 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
191
To the Same.
While You, my dear, sit moap'd in College,
And lose your Wit in search of Knowledge,
Restrain'd by Tutors, aw'd by Doctors,
And watch'd by supercilious Proctors;
I make the present Day my own,
And Dedicate it to the Town:
As how? why thus; here's just a Piece
And this is all, my Pleasure's Price;
With this I'll get politely drunk,
With this I'll get some courtly Punk,
Not one of your damn'd common Whores,
That ply it at your Merchant's Doors;
But one, ay, such a one! so fine!
You Bards would call her some Divine—
Some—but a Rapture here encroaches,
Time spends—you Captain of the Coaches!
Here Master—where? why to the Rose,
(A Place that every Body knows.)
And lose your Wit in search of Knowledge,
Restrain'd by Tutors, aw'd by Doctors,
And watch'd by supercilious Proctors;
I make the present Day my own,
And Dedicate it to the Town:
As how? why thus; here's just a Piece
And this is all, my Pleasure's Price;
With this I'll get politely drunk,
With this I'll get some courtly Punk,
Not one of your damn'd common Whores,
That ply it at your Merchant's Doors;
But one, ay, such a one! so fine!
You Bards would call her some Divine—
192
Time spends—you Captain of the Coaches!
Here Master—where? why to the Rose,
(A Place that every Body knows.)
But now we've got a Moment's Talk,
As Folks tell Stories as they walk;
For once I'll be as dull and sober,
As if I 'ad guzzled fat October.
As Folks tell Stories as they walk;
For once I'll be as dull and sober,
As if I 'ad guzzled fat October.
I know now You, and Twenty more,
If once Poetically—Poor;
Would sit and frown, be hip'd, and snivel,
And curse your Fortune to the Devil;
Whilst I, all Gay, and Debonair,
Till, I must feel, would nothing fear.
Riches are Joys indeed—I want 'em,
And I'll thank Fortune if she'll grant 'em;
If not—why I'm the richer still—
No, no, you mean the poorer Will—
The richer, Sir, I say again,
And thus the Matter I'll explain.
If once Poetically—Poor;
Would sit and frown, be hip'd, and snivel,
And curse your Fortune to the Devil;
Whilst I, all Gay, and Debonair,
Till, I must feel, would nothing fear.
Riches are Joys indeed—I want 'em,
And I'll thank Fortune if she'll grant 'em;
If not—why I'm the richer still—
No, no, you mean the poorer Will—
193
And thus the Matter I'll explain.
Those Mortals, happy, you'll allow,
Who nothing Borrow, nothing Owe?
But search the World; and if you can
In Town, or Country, find that Man,
To your Opinion I'll descend,
If not, I hope, you'll hear your Friend.
Who nothing Borrow, nothing Owe?
But search the World; and if you can
In Town, or Country, find that Man,
To your Opinion I'll descend,
If not, I hope, you'll hear your Friend.
Well, for that's nearest, go to Court,
Begin your Search, I wish you Sport:
His Honour, Lordship, and His Grace,
All mighty Men! in mighty Place!
But how are all those Honour's gain'd?
Those mighty Places, how obtain'd?
How? why by Interest, and Favour,
Then let me Note, Sir, by your Leave here;
Those Dignities 'tis plainly shown,
Are but Another's, not their Own;
Soon got, they may as soon be lost,
While Whim, and Fancy rule the Roast;
And very plainly, by the bye,
Belong as much to You, or I.
Begin your Search, I wish you Sport:
His Honour, Lordship, and His Grace,
All mighty Men! in mighty Place!
But how are all those Honour's gain'd?
Those mighty Places, how obtain'd?
How? why by Interest, and Favour,
Then let me Note, Sir, by your Leave here;
Those Dignities 'tis plainly shown,
Are but Another's, not their Own;
194
While Whim, and Fancy rule the Roast;
And very plainly, by the bye,
Belong as much to You, or I.
But if they're bob'd by Church or State,
You say they've got a great Estate:
A great Estate! by whom? or how?
Lord, Sir! your're too inquis'tive now—
Job's Father's dead, he's eldest Son,
Just come to Age, so All's his own;
What would you more? but lend your Ear,
And in a Moment you shall hear;
Your 'Squire has Wealth, and therefore Parts!
Is great at Court, deep vers'd in Arts:
Yet whilst his Stock of Wealth and Sense,
Is due to Men, or Providence,
He lives!—but on another's Pence!
And while he grows the richer, yet
He only runs the more in Debt,
Hence Logically I could show,
The more we Have, the more we Owe;
But Time's too precious thus to spend,
And see we're at our Journey's End—
Here, O delicious! take the Glass—
O fill it higher! name the Lass—
Now make a Fool, as Tale shall bless us,
Of Aristotle, and of Crœsus.
You say they've got a great Estate:
A great Estate! by whom? or how?
Lord, Sir! your're too inquis'tive now—
Job's Father's dead, he's eldest Son,
Just come to Age, so All's his own;
What would you more? but lend your Ear,
And in a Moment you shall hear;
Your 'Squire has Wealth, and therefore Parts!
Is great at Court, deep vers'd in Arts:
Yet whilst his Stock of Wealth and Sense,
Is due to Men, or Providence,
He lives!—but on another's Pence!
And while he grows the richer, yet
He only runs the more in Debt,
195
The more we Have, the more we Owe;
But Time's too precious thus to spend,
And see we're at our Journey's End—
Here, O delicious! take the Glass—
O fill it higher! name the Lass—
Now make a Fool, as Tale shall bless us,
Of Aristotle, and of Crœsus.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |