
Though, as the truth you wish to hear,
And what you preach you need not fear,
Folks say that you are rather queer.”

Syntax.—
“Give me your hand, my honest friend,
To more than this I ne'er pretend:
If it be true, I'm well content Or for my life or monument.
I ask, indeed, no higher praise,
While Heaven may lengthen out my days;
Nor do I wish a better fame, When nought is left me but a name.
Farewell, for the declining sun Tells me, at length, I must be gone.”

—After repeated kind caressing, The Doctor gave the babes a blessing,
And having kiss'd the mother too,
“I feel,” he said, “my thanks are due
For all I have receiv'd from you:
But keep in mind our Village Fair, And who expects to see you there.”
He trotted off, and ere the ray Of parting Phœbus clos'd the day,
He had arriv'd in cleric state, At Stirrup-Hall's old fashion'd gate.
Pat quickly made the bell resound, That echoed all the court around:
Nor was it long before the Knight, In all due form appear'd in sight,
With “Glad to see you, how d'ye do? I take this very kind of you:
And all within my friendly power, You may command at any hour.
—'Tis well known what my life has been,
What my experienc'd mind has seen:
I've wrought my policy so nice, That all come here to ask advice,
And, if your wish is to receive it,
You know who is prepar'd to give it.”
They enter'd—when the talk began, And the long conversation ran,
How the superior, leading, powers
Employ'd or misemploy'd their hours;
Who at the nation's helm preside; What policy our statesmen guide:
That gross corruption sways mankind,
And int'rest base perverts the mind:
How bribes have blinded common sense,
Foil'd reason, truth and eloquence:
That industry the state maintains;
That honest toil and honest gains
Our fathers rais'd to power and fame;
That virtue boldly scoffs at shame,
And all, in selfish ends pursuing, But scramble for the public ruin.
—At length Sir Stately condescends
To talk of neighbours and of friends;
The hist'ry of the County Quorum,
And what nice cases come before 'em;
While from his known superior skill
They all submit them to his will.
“I've heard,” he added, “what has past
Since I beheld your Rev'rence last.
I'm told that you have lost your wife,
Who gave such comfort to your life:
And here, perhaps, you're come to know
My thoughts of what you ought to do:
Whether your grief at once to smother,
You should look round and get another,
Or on one pillow lay your head, And rest you in a widow'd bed:
On that important point, I pray, Hear what Sir Stately has to say.
You well may take my sage advice,
For, Doctor, I've been married twice;
And though to own it I am loth, I've had but bad success with both.
“My first wife—'tis not very civil, But, faith, she was a very devil.
She brought me money, brought me beauty
But not a grain of nuptial duty;
For all she at the altar swore, Did not remain the day-light o'er.
Old Stirrup-Hall she call'd her throne,
And here no master would she own:
Whether with tongue or threat'ning fist, In vain I found it to resist:
At length, indeed, I thought it best, If on my pillow I would rest,
To let fierce Madam have her way
And wield at home the sov'reign sway.
Thus I, who daily dealt out law, And kept the neighbourhood in awe;
Though potent I abroad could roam, Return'd to be a slave at home.
In short to check the daily storm, I to her humours did conform;
And, to close all domestic riot, I held my tongue and liv'd in quiet:
But she contriv'd with such keen art To play the matrimonial part,
That all the country did agree To throw the real blame on me:
Nay, I must own, the truth to tell, Domestic things she manag'd well.
—Were she displeas'd, and we alone,
She would, but in a soften'd tone, Sharply and glibly lay it on.
Yes, would hiss forth in viper's phrase, Fool, upstart, and et ceteras:
But if a creature did appear That could her observations hear
'Twas then my love, my knight, my dear.
Though 'tis long past, my ear still rings,
With her confounded whisperings;
And every fierce and taunting look Are character'd in mem'ry's book.
—Five years and upwards I had been
Beneath this iron-scepter'd queen,
When fate most kindly set me free From her domestic tyranny.
Though I a downcast visage bore, As I my sable trappings wore;
Yet I must honestly confess, So far from feelings of distress,
'Twas with a smiling heart I trod, Behind her bier, the church-yard sod;
And silent thought, with tearless eye, This was a happy obsequy.
But still I've prov'd without disguise,
Experience has not made me wise;
For ere another year was flown, The Church made me and Lucy one,
Whom shortly my good friend will see The mirror of stupidity.
The one so wise was, she must rule, The other is almost a fool,
She, such a cold, unmeaning elf, Thinks not for me, nor for herself,
While I am always on the spur To think both for myself and her.”
“Yes,” Syntax said, ”to me it seems
You've run into the two extremes;
Your mind, I think, had lost its force,
Or you'd have sought the middle course.
Your conduct, Knight, but seems to prove
Reason has nought to do with Love.
Philosophers have said, 'tis true, And it may be applied to you
That Reason fails whene'er the dart
Of am'rous passion stabs the heart,
Or when its secret pulses move To beat time to the tune of love.
'Tis whim, 'tis fancy, or 'tis chance,
That joins us in the wedding dance;
Though some have thought a wayward fate
Commands or shapes the nuptial state:
By others an opinion's given That marriages are made in Heaven;
Though much I fear you'll not agree
In that sublime Philosophy; But 'tis a diff'rent case with me,
Who, from my sense of love's dominion, Declare I join in the opinion,
That wives are known who do combine
Some little spice of the divine; At least that was the case with mine.
Nor my fond hope shall I now smother,
That Syntax self may get another,
Who does those qualities possess Which promise married happiness:
And as I do with candour view, (I do not say 'tis so with you,)
The various causes which perplex The marriage state and Hymen vex,
I think the husband frames the strife In full proportion with the wife.”
“You men of learning,” said the Knight,
“Who in your closets strike a light
On life's so sombre mysteries,
And shape and paint them as you please;—
You classic men, whose fancy gives A colour to whatever lives,
To all our sorrows or our joys, To what delights or what annoys,
Your fine-drawn, your high-flying sense, Disdains our dull experience,
Which measures all things by the square,
And sees things as they clearly are;—
If you my first grand wife had known,
Who, I thank Heaven, is dead and gone,
That she was fit, you would have said,
E'en to have shar'd the Thund'rer's bed,
A Juno she, and it appears
She would have box'd the Thund'rer's ears;—
While, as I speak, you may divine, She had the courage to box mine,
Nor will you think I do deplore That she's box'd up to box no more.
And when you see the gentler grace
That now supplies Ma'am Barbara's place,
With flowers from your poetic tree You'll deck her insipidity,
But still in vain, I think you'll strive To make her tell you she's alive.”
Thus as they talk'd the supper came, And with it the insipid Dame.
“Insipid?” to himself exclaim'd
The Rev'rend Sage, “how falsely nam'd!”
If ever he beheld an eye That beam'd with kindred sympathy;
If e'er a smile on features play'd, That a benignant heart betray'd;
If ever rightly understood, He saw a being fair and good,
He could those charming symptoms trace
In Lucy's manners, Lucy's face.
But amid this superior merit, Which he believ'd she did inherit,
He saw at once an humble spirit.
Nay, now he felt that he must own,
What he had heard from Farmer John;
While in Sir Stately's voice and mien,
Ungracious speech or look of spleen,
Was but too plainly heard and seen.
The Doctor with good-humour'd chat,
And brisk remark on this or that,
Strove from the fair to get a speech, But that was not within his reach;
While all the thoughts he did display, Could only draw a yea or nay,
With humble bend and silent grace,
By which he could no pleasure trace,
With sometimes an uplifted eye, A hectic blush, or gentle sigh.
—The Doctor felt what all would feel
Who could another's thoughts reveal,
And saw that care's corroding dart Was rankling in the virtuous heart;
While over-bearing power sat by, Nor pitied patient misery.
The supper o'er, the Lady gone, (More than content to be alone,)
The Knight began, with bloated pride, Both love and lovers to deride,
And in his warmth, declar'd a wife Seldom improv'd the lot of life:
At least Miss Fortune, in her whim, Had fully prov'd it so to him.
“I've told you, that my former choice Gave me no reason to rejoice,
And the last gift of treach'rous Cupid Is pretty, but she's very stupid.
—O Doctor, Doctor, ne'er again Bind yourself round in marriage chain.
If in love's lottery you have tried And gain'd a prize be satisfied,
Nor hope that fickle Fortune e'er
Will make you twice her favorite care.
—Ask not for beauty, it doth lay Its nets of roses in our way,
When we are led by tint and shape,
Like Zeuxis' birds to peck the grape;
And 'stead of chaste affection's glow, We find, alas, a painted show.
But if you are resolv'd to try Once more a nuptial destiny,
Which my experience bids me say, Is placing you in danger's way
Think not I beg about the charms That waken passion's soft alarms;
But let a fortune and sound sense Determine the pre-eminence.
I know, my friend, that you inherit A portion large of manly spirit.
That you would ne'er be brought to speak
In humble tone of Jerry Sneak;
And so attach'd to learned lore, Of which you have a treasur'd store,
That you would thus describe a wife:—
One who had such a view of life,
Between the vulgar and refin'd, As suits the tenor of your mind;
With manners too of that degree Which blends with Cleric Dignity:
And such a partner could you find You to your fate might be resign'd.
“Nay, now I think, that I know one, Our friend the widow Omicron,
Who may, if I conjecture right, Give to your life a new delight.
She's known for that superior knowledge,
Which would do honour to a college:
Nay in a college she was bred, Of which her father was the Head:
By a learn'd Dean she then was lov'd,
Who a fond, short-liv'd husband prov'd;
But left her, as she haply found,
His books with twice six thousand pound;
And, as her fortune I review, Her house and household chattels too:
By letter I will recommend The Doctor to this female friend.
—Think not my sage that I am prating,
Ovid's Epistles she's translating;
And that pursuit may seem to prove The Lady somehow thinks of love.
Attack her, win her, wear her then, And give new life to Sommerden!”
Thus did the lengthen'd evening pass,
Enliven'd by the cheerful glass:
But, as the Sage retir'd to rest, Fair Lucy's silent charms possest
The fine warm feelings of his breast.
Whether th'inspired Doctor thought Exactly as a Doctor ought,
Or whether fancy 'gan to play, It is not for the Muse to say;
But Pat declares his Master said, As he was stepping into bed,
“If but that loit'ring fellow Death,
Would just now stop Sir Stately's breath,
And set the charming woman free, I'd ask her if she'd marry me.
No, never would I make a stir To rule the house and govern her,
But should rejoice, throughout my life, To yield me up to such a wife;
A crowing cock I should be then, Though daily peck'd by such a hen.”
Thinking on her he heav'd a sigh In sad and pitying sympathy;
And seem'd as if about to weep, Had he not fallen fast asleep.
At early hour the following day Syntax proceeded on his way,
Until they reach'd a shady isle Where all the gen'rous virtues smile,
Those virtues which had long possess'd
A mansion in Ned Easy's breast;
Who here enjoy'd his tranquil lot, By the gay, busy world forgot.
—Ned in his early life was known Through all the purlieus of the town,
And took, 'tis said, no common measure,
Of what the laughing world calls pleasure.
He also had a warrior been, And many a bloody field had seen;
Had pass'd the salt wave o'er and o'er,
And swelter'd on the sultry shore;
Had bravely sought his country's foe In vales of ice, on hills of snow;
True to his country, which he serv'd,
He ne'er from rigid honours swerv'd,
That honour was his brightest aim, Nor has his life e'er lost the name;
But when peace gave the joyous word
To sheath the sharp and blood-stain'd sword,
The soldier laid his trappings by T'enjoy a life of privacy,
And sought the tranquil calm retreat Of his retir'd, paternal seat,
Where, in sweet peace and rural pride,
The 'Squire, his father, liv'd and died.
Here Ned with good, sound common-sense,
Health, mirth and ample competence,
Laughs at the busy world, and all That fashion's votaries pleasure call:
Here all his various wand'rings cease, Here all his labours rest in peace.
His mirth is pure, with harmless wit, Nor is he shy of using it;
And though not bred in learned college,
He has a useful store of knowledge;
While cheerful, bounteous, frank and free, He beams with hospitality.
Good-humour ever seems to cheer him,
And makes all happy who come near him:
His very name will oft beguile A cheerless thought, and cause a smile.
Nay it is true that since he married,
Not one fond hope of his miscarried.
And that is rare, you must agree,
For wives, 'Squire Ned has married three:—
Nor has, as yet, the growing train
Of boys and girls e'er caus'd him pain.
'Twas nine, as the clock struck the hour,
When Syntax reach'd the mansion door.
The swelling hills that rose around
Appear'd with sylvan beauty crown'd;
The lawns display'd a charming scene
Of waving surface cloth'd with green,
While the lake spread its waters clear
With glittering sun-beams here and there;
And many a white, expanding sail Receiv'd the impulse of the gale.
Syntax.—
“O Nature bright! how can it be,
When man beholds thy charms, that he Can be insensible to thee!
Whene'er he casts his upward eye To the vast, blue ethereal sky,
Or turns it to the wond'rous robe That clothes the surface of the globe,
With all the expanse that man can see In boundless rich variety
Of hill and dale, of plain and flood; What by the mind is understood?
'Tis Nature tells of Nature's God!
—But still that animated thrush, Which warbles in the hawthorn bush,
Though by instinct it is he sings, Advances in the scale of things,
'Till reason doth the system close,
From which the World from Chaos rose.
Nay, there's Ned Easy, in his way, Teaching his growing boys to play,
To strike the ball, to guard the wicket, In all the mystery of cricket:
Nor can I gravely blame the plan At times to lay aside the man,
To seize the frolic, lively joy, That turns the man into the boy!”

'Squire Easy soon the Doctor spied,
When he approach'd and smiling cried,
“You as a learned man, I know, Yes, you can tell me where and who;
But surely as my name is Ned, In some old history I have read,
Of a wise people, where the rule,
Whether they were at home or school,
Ne'er did permit their youth to eat 'Till by some grave or active feat
Of mind or body, they had won The privilege to pick their bone.
Who used to place the bread and cheese
On topmost boughs of lofty trees,
Nor ever suffer them to eat it, 'Till down their bows and arrows beat it;
Nor did they get a steak or tart, 'Till it was struck by sling or dart.
Nor will these boys their breakfast see, 'Till by some brisk activity,
Or studied lesson, they're prepar'd To fix their teeth in their reward.
Hunger, by you know whom, 'tis said,
Will break through walls to get its bread,
And here my notion may be right, That this same hunger may incite,
Of learning's loaf to get a bite.
—I, my dear Sir, make no pretence To more than gen'ral common-sense,
Which, as fam'd Pope, the Poet, says, A genius bright of former days,
Is 'mong the kindest gifts of Heaven, And fairly worth the other seven.
When fine folks smile, I never mind it;
I take the world just as I find it,
Yes, yes, with all its odds and ends,
I know no foes, and love my friends;
And among them, it is most true, Doctor, I'm proud to number you.
I'm an odd fish, but, to be free, I'm not the only oddity:
Others there are, or I mistake, Who make folks laugh about the Lake;
Where I remain, all tight and steady:—
But the bell rings, and breakfast's ready;
And sure I am Kate will rejoice,
From her good heart to hear your voice.”
—Indeed her heart is well endued
With feelings that must make it good;
While she is sprightly, gay and free, The flower of warm civility.
“So long,” she said, “the time has been,
Since I beheld your precious chin,
That if I had the heart to scold you,
The house would be too hot to hold you.
But you, my friend, are wont to praise
My Edward's cot and all its ways,
And though some formal folks beshrew it,
You'll find it as you always knew it.”
—Thus lively pleasantry prevail'd, The Doctor's stomach never fail'd;
And though grave thoughts might intervene
At sight of this domestic scene;
Though his remembrance might be cross'd
By thoughts of her whom he had lost;
Yet the mild mirth that persever'd His unresisting spirits cheer'd.
“At present,” Easy said, my Kate
Must on her house and children wait:
But in a busy hour or two She will reserve herself for you,
And try her best to make you stay, Which we request for many a day,
A pleasant scene of grave and gay;
While we will have our friendly talk
Beneath the well-known filbert walk.”
—Within that undisturb'd retreat They sought a solitary seat,
When Easy the discourse began, And thus the conversation ran.
Ned Easy.—
“I have not hinted it before,
But truly I your loss deplore;
For though I'm not by nature taught
To court grave airs or solemn thought,
But rather mirth am prone to deal in,
Yet still, I trust, I have the feeling
In tales of real woe to join, And make the ills of others mine:
Nay, that I'm anxious to relieve
All such as want, and those who grieve:
Though to my friend I freely own Instead of answ'ring moan for moan,
I rather strive to laugh away, The thoughts that on his bosom prey.
—To loss of friends we must submit, 'Tis a wise power that orders it,
And when our joys he takes away, His sov'reign will we must obey:
But who like you these truths can tell,
Who all our duties preach so well?
If weeping would relieve you, why Let tears flow fast from either eye,
But to prevent a friend from dying, Sure laughing is as good as crying.
You've lost your wife—what's to be done!
Why, you may try to live alone:
If that won't do—what doth remain To bring past comforts back again,
But without any fuss or pother, To look about to get another;
And, ere a reas'ning hour is past, To that same plan I'll nail you fast.”

Syntax.—
“But if Sir Stately tells me true,
'Tis the worst thing that I can do,
And now, Friend Easy, what say you?
Full-well you know the Lordly Knight Is fond to think that he is right,
Though from his matrimonial song,
He has been sometimes in the wrong.”

Ned Easy.—
“Wrong do you say? I hate the brute:
He does not with my nature suit.
A brute he must be, who commands Such softness with such iron hands.
Though as I may suppose, you know,
His first wife touch'd him up or so,
A woman of transcendent merit, Who could not bend her lofty spirit
To a vain coxcomb's tyrant whim, Which is so prevalent with him:
For all or nought he made the clatter,
So justice gave the fool the latter:
His boasting counsel throw aside, And take Ned Easy for your guide.
He cannot be compar'd to me,
With his two wives, when I've had three;
Nor shall I the base story smother,
Hen-peck'd by one, he flouts the other:
I do not mean to say he beats her, But like a baby always treats her,
While I, though I have married been So many years, at least sixteen:
Yes, I, with honest heart and hand,
Can now the Dunmow Flitch demand.”

Syntax.—
“Three wives you've had and, as you state,
Have chosen well in ev'ry mate;
Then tell me, friend, how you have done,
That Syntax may chuse such a one:
Whether it be from common sense, Or fruits of sound experience,
Or chance, or happy accident, Your lot is one of such content;
That I may, lest the dames should flout me,
Know how, at least, to look about me.”

Ned Easy.—
“Well then, believe me, I will tell
My honest, nuptial chronicle;
How all my diff'rent courtships thriv'd,
How I made love, and when I wiv'd;
'Tis a request I can't refuse you:— At all events, it will amuse you.
“When I first sheath'd the shining blade,
And thought no more of my cockade,
Having escap'd Bellona's rattle, And all the risques of bloody battle,
With limbs all sound, nor yet a scar
Which sometimes spoils a face in war;
Tho' dangers I ne'er fail'd to dare My eye-brows had not lost a hair,
And as the broad-sword work and lancing,
Had not cut short my grace in dancing,
I 'gan to think what I should prove If Cupid drill'd me into love;
What guard I had against the dart
With which he might attempt my heart;
What store I had of vows and sighs, And all those soft idolatries,
Which wake kind looks in ladies' eyes.
But, while I these attentions paid,
Marg'ret appear'd, a blooming maid,
Who seem'd, I thought, well-pleas'd to hear
All that I whisper'd in her ear.
Egad, I ran at Miss full tilt, But, in a week, she prov'd a Jilt:
I courted with a chaise and pair, Which seem'd at first to please the fair,
But soon the changeling gave me o'er,
For courtship in a coach and four.
“Then Charlotte came, a perfect grace
In outward form, but, on her face
Too oft was seen a scowling look,
Which my calm temper did not brook:
Nay, I had heard her scold her mother,
And seen her cuff her little brother.
She knew how to shew off a charm, In a most fine-turn'd hand and arm,
Which a known sculptor of renown By modelling had made his own,
And us'd to shew it as a piece, That rivall'd the best works of Greece:
But then her fingers she could twist Into a firm and fearful fist,
And much I fear'd, when married, she
Might lay that fine form'd fist on me.

“Maria next my bosom fir'd, And fix'd the love which she inspir'd.
Her auburn locks were seen to break In native ringlets on her neck;
Her smiles did to her face impart The goodness of a tender heart:
In all her steps a grace was seen, With winning words and gentle mien.
Oh, while she liv'd she lovely prov'd And never ceas'd to be belov'd!
—No, she ne'er left me in the lurch, No, all she promis'd in the church
She did with fondest truth fulfil: She studied and obey'd my will;
While her ne'er-failing kindness I Return'd with grateful sympathy.
—These rosy hours, as thus they past,
Were far too blooming long to last:
Too soon she died—and jealous Heaven
Took back the Angel it had given.
“Two years pass'd on when my fond grief
Began from time to find relief:
Indeed I never thought again To wear the Hymeneal chain,
'Till lively Isabel appear'd, Whose pleasant wit my bosom cheer'd,
And there inspir'd a subtle flame,
While her black eye confirm'd the same.
But as our intimacy grew And I the lady better knew,
The gewgaws and the shew of dress Seem'd all her wishes to possess;
Nor could I happiness foresee In her expensive gaiety:
So as I would not be outwitted, I quietly the Lady quitted,
She threw about her lively flams, And scatter'd round her epigrams,
Because Ned Easy would not waste His rents to suit her tonish taste,
But left the Miss, as I'm afraid, To be an antiquated maid,
And to lead apes, O what a shame!
Where I, indeed, should blush to name.
“I next became the favour'd swain Of sober and of gentle Jane,
Whom, with ten thousand pounds, I led
Well pleas'd to share my marriage bed.
She could not boast the pride of beauty,
But then she felt the housewife's duty:
She was, indeed, a darling honey,
Who lov'd me well and sav'd my money;
In ev'ry useful, household care, She bore a more than equal share:—
To scold the servants she was free, But then she never scolded me.
Though she was careful, she was good,
And lov'd by all the neighbourhood:
Though foe to every vain expense, She nourish'd a benevolence
Which aided the industrious poor, And fed the hungry at her door.
At length she bore me children twain;
But which I still relate with pain,
When procreative nature stirr'd Its innate powers to give a third,
She, with the child, her new-born pride
At morning's dawn, ere evening died.
“Now discontent for once possess'd The interregnum of my breast,
And sorrows, scarcely known, increase To trouble my domestic peace:
Hence calm reflection bids me try In Hymen's cord another tie,
To soothe a widow'd father's care
And ease the toil which he must bear.
The widow Harley now I sought, Who was an object as I thought,
Most fit, if not the only one, To fill her place so lately gone;
Who would a tender mother prove To babes whom I so fondly love,
And, with a warm affection, be, A kind and faithful wife to me.
Nay, as she had a little pride, Whose wants her fortune ill supplied,
I thought, when I my hand should proffer,
She'd jump transported at the offer:
But, instead of grateful graces, Smiling looks and warm embraces,
She, on venal interest bent, A rascally attorney sent
To claim a hungry settlement,
With such conditions at the close, That up in arms my passions rose:
When, to return his saucy airs, I sent him, spite of all his prayers,
Four steps at once adown the stairs.
Thus the vile lawyer's head I broke And cast away the Widow's yoke.
“At length the best of girls I chose,
Whom my good friend the Doctor knows,
And knows I'm certain, to admire As all a husband can desire.
Two more fine bairns my Kate has given,
The finest offspring under Heaven:
While she a parent is as good To all the other growing brood,
As their own mother would have been,
Had she remain'd upon the scene.
Nor does she anything to teaze me,
But always, always what will please me.
Whate'er I wish or do prefer, Becomes an instant law to her.
By Jove I swear, it is no joke, To please me she has learn'd to smoke,
And after dinner you will see A smoking trio we shall be
Beneath a spreading beechen-tree:
Where we our mod'rate cups will quaff,
There hear your pleasant tales and laugh—
And o'er the philosophic bowl Let loose the language of the Soul.”
Syntax.—
“'Squire Ned, your Hist'ry makes me feel,
As I must own, an added zeal,
Once more to try my future fate In vent'ring on the marriage state.
Two Widows I have on my list, And cannot you contrive to twist
Into the roll some female friend,
My hopes to feed, my chance to mend?”

Thus as he spoke, the welcome bell
The dining hour was heard to tell:
Mirth and good eating there prevail'd;
No stomach round the table fail'd;
And when with grateful pious zeal,
The Grace had sanctified the meal,
The smoking trio soon was seen Beneath the tree upon the green.
Ned Easy and the Doctor sat With pipe in hand in usual state;
Thoughtless one look'd, the other wise,
With sleepy or with twinkling eyes,
While Ma'am the Aromatics blended,
To gain the scent which she intended,
As she would not her taste disturb With plain Virginia's common herb:
She thought it would be vulgar joking,
T'acquire its perfume by her smoking.
—An iv'ry pipe with silver tip She took within her rosy lip,
And, as she whiff'd her sweet lips moving
Set the exhaling vapour roving:
While o'er her brow it seem'd to wander
In a slow, curling, calm meander,
And 'mid the branches of the tree, Display'd a misty canopy.
For a short time they silent sat, Reflecting on they knew not what;
When 'Squire Ned a glass propos'd,
And thus his friendly thoughts disclos'd.
“His Rev'rence does our counsel crave,
And our best counsel he shall have.
We know that he has lost his wife; And, to renew the happy life
Which his connubial state enjoy'd, His present wishes are employ'd;
And how his loss may be supplied By finding him another bride,
Whose equal virtues may restore The comforts he enjoys no more.
—Among th'unmarried fair we know, And they may be a score or so,
Miss Mary Crotchet strikes my view;
And now, my Cath'rine, what say you?
In all the fine, delightful art,
Whose sounds can raise or melt the heart,
We know full well the Doctor's skill, And that may win her to his will.”
Mrs. Easy.—
“We all admire his manly sense,
His learning and his eloquence,
His pleasant manners and his wit, With such a way of using it;
And I should wish to recommend So rare a husband to my friend:
But all these virtues will not do, 'Tis with his music he must woo;
I know his fiddle will do more Than all his Greek and Latin lore.
No, no, he must make love in score;
Nay, whoe'er wins her, it must be By his deep skill in harmony,
And by the power he has to prove, That Music is the food of Love.
“There's not an instrument they say,
On which Miss Crotchet cannot play,
From the low bag-pipe's dismal hum, To the all-martial kettle-drum:
Nay, in every branch of sound, 'Tis said her knowledge is profound.
For anything that she may want, She asks in a Cathedral Chaunt;
She suits her voice to every key, And can discharge her nose in C.
Though when she lays her music by To mix with gay society,
She's clever, elegant and easy,
With manners that are form'd to please ye.
Now if this scheme you should approve
To forward your designs in love,
Believe me, Sir, I'll not neglect To tell her whom she may expect;
And in the warmest terms commend The virtues of our valued friend:
Though, on reflection, I must own They cannot be to her unknown.
I'm certain, Doctor, there's no danger
That she will treat you as a stranger.”

Syntax.—
“Well, if I do not gain my ends,
It will not be for want of friends,
And I must be completely stupid If I do not find a Cupid
To aid me in the various views Which now my pleasing hopes amuse:
For he's an Urchin that escapes From Cyprian forms to other shapes;
Who, Proteus like, his ends to gain, Can diff'rent characters sustain.
For youth he has the poison'd arrow
That makes a bustle in the marrow,
And to the blood conveys the heat
That makes the am'rous pulses beat;
Which, with soft langour clothes the eyes,
The tongue with vows, the breast with sighs:
But for Miss Crotchet I must find A Cherub of another kind,
Who, when he to his call engages The grave Philosophers and Sages,
His garlands are not made of roses,
Nor does he scatter fragrant posies,
Their beauties with the season's past,
Their fragrance is not made to last,
But on his sober brow is seen The lasting wreaths of ever-green.
Nay, when he wantons in the gay days
Of matrons and of learned ladies,
Another character he bears, And other emblems then he wears.
For stocking blue resigns his bow, And slumbers on a folio.
But in that near approaching hour
When I behold Miss Crotchet's bower,
I must call Cupid, as he chuses To wanton with the lady Muses,
To dip his cup and take his fill Of the clear Heliconian rill;
And, to possess himself of hearts, Play on the dulcimer with darts,
Or inflict all his secret wounds By the soul-soothing pow'r of sounds.
But I've my doubts, I e'en must own, Whether the lady may be won
By any int'rest I may prove With this same treach'rous God of Love.
But should sage Syntax act the fool And feel the shafts of ridicule,
He will, at least, have done no more
Than wiser men have done before;
And when no ill is thought or meant
He'll join the laugh—and be content.
—To-morrow I shall see again The bow'ry scenes of Sommerden,
To pass a grave, reflecting week, Before I my adventures seek;
Re-tune my voice with fara-diddle,
And practise on my welcome fiddle;
I then with spirit shall engage In matrimonial pilgrimage.”

As Syntax finish'd his discourse, A friend was seen to quit his horse,
And soon Bob Single made his bows First to the Lady of the house,
Who as she did those bows receive,
Curtsied in form and took her leave.
Then Easy's hand he warmly squeez'd,
And Syntax by both elbows seiz'd;
Nor did the smiling neighbour fail
To claim the jug that foam'd with ale.
—In lands and woods this 'Squire had clear
At least twelve hundred pounds a year,
And, in a sober state or mellow, Was a good-humour'd jovial fellow:
Nor had he an unsocial name But in the article of game:
And if he prov'd a vengeful foe, It was the poachers found him so:
For, by foul means to catch a hare, To ply a net or lay a snare,
Was, by this rigid sportsman's reason,
Deem'd a dire act of country treason,
Which he with more than vengeance due,
Call'd the law's rigour to pursue,
And punish'd, in his legal rage, With cat-o'-nine tails and the cage.
—In all those noisy loyal greetings
Which are well known at public meetings,
He oft was heard to take the lead,
Was steady too in thought and deed,
Nor did reflection ever balk A fancy for Stentorian talk:
In politics was always hearty, Nor, for a moment, chang'd his party;
All private, petty views disdain'd,
And boldly Freedom's cause maintain'd.
Bob, to the middle age of life, Had made his way without a wife;
Nor ever fail'd, with hackneyed gibe,
To rail against the married tribe,
And in warm language to prefer The happier state of Bachelor.
Thus when he found the nuptial state Had been the subject of debate,
With blunt remark and oft-told story,
Bob Single soon was in his glory;
And with important look, begun To let his captious accents run.
Bob Single.—
“I thank my stars that I am free:
I was not made for slavery!
Pardon me, Doctor, but the Church, Has never got me in its lurch:
I should prefer the hempen string To licence and a wedding ring.
Quiet I love, and that word WIFE Is but another name for strife;
—Our friend, Ned Easy, I allow, Is better for the marriage vow;
For fortune somehow, as a whim, Has work'd a miracle for him.
I'm forc'd to own that prizes three, And rich ones too, I do agree,
He's gain'd in Hymen's lottery.
But this, I think, or friend or foe, He is the bravest man I know;
For when I heard what he was doing,
I thought him running to his ruin;
I cried have mercy on him Heaven, And may his folly be forgiven!
For travel all the kingdom over, From the Isle of Sky to Dover,
The curious journey would be vain, In hope to see the like again.
—I know you'll argue that a nation Exists alone by population:
That I'll acknowledge to be true, Though I could add a word or two
To what is said by state physicians, And niddle-noddle politicians,
I reason but from what I see, That more or less, the stern decree
Of nuptial bonds is misery.
Exceptions, I was taught at school, Are found to rise from ev'ry rule;
But such exceptions, I could prove,
Are rare in Grammar rules of Love.
I'm sure that I could name a score,
Aye more than that, yes, twenty more,
Who in their wives have so miscarried,
They scarce have smil'd since they were married.
—There's Billy Humble will not own
That he detests his bouncing Joan:
How oft that Jerry Sneak appears,
With smiling face and well pull'd ears,
When with soft words and fondling kiss, He talks of matrimonial bliss;
While all, who know the coward, know
He scarce dare look, or speak or go,
But as in form, or mode, or measure,
She pleases to make known her pleasure.
I saw the booby t'other day As he was pacing on his way
To fetch a doctor for his wife, Whose illness might affect her life,
Nay he insisted he should cry For a full week, if she should die;
And on this errand full of love, He went as slow as foot could move.
His long, lank face, by home-bred wars,
Look'd red with scratches and with scars,
Which he with stamm'ring tongue complain'd
From his bad razors were sustain'd:
I laugh'd to hear his barefac'd tales:—
The razors were his spouse's nails.”
The Doctor now impatient grown,
Of all he heard 'bout Jack and Joan;
With grave looks and sarcastic twang,
Thus put a stop to Bob's harangue.

Syntax.—
“I've heard these stories o'er and o'er,
You know it Bob, and many more;
I wish you'd tell us something new, And what is better, something true:
Not this poor cant, so stale, so dull,
That may come forth from any scull.
Excuse me, but it makes me sick, Because I think it is a trick,
That men the marriage state deride Some folly of their own to hide,
When in a wife they have miscarried,
And some low vulgar baggage married;
Some black-ey'd Moll, or rosy Nan,
Some priestess of the dripping-pan,
To whom malicious Cupid gave, Such wond'rous powers to enslave,
That e'en a 'Squire of good estate Could not resist his am'rous fate,
But still afraid that fate to own, And bent to keep the rites unknown,
He bears disguis'd the sturdy bride, To secret vales or some moor-side,
Where he may to his deary go, And none the am'rous parley know.
Then to delude suspicion's eye From looking after mystery,
His blust'ring censure does not fail Against the marriage-state to rail;
Laughs at all husbands, wives abuses, And no occasion e'er refuses
To treat with scorn the wedded vow,
As you, Bob, have been doing now;
Talks all the scandal that he can, Then steals away to Moll or Nan,
In some sly corner to improve The unknown joys of wedded love.
—Such is the zeal I've known to stir An unsuspected bachelor,
'Till some unlook'd for strange event, Or from neglect or accident,
Or the keen, watchful, prying eye Of envious curiosity;
Or the good dame's impatient pride
To draw the cruel veil aside, Which did her real station hide,
Display'd at length the hidden plan
And brought him forth a married man.
A nine days' wonder, it is true, He then appear'd to public view,
Join'd in the laugh, left off his prate Against the matrimonial state,
And now of Benedicts is found The happiest all the country round.
—Thus have I known a cunning hen Leave her domestic, noisy pen,
And seek the covert of a bush Where all was quiet, all was hush,
There lay her eggs, unheard, unseen,
Beneath th'o'er-shadowing foliage green,
'Till in due time the bird appears Cackling aloud her hopes and fears,
Around her chirping, flutt'ring, picking,
A brood of unsuspected chicken;
Thus to the cot, as 'twere by stealth,
Bringing a troop of feather'd wealth.
And who can tell, but, some years hence,
When time has broken down the fence
Of your reluctant awkward shame,
Forth from her covert the fair dame,
Who dares not yet avow her name,
If such an one by chance should be— Excuse my curiosity—
May your long wedded mate appear With little Singles in her rear!
Then bells will ring and music play,
And all your villagers be gay, To celebrate your wedding day.
Full ten years since the deed was done,
When Parson Slyboots made you one.
How I should joy the day to see
When, cur'd of your vain heresy, You should be Hymen's devotee.
I know I've read, but when or where, Needs not at present be my care,
And I am ready to allow Tricks may attend the nuptial vow,
That marriage, as by some profess'd, Is but a money job at best,
That cold compliance may be sold,
That wav'ring hearts may be controul'd—
But love's beyond the price of gold.
And now, my jovial, jeering friend,
Do to these wholesome truths attend!
How great the good were they imprest
On early manhood's glowing breast;
And, spite of you, gay noisy tramplers,
Misses should work them on their samplers.
—Those who true love have ever tried,
(The common cares of life supplied)
No wants endure, no wishes make, But ev'ry real joy partake:
All comfort on themselves depends,
They want not power, nor wealth, nor friends:
Love then hath ev'ry bliss in store,
'Tis friendship, and 'tis something more:
Each other ev'ry wish they give;— Not to know love—is not to live!”

Syntax, now smiling, fill'd his glass,
Then bade the bright decanter pass,
And on the ruby juice intent Gave this congenial sentiment:
“May Hymen with fresh wreaths be crown'd,
And fusty bachelors be drown'd!”
—Bob's visage gloom'd with discontent,
His colour came, his colour went:
Whether it was a fancied joke, Or truth prophetic Syntax spoke,
Old faithful Time would not forbear In its due season to declare;
Cut by Ned Easy it was thought
The net was spread, when Bob was caught,
And that a picture had been shown
Which conscience told him was his own.
“Doctor,” he said, “I must agree, You much too learned are for me;”
Then fill'd the cup with ample measure,
And gave a frown that mark'd displeasure;
Pull'd the bell-rope with all his force,
And bade the servant bring his horse:
But thought invited much to stay, He grumbled No—and went his way.
—Syntax exclaim'd, “O let him pout,
I think that we have found him out:
O what a bursting of the bubble To see Bob Single carry double!
Though now in other view so zealous I warmly hope to hear him tell us,
That life no higher joys can prove
Than those which flow from wedded love.”
In friendly chat the evening pass'd,
Sleep's balmy season came at last;
When Easy said, “Here take my hand,
My heart, you know, you may command:
Such as it is, it ne'er beguiles With flattery's deceitful smiles.
If you return to Keswick's side, With a kind, gracious, pleasing bride,
I shall, with truth unfeign'd, rejoice And loud congratulating voice;
But should your varying suits miscarry,
Should it not be your lot to marry,
And you might sometimes wish to roam From your too solitary home,
Here you will find your friend Ned Easy,
Ready to do his best to please you.”
—Syntax return'd the grasping fist, And with due grace the lady kiss'd,
Then sought the pillow's welcome powers
And slept through night's refreshing hours.
On the next morning, when the sun His daily course began to run,
The Doctor took an early flight, In hopes to see his home at night,
Up to the hill he now ascends, Then to the vale his way he bends,
Enjoys his meal at mid-day hour Beneath a cot's inviting bower
O'ershadowed by the mantling vine, And sweet with flow'rs of eglantine.
Pregnant with matrimonial dreams,
And flatt'ring fancy's thousand schemes,
He had beguil'd his sultry way, When, at the misty close of day,
He reach'd the door he call'd his own, But sigh'd to find himself alone.
Old Marg'ret hop'd that he was come
In health and better spirits home;
With kind attention did dispose Her glasses on her peaked nose,
To see what signs his features bare Of calm contentment or of care,
But the good dame saw nothing there;
No cheerful aspect there was shown, To call forth pleasure on her own.
—She told him all the village news, As in his chair he chose to muse;
While he laid out where he had been,
What he had heard, whom he had seen,
And, wheresoe'er his face appear'd,
The welcomes which his bosom cheer'd.
But now the manor-house was left,
And for some months would be bereft
Of those warm friends who never fail'd
When his free spirits were assail'd,
Since Fate, with Happiness at strife,
Had robb'd him of his darling's life,
To pour, by ev'ry friendly art, The balm of comfort in his heart.
Thus while Madge sought his night's regale,
With soothing pipe and sparkling ale,
“O it will never do!” he said, “The social power must be obey'd;
Such joy to hear a female tone, I'll marry—I'll not live alone:
I'd sooner wed the first I see,
Though old and ugly she should be, Than live in taciturnity.
Nay, ere another week is o'er, I will begin th'important tour,
Nor e'er return, if I have life, 'Till I have found another wife!”