The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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To the Reverend Mr. Francis Henery Cary, from the Country.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
142
To the Reverend Mr. Francis Henery Cary, from the Country.
Tho' all Afflictions that ill Fate can send
Against our Peace of Mind their Batt'ery bend,
We have a Refuge if we have a Freind:
Permit me then, if I may dare presume
To think your Breast retains for me a Room;
Who not deserve that Freindship I implore,
But will Endeavour to deserve it more:
Permit me yet to hope your Pitying Ear,
While by my Past I paint my Present Care.
Complaining oft brings the sad Soul Relief,
And is a kind of Sabbath to our Grief.
Against our Peace of Mind their Batt'ery bend,
We have a Refuge if we have a Freind:
Permit me then, if I may dare presume
To think your Breast retains for me a Room;
Who not deserve that Freindship I implore,
But will Endeavour to deserve it more:
Permit me yet to hope your Pitying Ear,
While by my Past I paint my Present Care.
Complaining oft brings the sad Soul Relief,
And is a kind of Sabbath to our Grief.
Young, and not knowing yet my Friendless State,
My Parents dy'd by a too early Fate.
A Mother from me torn as soon as born,
A Father e'er I knew his Loss to mourn.
Industrious, Pious, Frugal still they were;
But 'tis not Prudence, Vertue, Wit, or Care
That always gets a Portion for the Heir.
Mony is still an Antidote to Woe,
For that's a Friend who ever is a Foe.
Nay, which was yet a more unhappy Lot,
The Little I had Learnt was soon forgot:
Not carrying higher; the Foundation liad,
For want of Building, sap'd, and soon decay'd:
So oft in Spring the Hope of Autumn's lost
With early Blites, or nipt with lagging Frost.
But Nature doubly can her Loss repair
In the kind Product of the following Year;
But Learning blasted once no more will bear.
My Youthful Years, alas! will soon be gone,
And Winter (tho' 'tis distant) hastens on:
The Northern Blasts of Age will quickly blow,
My Head, alas! will soon be crown'd with Snow,
Ev'n now it is too late for such a Plant to grow;
Which ought to be well cultivated young,
For Knowledge rooted deep does flourish long;
But when it runs to Cavil and Dispute,
Short is its Date, and Leaves are all its Fruit.
Our SAVIOUR, in the Fig-Trees Doom, does shew
A Curse will fall on Barren Knowledge too.
My Parents dy'd by a too early Fate.
A Mother from me torn as soon as born,
A Father e'er I knew his Loss to mourn.
Industrious, Pious, Frugal still they were;
But 'tis not Prudence, Vertue, Wit, or Care
That always gets a Portion for the Heir.
Mony is still an Antidote to Woe,
For that's a Friend who ever is a Foe.
Nay, which was yet a more unhappy Lot,
The Little I had Learnt was soon forgot:
Not carrying higher; the Foundation liad,
For want of Building, sap'd, and soon decay'd:
So oft in Spring the Hope of Autumn's lost
With early Blites, or nipt with lagging Frost.
But Nature doubly can her Loss repair
In the kind Product of the following Year;
But Learning blasted once no more will bear.
143
And Winter (tho' 'tis distant) hastens on:
The Northern Blasts of Age will quickly blow,
My Head, alas! will soon be crown'd with Snow,
Ev'n now it is too late for such a Plant to grow;
Which ought to be well cultivated young,
For Knowledge rooted deep does flourish long;
But when it runs to Cavil and Dispute,
Short is its Date, and Leaves are all its Fruit.
Our SAVIOUR, in the Fig-Trees Doom, does shew
A Curse will fall on Barren Knowledge too.
Prevented thus, all that my Age might boast
From Youth, had it been better taught, is lost:
Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born,
Which is by YOU with so much Honour worn
As does redeem it from the Atheist's Scorn.
At least some Gainful Study I had made
My Choice, nor been to various Ills betray'd.
Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee,
So Man from Man in his Adversity.
When plung'd in Water, if they see we swim
Some Pitying Hand may pull us to the Brim;
But sunk, tho' all have Skill, not one will Dive,
The Hapless Wretch comes up no more alive:
So when once Low, so tedious are Supplies,
There's scarce a Possibility to rise.
From Youth, had it been better taught, is lost:
Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born,
Which is by YOU with so much Honour worn
As does redeem it from the Atheist's Scorn.
At least some Gainful Study I had made
My Choice, nor been to various Ills betray'd.
Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee,
So Man from Man in his Adversity.
When plung'd in Water, if they see we swim
Some Pitying Hand may pull us to the Brim;
But sunk, tho' all have Skill, not one will Dive,
The Hapless Wretch comes up no more alive:
So when once Low, so tedious are Supplies,
There's scarce a Possibility to rise.
Thus, failing here, to Servitude I ran,
And was a Slave long e'er I reach'd to Man:
A Slave to some whose Curse was being Free,
So lewdly they employ'd their Liberty.
In no one Age Dependance was till now
Us'd so unworthily, or sunk so low.
In vain the Servant takes the utmost Care
To please his Master, waiting, always bare,
Expos'd to Summer Suns and Winter's piercing Air.
He only Contumelious Language gives,
And most to him that patiently receives:
Reproaches, Curses, Scoffs are on him thrown,
And all th'Excuse is—That the Brute's his own;
Tho' wiser Baalam us'd not his so bad;
Wiser than such, tho' duller than his Pad.
Nor is this Usage only at White-Hall
The Servant's Fate—the Vice extends to all,
Up from the Bumkin Gentry to the Earl,
As if, like Dogs, they were but made to snarl.
The Ladies, too, who with their Consorts vye
In all Degrees of Immorality;
(In former Times but Practically so,
But now sheer Atheists in their Notions too;)
These, by their Birth misled, if e'er by Chance
They on a Servant throw a careless Glance,
'Tis with the utmost Pride, like Fiends, ascance
This score they down their Progeny instill,
So Natural 'tis to use Inferiors ill.
As if the Hireling were of Courser Clay,
Brown Earthen Ware, and of right China they:
China indeed, kept only for a Show;
T'others for Use—and GOD wou'd have us so.
But let this Thought upon their Conscience strike,
In the great POTTER's Hand w'are all alike:
In Birth and Wealth, and Power in vain their Trust,
Alike they Die, alike they rot in Dust.
Justice does here not poize the Balance ev'n;
Riches and Honour, tho' the Gifts of Heav'n,
Seem not with equal Distribution giv'n:
When Pow'r does frown, or Insolence prevail,
How light is Vertue in th'unequal Scale!
Another State will make the Myst'ry clear;
Tho' spited, spurn'd, and persecuted here,
The Slave may of the Tyrant have th'Advantage there.
And was a Slave long e'er I reach'd to Man:
A Slave to some whose Curse was being Free,
So lewdly they employ'd their Liberty.
In no one Age Dependance was till now
Us'd so unworthily, or sunk so low.
144
To please his Master, waiting, always bare,
Expos'd to Summer Suns and Winter's piercing Air.
He only Contumelious Language gives,
And most to him that patiently receives:
Reproaches, Curses, Scoffs are on him thrown,
And all th'Excuse is—That the Brute's his own;
Tho' wiser Baalam us'd not his so bad;
Wiser than such, tho' duller than his Pad.
Nor is this Usage only at White-Hall
The Servant's Fate—the Vice extends to all,
Up from the Bumkin Gentry to the Earl,
As if, like Dogs, they were but made to snarl.
The Ladies, too, who with their Consorts vye
In all Degrees of Immorality;
(In former Times but Practically so,
But now sheer Atheists in their Notions too;)
These, by their Birth misled, if e'er by Chance
They on a Servant throw a careless Glance,
'Tis with the utmost Pride, like Fiends, ascance
This score they down their Progeny instill,
So Natural 'tis to use Inferiors ill.
As if the Hireling were of Courser Clay,
Brown Earthen Ware, and of right China they:
China indeed, kept only for a Show;
T'others for Use—and GOD wou'd have us so.
But let this Thought upon their Conscience strike,
In the great POTTER's Hand w'are all alike:
In Birth and Wealth, and Power in vain their Trust,
Alike they Die, alike they rot in Dust.
Justice does here not poize the Balance ev'n;
Riches and Honour, tho' the Gifts of Heav'n,
Seem not with equal Distribution giv'n:
When Pow'r does frown, or Insolence prevail,
How light is Vertue in th'unequal Scale!
145
Tho' spited, spurn'd, and persecuted here,
The Slave may of the Tyrant have th'Advantage there.
On this rough Sea I thrice three Years was tost,
Much Wrong I suffer'd, and much Time was lost:
To other Peoples Wills I only liv'd;
O squander'd Time! and ne'er to be retriev'd!
Yet some cou'd their whole Lives thus wisely spend,
And think not on the Miserable End;
When stript of all, no longer fit to serve,
Old and Diseas'd, they are turn'd off to starve;
A Curse their past Intemperance does deserve:
'Tis then they see no Human State is worse
Than Lordly Vices with a Peasant's Purse.
But the main Coxcomb that my Nature loaths
Is he that struts in old, cast, tawd'ry Cloaths,
And makes up above half his Talk in Oaths.
Set out in all his borrow'd Plumes, alas!
He's but a thred-bare, sawcy, selfish Ass;
To Bitch and Beau a necessary Imp;
For who is a Valet and not a Pimp?
Or if a Country Lord he serves, you hear
Nothing but Rockwood ringing in your Ear;
While with a drawling Tone, and sottish Face,
The Story's always longer than the Chase.
Speak Truth and Sense he knows not what y'are at,
But Dog and Horse are his Eternal Chat.
Bred to the Discipline of Whip and Bell;
The Servile Rakehell French in this Excell,
And we, as Servile, Mimick 'em too well.
Much Wrong I suffer'd, and much Time was lost:
To other Peoples Wills I only liv'd;
O squander'd Time! and ne'er to be retriev'd!
Yet some cou'd their whole Lives thus wisely spend,
And think not on the Miserable End;
When stript of all, no longer fit to serve,
Old and Diseas'd, they are turn'd off to starve;
A Curse their past Intemperance does deserve:
'Tis then they see no Human State is worse
Than Lordly Vices with a Peasant's Purse.
But the main Coxcomb that my Nature loaths
Is he that struts in old, cast, tawd'ry Cloaths,
And makes up above half his Talk in Oaths.
Set out in all his borrow'd Plumes, alas!
He's but a thred-bare, sawcy, selfish Ass;
To Bitch and Beau a necessary Imp;
For who is a Valet and not a Pimp?
Or if a Country Lord he serves, you hear
Nothing but Rockwood ringing in your Ear;
While with a drawling Tone, and sottish Face,
The Story's always longer than the Chase.
Speak Truth and Sense he knows not what y'are at,
But Dog and Horse are his Eternal Chat.
Bred to the Discipline of Whip and Bell;
The Servile Rakehell French in this Excell,
And we, as Servile, Mimick 'em too well.
At last my better Fortune set me Free
To tast the nobler Fruit of Liberty:
But then (which was but just a kinder Fate)
That Liberty was all my whole Estate.
Tho' higher Converse, Nobler Mirth I met,
And ev'ry Cheerful Glass inspiring Wit,
MONEY, the Spring of all, was wanting yet.
Upon that Hinge all human Actions move,
'Tis Peace, 'tis War, 'tis Women, Wine and Love;
And were it only those it yet wou'd do;
But ah! that want is want of Learning too.
How many deathless Monuments of Wit
Are wanting, that wou'd certainly be writ
Were some poor Youths but train'd to their Deserts,
Their Learning equal to their Natu'ral Parts:
Had DORSET not struck up the Spark to Flame,
Prior had never been a deathless Name.
To tast the nobler Fruit of Liberty:
But then (which was but just a kinder Fate)
That Liberty was all my whole Estate.
146
And ev'ry Cheerful Glass inspiring Wit,
MONEY, the Spring of all, was wanting yet.
Upon that Hinge all human Actions move,
'Tis Peace, 'tis War, 'tis Women, Wine and Love;
And were it only those it yet wou'd do;
But ah! that want is want of Learning too.
How many deathless Monuments of Wit
Are wanting, that wou'd certainly be writ
Were some poor Youths but train'd to their Deserts,
Their Learning equal to their Natu'ral Parts:
Had DORSET not struck up the Spark to Flame,
Prior had never been a deathless Name.
Among these Evils Poesie, not least,
Took full Possession of my careless Breast,
And did my Talk, my Thoughts and very Dreams infest;
And as it serv'd old Homer heretofore,
(My Fate like Homer's on no other Score)
Lent me its helping Hand to keep me Poor:
Not but thus far I may my Fortune prize;
I saw the World, and did the World despise,
Its Vices, Folies and its Vanities.
Took full Possession of my careless Breast,
And did my Talk, my Thoughts and very Dreams infest;
And as it serv'd old Homer heretofore,
(My Fate like Homer's on no other Score)
Lent me its helping Hand to keep me Poor:
Not but thus far I may my Fortune prize;
I saw the World, and did the World despise,
Its Vices, Folies and its Vanities.
What a preposte'rous! what a vast Resort
Of either Sex to Park, to Plays, and Court!
Cou'd the Concern of Heav'n our Ladies bring
Thro' so much Dust to Church as to the Ring?
Tho' if their loose Behaviour their you mark,
Th'adjusting, bowing, ogling of the Spark,
Their Liberties can scarce be more at Park.
Then, when some Farce or Ope'ra comes abroad,
(For Plays that mean Instruction they explode)
The crowded Playhouse groans beneath the Load.
Our Poets now steer not by Ancient Rules,
Their Task's not writing just, but pleasing Fools:
In Spite of Horace, Rapin, Rhimer's Laws,
A strain'd unnatural Passion gets Applause:
The Actor, foaming, scarce his Sense retains,
His Froth the Emblem of the Poet's Brains.
Of either Sex to Park, to Plays, and Court!
Cou'd the Concern of Heav'n our Ladies bring
Thro' so much Dust to Church as to the Ring?
Tho' if their loose Behaviour their you mark,
Th'adjusting, bowing, ogling of the Spark,
Their Liberties can scarce be more at Park.
Then, when some Farce or Ope'ra comes abroad,
(For Plays that mean Instruction they explode)
The crowded Playhouse groans beneath the Load.
Our Poets now steer not by Ancient Rules,
Their Task's not writing just, but pleasing Fools:
147
A strain'd unnatural Passion gets Applause:
The Actor, foaming, scarce his Sense retains,
His Froth the Emblem of the Poet's Brains.
The Court we need not mention, ne'er to mend,
When Vice there ceases Time it self must end,
All Promises of Friendship here are lost,
And only Pow'rful Inte'rest rules the Rost.
Flutter and Nice, tho' bubbl'd ev'ry where,
Have yet the Knack to bite the Biter here.
But if some Royal Mistress lead the Dance,
Of bad Extraction here, or worse from France,
Preferment's his that gives the highest Rate,
Tho' the Invete'rate Foe of Church and State.
When Vice there ceases Time it self must end,
All Promises of Friendship here are lost,
And only Pow'rful Inte'rest rules the Rost.
Flutter and Nice, tho' bubbl'd ev'ry where,
Have yet the Knack to bite the Biter here.
But if some Royal Mistress lead the Dance,
Of bad Extraction here, or worse from France,
Preferment's his that gives the highest Rate,
Tho' the Invete'rate Foe of Church and State.
But above all who can the Lawyer bear?
More fatal than a Pestilential Air:
For tho' that does without Distinction seize
Upon all Ages, Orders and Degrees;
Tho' Truth and kneeling Beauty 'twill not spare,
But Saints from Altars, Son from Sire does tear,
It leaves the Land yet to the Legal Heir.
These Greedier Harpies place their whole Delight
In totally confounding Wrong with Right:
The Ruin of whole Families contrive,
And down the Stream of Time th'Injustice drive,
While, by a Cruel and avoidless Fate,
The Unborn Heir is robb'd of his Estate.
How Peace and Truth wou'd on our Issue smile
But for this Curse entail'd upon the Isle!
So strangely is the Pest encreas'd of late,
Our England now may dread th'Egyptian Fate:
Shou'd a poor Country-Man in Term-time stand
One Hour to see 'em shove along the Strand,
He'd swear the Locust had o'er run the Land.
How blest a Fate wou'd groaning Albion find
Cou'd we but have a like Impartial Wind
To sweep 'em hence, e'er Honesty's bereft
Of Bread and Water—all the Fare they've left.
More fatal than a Pestilential Air:
For tho' that does without Distinction seize
Upon all Ages, Orders and Degrees;
Tho' Truth and kneeling Beauty 'twill not spare,
But Saints from Altars, Son from Sire does tear,
It leaves the Land yet to the Legal Heir.
These Greedier Harpies place their whole Delight
In totally confounding Wrong with Right:
The Ruin of whole Families contrive,
And down the Stream of Time th'Injustice drive,
While, by a Cruel and avoidless Fate,
The Unborn Heir is robb'd of his Estate.
How Peace and Truth wou'd on our Issue smile
But for this Curse entail'd upon the Isle!
So strangely is the Pest encreas'd of late,
Our England now may dread th'Egyptian Fate:
Shou'd a poor Country-Man in Term-time stand
One Hour to see 'em shove along the Strand,
He'd swear the Locust had o'er run the Land.
148
Cou'd we but have a like Impartial Wind
To sweep 'em hence, e'er Honesty's bereft
Of Bread and Water—all the Fare they've left.
Thus with strict Eyes I ev'ry Vice survey'd,
And open to the Common Laughter laid:
Tho' plac'd my self but in an humble Sphere,
Yet cou'd I mark Abuses, see, and hear:
Nor did an Ass appear thro' all the Town,
Of Eminence to be in publick shown,
But strait th'impartial Satyr made him known.
The Hero that wou'd start to see a Sword,
The Ass that trusted to a Courtier's Word,
The Courtier that did Pimp to be a Lord;
The Playhouse Strumpet's Murders and Amours,
With all the Lesser Imitating Whores;
On all alike she fixt her stedfast Hate,
Nor spar'd an Atheist tho' he steer'd the State.
And open to the Common Laughter laid:
Tho' plac'd my self but in an humble Sphere,
Yet cou'd I mark Abuses, see, and hear:
Nor did an Ass appear thro' all the Town,
Of Eminence to be in publick shown,
But strait th'impartial Satyr made him known.
The Hero that wou'd start to see a Sword,
The Ass that trusted to a Courtier's Word,
The Courtier that did Pimp to be a Lord;
The Playhouse Strumpet's Murders and Amours,
With all the Lesser Imitating Whores;
On all alike she fixt her stedfast Hate,
Nor spar'd an Atheist tho' he steer'd the State.
But ah! at last I found in vain I writ,
In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit,
No Reformation follow'd; ev'ry Ill
The more decry'd, the more it flourish'd still.
But little Honour they to Vertue give
That say, like Palm, 'twill under Pressure thrive;
Vice does the same; the more we wou'd Repell
Its Poison, like a Toad, the more 'twill swell.
Nothing on Earth's so loathsome, or so Ill,
But Labours to preserve its Being still:
In vain the vile are lasht, and foolish hist,
All things that are their Contraries resist.
Striving to mend I thus provok'd the Age;
Which strait fell on me, furious to engage,
With utmost Scorn and with retorted Rage.
This made me from my Soul abhor the Place
So gone in Error, and so lost to Grace;
And oft petition'd Fate for a Remove
To Country Shades—the Life the Muses love.
In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit,
No Reformation follow'd; ev'ry Ill
The more decry'd, the more it flourish'd still.
But little Honour they to Vertue give
That say, like Palm, 'twill under Pressure thrive;
Vice does the same; the more we wou'd Repell
Its Poison, like a Toad, the more 'twill swell.
Nothing on Earth's so loathsome, or so Ill,
But Labours to preserve its Being still:
In vain the vile are lasht, and foolish hist,
All things that are their Contraries resist.
Striving to mend I thus provok'd the Age;
Which strait fell on me, furious to engage,
With utmost Scorn and with retorted Rage.
149
So gone in Error, and so lost to Grace;
And oft petition'd Fate for a Remove
To Country Shades—the Life the Muses love.
O Heav'n! (I still wou'd cry) incline thine Ear
To a long harrast Wretch's humble Pray'r
Riches I do nor beg, not length of Days,
Which on the Vitals of the Judgment preys;
Let me not languish till my Sense decays:
But long e'er second Childhood does come on
End Life's prepost'rous Journey and begone.
This only grant that (Master of my self)
I first may tast the Country's Ease and Health,
Nor longer in this hated Town abide;
Where Faction, Bigottry, Prophaneness, Pride,
Adult'ry, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found,
And whirl a lewd fantastick endless Round.
In some far distant Village let me live,
A little Income let thy Bounty give,
A little yet enough and not to spare;
For as the Cash encreases, so the Care.
A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall,
Will serve to hold my Drink which shou'd not be too small;
Nor yet so strong as shou'd the Senses steep
In an unwholesome and a Death-like Sleep,
When waking, the loose Epicure (in pains)
Finds Tumults in his Head, and Fire shoot thro' his Veins.
There wou'd I Sport with what the Season yields;
The Woods, the Mountains, Rivers, Dales and Fields,
Cool Shades, and sunny Banks, and Murm'ring Streams,
These with my Maker's Praise, shou'd be my daily Themes.
There Men in their own native Shapes are dress'd,
Nor make, like Apes Humanity a Jest,
As Courtiers do (which Gen'ral Scorn incurrs,)
To day in Silks, to morrow wrapt in Furs.
To France for Fashions, and to France for Air
They go as if they both were Mortal here:
And thence return'd the Bully struts and huffs,
Up to the Shoulders sheath'd, Arms, Gloves and Cuffs,
In Hair Portmanteau Trunks instead of Muffs.
Cool Searge for Summer is the Shepherd's wear,
And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's Air.
Their Hearts ne'er harbour an intended Ill;
So much their Vertue's stronger than their Will.
Stretch'd at their Ease on the green Turf they lie,
And see, secure, the bolted Vengeance fly
That stops th'Ambitious in their full Carreer,
And fills the anxious Hearts of Kings with Care;
While sated with the Glories of a Crown,
They're pain'd with Ease, and rack'd on Beds of Down.
An humble Carriage and an honest Soul
A friendly Gammon and a cheerful Bowl
Y'are sure to meet; their very Hearts they wear
Upon their Faces, as it's Seat were there.
If angry, (as there's none from Passion free)
They'll not dissemble that you may not see,
But soon will let you know it sooner will agree.
Thrice happy! who the Country's Peace does know!
O Innocence! O Sight of Heav'n below!
O Blissful State! And O ye immortal Pow'rs!
Here let me pass my few remaining Hours,
Redeem the Time I've lost, e'er the wide Grave devours.
To a long harrast Wretch's humble Pray'r
Riches I do nor beg, not length of Days,
Which on the Vitals of the Judgment preys;
Let me not languish till my Sense decays:
But long e'er second Childhood does come on
End Life's prepost'rous Journey and begone.
This only grant that (Master of my self)
I first may tast the Country's Ease and Health,
Nor longer in this hated Town abide;
Where Faction, Bigottry, Prophaneness, Pride,
Adult'ry, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found,
And whirl a lewd fantastick endless Round.
In some far distant Village let me live,
A little Income let thy Bounty give,
A little yet enough and not to spare;
For as the Cash encreases, so the Care.
A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall,
Will serve to hold my Drink which shou'd not be too small;
Nor yet so strong as shou'd the Senses steep
In an unwholesome and a Death-like Sleep,
When waking, the loose Epicure (in pains)
Finds Tumults in his Head, and Fire shoot thro' his Veins.
There wou'd I Sport with what the Season yields;
The Woods, the Mountains, Rivers, Dales and Fields,
Cool Shades, and sunny Banks, and Murm'ring Streams,
These with my Maker's Praise, shou'd be my daily Themes.
