University of Virginia Library

A Familiar Epistle to Doctor Reeve,in London.

From gallant scenes at park and play,
From beaux and belles, for ever gay;

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212

From Covent-Garden rakes and wits,
From crouds of money-loving cits,
And near relations understood
As dearest friends by ties of blood;
Banish'd by Fortune, I retire
(Nor court her smiles, nor dread her ire)
To solemn scenes, which hermits chuse,
To solitude, the friend of muse;
Who never, like a tinsel crony,
Forsakes you for the want of money;
But, thro' the various scenes of life,
Waits on you like a faithful wife,
To sportive schemes of mirth and glee,
Or mourns your fate at Tyburn tree.
No fools I envy their estate,
No titled villain's being great;

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213

But find that calm content can dwell
Within an humble, rural cell.
While you, by inclination hurl'd,
(Excuse the phrase, that rhimes to world)
Attend the busy hum of men,
And live by learned dash of pen;
Wait on the miser for his wealth,
And give him in exchange his health.
But why such study, care, and strife,
To play this idle farce of life?
Since death so soon the scene must close;
That period to all human woes.

Could fleeting youth for ever stay,
And pleasure crown each smiling day;

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214

Could neither want, nor pale disease
(But then indeed you'd lose your fees)
Cast o'er the mind a dismal gloom,
And make us rashly wish a tomb:
Or was there any certain ground,
Where happiness is to be found?
The search, methinks, were not amiss,
To live in settled state of bliss.
But, since all sublunary joys
Prove vain, as giddy children's toys,
No longer let us blame our stars,
Nor wage with Heaven impious wars:
Nor like fond fools ourselves deceive,
And want the means, or pow'r to live;
Since Pope has sung in living lays,
T'enjoy; proclaims our Maker's praise.

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215

Then revel o'er the present hour;
(The only bliss within our pow'r)
Be thankful for the pleasure past,
And neither wish, nor fear the last:
Still bless'd, tho' fortune prove unkind,
If all is right within the mind.

These simple rhimes I did indite,
While I, like miserable Wight,
Was riding on a jaded horse,
On whom the spur had lost its force:
So mounted Pegasus a-stride,
(The poet's phantom of a guide)
And left a melancholy fit
Should in my pericranium sit;

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216

To pass away the tedious time,
This letter jingled into rhime.
But here the muse shall end her work,
For now (thank God) I'm come to York.