A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes

Young man, I will approve your notions,
And wholly am at your devotions.
I hate your sour, canting rascals,
That talk of Ember-weeks and Pascals;
Black villains, who desire to wean us,
From Bacchus' pleasures, and from Venus',
To gain themselves a larger share,
And fob us off with fast and prayer:
And tell us none to Elysium go,
Who do not plague themselves below.
Can mis'ry raise the grateful heart,
Or tuneful songs of praise impart?

The great Creator's work we view
And trace it out by Wisdow's clue;
Nothing is good but what is true.

245

With cautious and with thankful eye
We scan the great variety:
Each good within our reach we taste,
And call our neighbour to the feast.
Our souls do gen'rously disown
All pleasure that's confin'd to one;
The only rational employment
Is, to receive and give emjoyment:
To ev'ry pleasure we attend,
Not to enjoy is to offend.

But still, amidst the various crowd
Of goods, that call with voices loud,
Our nat'ral genius, education,
Parents, companions, or our station,
Direct us to some single choice,
In which we chiefly must rejoice.

Pleasures are ladies—some we court
To pass away an hour in sport:
We like them all for this or that,
For silence some, and some for chat;
For ev'ry one, as Cowley sings,
Or arrows yields, or bows, or strings.
But, after all this rambling life,
Each man must have his proper wife.
You know my meaning—some one good,
Felt, heard, or seen, or understood,
Will captivate the heart's affection,
And bring the rest into subjection.

246

Pray mind the tenor of my song;
It holds together, tho' 'tis long.

You've made an early choice, and wise one;
The best I know within th'horizon.
My lady Law is rich and handsome:
May she be worth you a king's ransom!
But I must tell you, (you'll excuse
My friendly, tho' plain dealing Muse)
In her own hands is all her dower;
There's not a groat within your power;
And yet you're whoring with the Nine;
With them you breakfast, sup and dine,
With them you spend your days and nights—
Is't fitting she shou'd bear such slights?
Beggarly, ballad-singing carrions,
Can they advance you to the barons?
You've made me too an old Tom Dingle,
And I, forsooth, must try to jingle.

Your lady wou'd not do you wrong;
She owns you're tender yet, and young—
She'd wink at now and then a song:
But still expects to share the time,
Which now is all bestow'd on rhime.
Read in the morning Hobbes de Homine,
At noon, e'en sport with your Melpomene.

Youngster, I've something more to say,
To wean you from this itch of play.

247

In his Officiis old Marc Tully,
'Mongst certain points he handles fully,
(A book I ever must delight in
Far beyond all that since is written!)—
He tells us there, our parents' praise
Their children's virtue ought to raise:
Their worth and praise shou'd prick us on
To labour after like renown.

Who but thy father has been able,
Since Hercules, to cleanse a stable?
About his ears how strange a rattle!
Who ever stood so tough a battle?
H' has tam'd the most unruly cattle.—
Just two such jobbs as yet remain
To be dispatch'd by you and B---.
Your father with Herculean club
The tyrants of our souls did drub;
B--- for our bodies, you our chattels,
Must undertake the self-same battles.
The world on you have fix'd their eyes,
'Tis you must quell these tyrannies:
So shall some title, now unknown,
Bangorian-like your labours crown.
Ravish'd, methinks, in thought I see
The universal liberty.

But after all, I know what's in you:
You'll do't, a thousand to one guinea.

248

Time flies—the work and pleasure's great;
Begin, before it grows too late.
Where the plays stand the statutes lodge;
And dance not, 'till you dance a judge;
Then, tho' you are not half so taper,
My Lord, you'll cut a higher caper.

University of Virginia Library

To Mr. J. H. at the Temple, occasioned by a Translation of an Epistle of Horace. 1730.

By the Rev. Mr. S---, of Magdalen College, Oxford.