There Men in their own native Shapes are dress'd,
Nor make, like Apes Humanity a Jest,
150
To day in Silks, to morrow wrapt in Furs.
To France for Fashions, and to France for Air
They go as if they both were Mortal here:
And thence return'd the Bully struts and huffs,
Up to the Shoulders sheath'd, Arms, Gloves and Cuffs,
In Hair Portmanteau Trunks instead of Muffs.
Cool Searge for Summer is the Shepherd's wear,
And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's Air.
Their Hearts ne'er harbour an intended Ill;
So much their Vertue's stronger than their Will.
Stretch'd at their Ease on the green Turf they lie,
And see, secure, the bolted Vengeance fly
That stops th'Ambitious in their full Carreer,
And fills the anxious Hearts of Kings with Care;
While sated with the Glories of a Crown,
They're pain'd with Ease, and rack'd on Beds of Down.
An humble Carriage and an honest Soul
A friendly Gammon and a cheerful Bowl
Y'are sure to meet; their very Hearts they wear
Upon their Faces, as it's Seat were there.
If angry, (as there's none from Passion free)
They'll not dissemble that you may not see,
But soon will let you know it sooner will agree.
Thrice happy! who the Country's Peace does know!
O Innocence! O Sight of Heav'n below!
O Blissful State! And O ye immortal Pow'rs!
Here let me pass my few remaining Hours,
Redeem the Time I've lost, e'er the wide Grave devours.
Not without Tears thus wou'd I oft complain,
Thus wou'd I pray—nor did I pray in vain.
Kind Heav'n at last my Patron's Mind inspir'd
To raise me undeserv'd, and undesir'd:
Nor shall the Grateful Muse forget his Name,
Till Vertue cease to be the Theme of Fame.
You know his Worth, too copious to be penn'd,
The best of Masters, and the fastest Friend!
But Little he of Fame and Honour hears,
If Abingdon has yet not reach'd his Ears;
A Name that thro' the Land does loud rebound,
And shouting Crowds Attendant on the Sound.
His Bounty here has fixt my wand'ring thought,
And without asking gave the thing I sought;
Far from the City, far from Noise and Strife,
An Easy, Frugal, Temperate, Studious Life.
Thus wou'd I pray—nor did I pray in vain.
Kind Heav'n at last my Patron's Mind inspir'd
To raise me undeserv'd, and undesir'd:
151
Till Vertue cease to be the Theme of Fame.
You know his Worth, too copious to be penn'd,
The best of Masters, and the fastest Friend!
But Little he of Fame and Honour hears,
If Abingdon has yet not reach'd his Ears;
A Name that thro' the Land does loud rebound,
And shouting Crowds Attendant on the Sound.
His Bounty here has fixt my wand'ring thought,
And without asking gave the thing I sought;
Far from the City, far from Noise and Strife,
An Easy, Frugal, Temperate, Studious Life.
Now, Sir, You may conclude I thought to find
A Peaceful State adapted to my Mind:
The Country like Arcadia I believ'd!
Ah thus too long I thought! and was too soon deceiv'd!
A Peaceful State adapted to my Mind:
The Country like Arcadia I believ'd!
Ah thus too long I thought! and was too soon deceiv'd!
In vain we toil and labour to be blest,
And with a Swarm of Thoughts our Minds molest,
We grasp but Air when e'er we reach at Rest:
The Slipp'ry Wanton sometimes comes in sight,
But in a Moment mounts and takes her Endless Flight:
And in ascending cries there is no Peace
In City, Country, Waining or Encrease,
Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease.
And with a Swarm of Thoughts our Minds molest,
We grasp but Air when e'er we reach at Rest:
The Slipp'ry Wanton sometimes comes in sight,
But in a Moment mounts and takes her Endless Flight:
And in ascending cries there is no Peace
In City, Country, Waining or Encrease,
Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease.
By sad Experience now I find the Swain
Is worse than Jew, and more a Slave to Gain:
His Dullness all but Politick Disguise,
To trick the Coxcombs that believe they're wise:
Tho' not so smooth and Florid as the Cit
He's ev'ry Inch of him a Rogue as Great.
Our Sodom may have Ten the Town to save;
But here 'tis nothing else but Fool and Knave.
Go where you please, with whom you please converse,
'Tis worse than Wit or Malice can reherse.
The Town, 'tis true, has most Examples shown
Of Vice, because the Seeds are thicker sown;
But let Regard to Quantity be had,
Drop Man for Man and they are here as bad.
Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame;
Before they know the Person, or the Name,
They shall expose and Gibbet up his Fame.
Since a Good Name's so precious, of all Wrongs
The worst is suffe'ring from Malicious Tongues;
A Proof all Mischief ends not with our Breath,
For an Ill Tongue can wound us after Death.
Is worse than Jew, and more a Slave to Gain:
His Dullness all but Politick Disguise,
To trick the Coxcombs that believe they're wise:
Tho' not so smooth and Florid as the Cit
He's ev'ry Inch of him a Rogue as Great.
Our Sodom may have Ten the Town to save;
But here 'tis nothing else but Fool and Knave.
152
'Tis worse than Wit or Malice can reherse.
The Town, 'tis true, has most Examples shown
Of Vice, because the Seeds are thicker sown;
But let Regard to Quantity be had,
Drop Man for Man and they are here as bad.
Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame;
Before they know the Person, or the Name,
They shall expose and Gibbet up his Fame.
Since a Good Name's so precious, of all Wrongs
The worst is suffe'ring from Malicious Tongues;
A Proof all Mischief ends not with our Breath,
For an Ill Tongue can wound us after Death.
Now what Relief? Yes, I Relief may get,
If I cou'd trace th'Examples YOU have set.
Cou'd I like YOU, be Master of my Will,
And wholly stifle ev'ry Thought of Ill;
Be ever studious of the Publick Good,
As ev'ry worthy Free-born Britton shou'd;
Stand fast when Lawless Pow'r and Lust prevail,
And, but for such as YOU, wou'd turn the Scale:
Cou'd I, were I as able in my Store,
With the same Libe'ral Hand relieve the Poor;
Suppress all vain Inordinate Desires,
And clip the Wings of Love's Fantastick Fires;
To Vice be in its softest Form Severe,
And make the vertu'ous Man as much my Care;
Thus cou'd I let my Hours but glide away,
I need not value what the Envious say;
Dauntless I'd stand their Rage and take the Field;
Such Worth were an Impenetrable Shield.
In Town or Country thus y'are still the same;
Nor Envy grins, nor Prejudice does blame,
While unmolested you drive on to Fame.
But Ah! while thus you Teach and thus you Live,
And Practise ev'ry Precept that you give,
I groan beneath my Vices and my Will,
And, blaming others, yet continue Ill.
You swiftly follow in the shining Chase
Of Truth, first at the Goal in ev'ry Race;
Lagging behind my Weakness I deplore,
And wonder how you keep so far before.
If I cou'd trace th'Examples YOU have set.
Cou'd I like YOU, be Master of my Will,
And wholly stifle ev'ry Thought of Ill;
Be ever studious of the Publick Good,
As ev'ry worthy Free-born Britton shou'd;
Stand fast when Lawless Pow'r and Lust prevail,
And, but for such as YOU, wou'd turn the Scale:
Cou'd I, were I as able in my Store,
With the same Libe'ral Hand relieve the Poor;
Suppress all vain Inordinate Desires,
And clip the Wings of Love's Fantastick Fires;
To Vice be in its softest Form Severe,
And make the vertu'ous Man as much my Care;
Thus cou'd I let my Hours but glide away,
I need not value what the Envious say;
Dauntless I'd stand their Rage and take the Field;
Such Worth were an Impenetrable Shield.
In Town or Country thus y'are still the same;
Nor Envy grins, nor Prejudice does blame,
While unmolested you drive on to Fame.
153
And Practise ev'ry Precept that you give,
I groan beneath my Vices and my Will,
And, blaming others, yet continue Ill.
You swiftly follow in the shining Chase
Of Truth, first at the Goal in ev'ry Race;
Lagging behind my Weakness I deplore,
And wonder how you keep so far before.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |