The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq In two volumes. With Decorations. The fourth edition |
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| To a FRIEND. |
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 | The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq |  |
To a FRIEND.
Have you ne'er seen, my gentle squire,The humours of your kitchen fire?
Says Ned to Sal, “I lead a spade,
Why don't ye play?—the girl's afraid—
Play something—any thing—but play—
'Tis but to pass the time away—
Phoo—how she stands—biting her nails—
As tho' she play'd for half her vails—
Sorting her cards, hagling and picking—
We play for nothing, do us, chicken?—
That card will do—'blood never doubt it,
It's not worth while to think about it.”
Why don't ye play?—the girl's afraid—
Play something—any thing—but play—
'Tis but to pass the time away—
Phoo—how she stands—biting her nails—
As tho' she play'd for half her vails—
Sorting her cards, hagling and picking—
We play for nothing, do us, chicken?—
That card will do—'blood never doubt it,
It's not worth while to think about it.”
Sal thought, and thought, and miss'd her aim,
And Ned, ne'er studying, won the game.
And Ned, ne'er studying, won the game.
Methinks, old friend, 'tis wond'rous true,
That verse is but a game at loo.
While many a bard, that shews so clearly
He writes for his amusement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil;
And play for nothing, all the while:
Or praise at most; for wreaths of yore
Ne'er signify'd a farthing more:
'Till having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He sees your flying pen obtain it.
That verse is but a game at loo.
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He writes for his amusement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil;
And play for nothing, all the while:
Or praise at most; for wreaths of yore
Ne'er signify'd a farthing more:
'Till having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He sees your flying pen obtain it.
Thro' fragrant scenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phoebus loves:
Where with strange heats his bosom glows,
And mystic flames the God bestows.
You now none other flame require,
Than a good blazing parlour fire;
Write verses—to defy the scorners,
In shit-houses and chimney-corners.
And hallow'd haunts that Phoebus loves:
Where with strange heats his bosom glows,
And mystic flames the God bestows.
You now none other flame require,
Than a good blazing parlour fire;
Write verses—to defy the scorners,
In shit-houses and chimney-corners.
Sal found her deep-laid schemes were vain—
The cards are cut—come deal again—
No good comes on it when one lingers—
I'll play the cards come next my fingers—
Fortune could never let Ned loo her,
When she had left it wholly to her.
The cards are cut—come deal again—
No good comes on it when one lingers—
I'll play the cards come next my fingers—
Fortune could never let Ned loo her,
When she had left it wholly to her.
Well, now who wins?—why, still the same—
For Sal has lost another game.
For Sal has lost another game.
“I've done; (she mutter'd) I was saying,
It did not argufy my playing.
Some folks will win, they cannot chuse,
But think or not think—some must lose.
I may have won a game or so—
But then it was an age ago—
It ne'er will be my lot again—
I won it of a baby then—
Give me an ace of trumps and see,
Our Ned will beat me with a three.
'Tis all by luck that things are carry'd—
He'll suffer for it, when he's marry'd.”
Thus Sal, with tears in either eye;
It did not argufy my playing.
Some folks will win, they cannot chuse,
But think or not think—some must lose.
I may have won a game or so—
But then it was an age ago—
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I won it of a baby then—
Give me an ace of trumps and see,
Our Ned will beat me with a three.
'Tis all by luck that things are carry'd—
He'll suffer for it, when he's marry'd.”
While victor Ned sate titt'ring by.
Thus I, long envying your success,
And bent to write, and study less,
Sate down, and scribbled in a trice,
Just what you see—and you despise.
You, who can frame a tuneful song,
And hum it as you ride along;
And, trotting on the king's high-way,
Snatch from the hedge a sprig of bay;
Accept this verse, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in prose.
What is this wreath, so green! so fair!
Which many wish, and few must wear?
Which some men's indolence can gain,
And some men's vigils ne'er obtain?
For what must Sal or poet sue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you?
For luck in verse, for luck at loo?
Ah no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And Ned, thro' skill, secures the game.
| The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq | |