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 Mr. Lowin, from the Country.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
To Mr. Lowin, from the Country.
Horace does tell us, in this Human State
There's not a Man contented with his Fate:
Like Crassus Rich, he something else requires,
Like Cæsar Glorious, yet he still aspires,
And there's no fixing of his wild Desires.
But as to General Rules there still will be
Exceptions, so in this Great Truth we see
The bold Assertion does not reach to Thee:
Thy Station to thy Temper is so true,
You neither seek, or Hope, or Wish a New.
There's not a Man contented with his Fate:
Like Crassus Rich, he something else requires,
Like Cæsar Glorious, yet he still aspires,
And there's no fixing of his wild Desires.
But as to General Rules there still will be
Exceptions, so in this Great Truth we see
The bold Assertion does not reach to Thee:
Thy Station to thy Temper is so true,
You neither seek, or Hope, or Wish a New.
Attendance Cowley thinks a barbarous Fate,
And vilest we can wish the Man we hate:
Had he (O Friend!) been Intimate with Thee,
Tho' more than Life he valu'd Libertie,
He wou'd have own'd himself not half so Free.
He inly griev'd to see the loose and vain
The only Favorites of Fortune's Train.
'Tis said by some 'twas but his Muse repin'd,
But what's the Muse in Poets but the Mind?
'Tis true, he begs not an abundant Store,
But yet he cou'd not relish being Poor.
When a loose prosp'rous Knave or Fool I see
Grown proud by Wealth, I bless my Povertie;
For Riches might have made me worse than He.
Doubtless the Man does ill his Peace regard
That thinks his Merit meets not due Reward:
The World to him does but a Wild appear,
And he thinks only Brutes Inhabit there;
And all because a Coxcomb better lives,
Or with a vast Estate too Little gives.
Poorness of Spirit! 'tis the Noblest Mind
That will be least beholden to his Kind;
Or if he must, to Gratitude be true,
And own the Gift, not claim it as his Due.
'Tis true the Wealthy shou'd supply the Poor,
And only for that Reason they have more;
But what Man can command another's Store?
The Wretch then that does boast of Libertie
And yet Repines is more confin'd than Thee
For the Contented Man is only free.
And vilest we can wish the Man we hate:
Had he (O Friend!) been Intimate with Thee,
Tho' more than Life he valu'd Libertie,
He wou'd have own'd himself not half so Free.
He inly griev'd to see the loose and vain
The only Favorites of Fortune's Train.
'Tis said by some 'twas but his Muse repin'd,
But what's the Muse in Poets but the Mind?
'Tis true, he begs not an abundant Store,
But yet he cou'd not relish being Poor.
154
Grown proud by Wealth, I bless my Povertie;
For Riches might have made me worse than He.
Doubtless the Man does ill his Peace regard
That thinks his Merit meets not due Reward:
The World to him does but a Wild appear,
And he thinks only Brutes Inhabit there;
And all because a Coxcomb better lives,
Or with a vast Estate too Little gives.
Poorness of Spirit! 'tis the Noblest Mind
That will be least beholden to his Kind;
Or if he must, to Gratitude be true,
And own the Gift, not claim it as his Due.
'Tis true the Wealthy shou'd supply the Poor,
And only for that Reason they have more;
But what Man can command another's Store?
The Wretch then that does boast of Libertie
And yet Repines is more confin'd than Thee
For the Contented Man is only free.
What can the Freedom of this Life afford
Not thine in thy Dependance on thy Lord?
Whether 'tis Plenty, Converse, Wine and Ease,
And, which I name not, softer Joys than these.
Or if it must the Term of Slav'ery have,
What wou'd the Man that's free give to be such a Slave?
When DORSET's nam'd we all wou'd Servants be,
Few Masters then but wou'd Exchange with Thee.
DORSET! whom Envy does not dare to blame,
His Love Preferment; and his Praise is Fame.
O happy Station! at a Meal more Wit
You hear than is in Modern Laureats writ:
Lightsome as Mirth! and soft as young Desire!
It charms like Beauty! and it warms like Fire!
So bright!—in vain I wou'd describe the rest,
For 'twere not Wit if 'tis by me exprest.
DORSET! whose Name's as deep in Fame enroll'd
As Great Mæcenas by the Bards of Old,
But HIM we only as a Patron view;
THIS does reward us and instruct us too:
But for those Poets THAT had ne'er been known,
HE in their Works Immortal, THIS, Immortal in his OWN.
And as his Verse does all the Bards out do,
So does his Charity the Gownmen's too:
They give in Dribs; he, op'ning wide his Store,
With a full Hand astonishes the Poor.
Then, when w'are blest with his Society,
With how much Ease he lays his Greatness by!
The Peer is lost; he changes Face and Mien,
And only Friendship fills the Nobler Scene!
