The Works of Hildebrand Jacob ... Containing Poems on Various Subjects, and Occasions; With the Fatal Constancy, a Tragedy; and Several Pieces in Prose. The Greatest Part Never Before Publish'd |
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| VIII. | EPISTLE VIII.
To ------ |
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 | The Works of Hildebrand Jacob |  |
122
EPISTLE VIII. To ------
After receiving a Present of Wine.
Pamper your Steed with Oats and Beans,
The Creature guesses strait it means,
That for some Journey you prepare,
And neighs aloud, and snuffs the Air.
The Creature guesses strait it means,
That for some Journey you prepare,
And neighs aloud, and snuffs the Air.
Or take your Gun in Hand, and say,
Hy to the Woods! and cunning Tray
Will wag his Tail, and know your Heart,
Spite of the Doctrine of Des Carte,
Who writes, that barking nothing means,
And that all Beasts are mere Machines.
Hy to the Woods! and cunning Tray
Will wag his Tail, and know your Heart,
Spite of the Doctrine of Des Carte,
Who writes, that barking nothing means,
And that all Beasts are mere Machines.
As shrewdly, Friend, did I divine,
When Tom, your Butler, brought the Wine,
You meant it, to inrich my Brain,
And take it out in Rhimes again.
When Tom, your Butler, brought the Wine,
123
And take it out in Rhimes again.
Unless to mend her Milk, who leads
His Straw-fed Cow to flow'ry Meads,
Or fattens her, when old, with Clover,
But hopes, to sell her to the Drover?
His Straw-fed Cow to flow'ry Meads,
Or fattens her, when old, with Clover,
But hopes, to sell her to the Drover?
Nought in this Age is done for Nought:
E'en Votes, like Verses, now are bought;
Honour, and Freedom may be sold,
And Ilia be had for Gold.
E'en Votes, like Verses, now are bought;
Honour, and Freedom may be sold,
And Ilia be had for Gold.
'Tis just, good Friend, you have your Will:
The Chymist sure may use his Still.
Evaporated, not refin'd,
Thro' the Alembic of the Mind,
Behold your Drink!—nay, never curse!
My own dull Port had turn'd out worse.
The Chymist sure may use his Still.
Evaporated, not refin'd,
Thro' the Alembic of the Mind,
Behold your Drink!—nay, never curse!
My own dull Port had turn'd out worse.
| The Works of Hildebrand Jacob | |