Not thine in thy Dependance on thy Lord?
Whether 'tis Plenty, Converse, Wine and Ease,
And, which I name not, softer Joys than these.
Or if it must the Term of Slav'ery have,
What wou'd the Man that's free give to be such a Slave?
When DORSET's nam'd we all wou'd Servants be,
Few Masters then but wou'd Exchange with Thee.
DORSET! whom Envy does not dare to blame,
His Love Preferment; and his Praise is Fame.
O happy Station! at a Meal more Wit
You hear than is in Modern Laureats writ:
Lightsome as Mirth! and soft as young Desire!
It charms like Beauty! and it warms like Fire!
So bright!—in vain I wou'd describe the rest,
For 'twere not Wit if 'tis by me exprest.
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As Great Mæcenas by the Bards of Old,
But HIM we only as a Patron view;
THIS does reward us and instruct us too:
But for those Poets THAT had ne'er been known,
HE in their Works Immortal, THIS, Immortal in his OWN.
And as his Verse does all the Bards out do,
So does his Charity the Gownmen's too:
They give in Dribs; he, op'ning wide his Store,
With a full Hand astonishes the Poor.
Then, when w'are blest with his Society,
With how much Ease he lays his Greatness by!
The Peer is lost; he changes Face and Mien,
And only Friendship fills the Nobler Scene!
Happy art Thou that, to this Worthy near,
His Action's see'st and his Discourse dost hear;
From thence You must above the Level rise,
And by Necessity be Brave and Wise.
I, curst by Fate, to disappointments doom'd,
Proposte'rously have all my Life consum'd:
I've nothing got, and worse, I nothing know!
And all the Helps I have Receiv'd I owe.
My Friends have for me many Favours done,
I ne'er was able to return 'em One,
Unless 'twere in this vain Poetick Way;
'Twas less to lose the Debt than take the Pay.
Then Truth and Wit and Friendship here are scarce,
The Natives of a Make, and Mold so base,
They're one Remove worse than the Brutal Race.
Yet I repine not, but the Storm abide;
With Patience stem the rough unpitying Tyde,
And Live—where Nothing else cou'd live beside!
Yet tho' I grieve not, yet, believe me Friend,
I shou'd be very glad my Case wou'd mend:
I'm not so Wedded here, but I cou'd part
From Knaves and Fools without a breaking Heart:
Or if among 'em 'tis my Fate to stay,
My Life shall yet wear easily away;
At least I'll daily beg of Heav'n it may.
His Action's see'st and his Discourse dost hear;
From thence You must above the Level rise,
And by Necessity be Brave and Wise.
I, curst by Fate, to disappointments doom'd,
Proposte'rously have all my Life consum'd:
I've nothing got, and worse, I nothing know!
And all the Helps I have Receiv'd I owe.
My Friends have for me many Favours done,
I ne'er was able to return 'em One,
Unless 'twere in this vain Poetick Way;
'Twas less to lose the Debt than take the Pay.
Then Truth and Wit and Friendship here are scarce,
The Natives of a Make, and Mold so base,
They're one Remove worse than the Brutal Race.
Yet I repine not, but the Storm abide;
With Patience stem the rough unpitying Tyde,
And Live—where Nothing else cou'd live beside!
Yet tho' I grieve not, yet, believe me Friend,
I shou'd be very glad my Case wou'd mend:
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From Knaves and Fools without a breaking Heart:
Or if among 'em 'tis my Fate to stay,
My Life shall yet wear easily away;
At least I'll daily beg of Heav'n it may.
Happy the Man that, free from Want and Strife,
Does smoothly glide along the Stream of Life;
Whose Conscience, free, no Op'iate e'er requires,
And by his Fortune bounds his Wise Desires:
If in the Court thou canst this Garment wear,
Thou wilt not be the meanest Figure there.
Next happy He! that with a Soul resign'd
Can bear the Crosses laid on Humankind;
Who, tho' unfortunate, can honest be,
And Happier Men without Repining See;
If ought on Earth be happier than Contented Povertie.
O Friend! if in my Cell I this can do,
Tho' I may Lodge much worse, I'll Sleep as well as You.
Does smoothly glide along the Stream of Life;
Whose Conscience, free, no Op'iate e'er requires,
And by his Fortune bounds his Wise Desires:
If in the Court thou canst this Garment wear,
Thou wilt not be the meanest Figure there.
Next happy He! that with a Soul resign'd
Can bear the Crosses laid on Humankind;
Who, tho' unfortunate, can honest be,
And Happier Men without Repining See;
If ought on Earth be happier than Contented Povertie.
O Friend! if in my Cell I this can do,
Tho' I may Lodge much worse, I'll Sleep as well as You.
Unto the Servant that is Wise shall he that is Free do Service.
Eccles. 10th. 25th.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |