A Sick-Bed Soliloquy to An Empty Purse In Latin and English Verse. Most humbly Submitted and Inscribed to the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair. To which is added A Curse upon Punch; In Imitation of The third Epode of Horace: Addressed to the Right Honourable Thomas Lord Visc. Kilmory. By Mr. Mitchell |
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 | A Sick-Bed Soliloquy to An Empty Purse |  |
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Quantum mutatus ab illo?
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A SICK-BED SOLILOQUY TO An EMPTY PURSE.
While baleful Fever, with progressive Rage,Among my Spirits dreadful Havock makes,
And threatens Ruin to this mortal Frame,
Why, like a Ghost, dost thou, disastrous Purse,
Lank, lean, and rueful, to my Sight appear?
Why, for my Torture, are Ideas dire
Awak'd, and horrid Images of Want
Presented to my View? Must I despair,
And, like thy self, become a lifeless Thing?
Vanish! avaunt.—Ha! stay'st thou yet, t'insult
Thy wretched Master in Distress, Ingrate?
Mean'st thou t'enhance and aggravate my Woe?
—But wouldst thou speak? What hast thou to reveal?
No Murder sure, no sacrilegious Crime!
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Thou ow'st thy Bankrupt State, this Vacuum curs'd.
Hast thou, by Losses unforeseen, undue,
Been thus reduc'd? Or, by thy Sins, brought down
Judgment deserv'd? Has Folly drain'd thy Store?
Or flattering Friends thy Desolation wrought?
Say, wert thou ever Bail or Surety fix'd?
Or hast thou too much Credit given to Men?
Ah! then, no wonder thou'rt abandon'd now,
Despis'd, forlorn. How odious and abhor'd
Appears the Nest, when all its Birds are flown?
Now thou art poor indeed, a Poet's Purse!
How chang'd, alas! from what I knew thee once,
When yellow Guineas, from thy hollow Womb,
Sent Music to the Ear and charm'd the Soul.
But wilt thou thus remain, a Shadow still,
An unsubstantial Being, without Use?
How then shall I, thy luckless Master, pay
Arrears of Debt, or purchase daily Bread?
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Of 'Pothecary mystic? How appear abroad?
Who will, without thy wonted Aid, afford
Inspiring Punch, or Wine, or Beer and Ale?
Say, shou'd insidious Catchpoles on me lay
Arresting Paws, who will declare my Bail?
Wou'd Creditors to Composition come
At Phœbus' Call, or barter Debt for Rhime?
Think'st thou, unnatural Thing, they'd stoop to take
A Mortgage on Parnassus? Ah! nor That,
Nor Tagus and Pactolus' golden Streams,
Nor Tempe fair, nor blest Elysium's Self,
Wou'd current pass in sordid Tradesman's Shop,
Nor cancel one poor Bond! Not Orpheus fam'd
Whose Musick melted Rocks, and charm'd all Hell,
With his best Strains, could sooth a Taylor's Ear,
Or thaw a Butcher's Heart! Shou'd I, to such
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Divine Achilles, Hector, Diomede,
Ulysses wise, stern Ajax, Nestor sage,
Think'st thou, for Payment, they'd accept my Song?
Verses avail not to wipe out their Scores,
Who value nought Poetic, but the Gold,
Which thou, O Purse, canst shew thy Master wants.
—Ah! wretched Muse, 'tis Time to burn the Bays,
And on the Willow hang my Harp and Thee.
—And thou, lank Purse, behold my Face no more;
No more appear, to scare me with thy Looks,
So meagre and portentous! Hence, begone
To some old Miser, who thy Service wants.
Yet stay—I wou'd not have Thee ill employ'd,
And know thou'dst rather take thy Fate with me.
Then, prithee Purse, one bold Adventure make
Before we part. Go, empty as thou art,
Trembling and plaintive to my Patron Stair,
(O were thy Master well himself to go!)
And bid him weigh thy Circumstances dire,
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Who knows but, from his well-known generous Hand,
Some golden Medals of our Cæsar's Stamp,
Of Charles or James, of William, Ann, or George,
(For all alike are Guineas good to me,
Who make no Party Matter of the Gold)
May happily be dropt? Or, shou'd he rather chuse
(O that he wou'd!) to put thee in his Fob,
And at a lucky Season pull thee out,
Wretch as thou art, among his Noble Friends,
Bless'd both with Pow'r and Will to help a Bard,
How chang'd, how charmful, wouldst thou then return!
And, O! how welcome to my longing Arms!
Then wou'dst thou be at once my Purse and Friend.
Away, and make Experiment. Shou'd Stair
Offended, frown, or throw thee careless by,
Too long, alas! hath luckless Mitchell liv'd;
For Life is Hell to Poets, Heav'n-inspir'd,
Without the Smiles and Bounty of the Great.
FINIS.
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THE Third Epode of HORACE IMITATED.
To the Right Honourable the Lord Visc.
Kilmory
ARGUMENT.
The Roman Poet having shewn his Dislike to an Onion that made him Sick, the English shews his to Punch, that had almost kill'd him.
Is there a Traitor, Whoremonger, or Thief,
Or Parricide, of Villains all the Chief,
Who kills his Parent, nor repents the Deed?
Be baleful Punch his Punishment decreed.
Punch! that no mortal Man alive wou'd drink,
Had he but Power or Willingness to think.
Or Parricide, of Villains all the Chief,
Who kills his Parent, nor repents the Deed?
Be baleful Punch his Punishment decreed.
Punch! that no mortal Man alive wou'd drink,
Had he but Power or Willingness to think.
O hardy Stomachs of egregious Sots,
Who pour its Poison down devouring Throats,
Set down to smoke, or standing at the Bar,
At Ashley's London, or at Ewen's Star.
Who pour its Poison down devouring Throats,
Set down to smoke, or standing at the Bar,
At Ashley's London, or at Ewen's Star.
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For me, I feel, in ev'ry Nerve and Vein,
Its latent Mischief hold tyrannick Reign;
As if it were my Lot to suffer Death
By Viper's Venom, or a Witch's Breath!
Its latent Mischief hold tyrannick Reign;
As if it were my Lot to suffer Death
By Viper's Venom, or a Witch's Breath!
Sure when Medea fix'd on Jason first,
For her Gallant, she gave him Punch accurs'd;
With which the fiery Bulls he sudden broke,
And made them tamely take a Victor's Yoke.
Steep, wash, or sprinkle, whatsoe'er you please,
The cursed Liquor murders by Degrees.
Dip but your Letter in a flowing Bowl,
Assoon as read departs its Reader's Soul.
For her Gallant, she gave him Punch accurs'd;
With which the fiery Bulls he sudden broke,
And made them tamely take a Victor's Yoke.
Steep, wash, or sprinkle, whatsoe'er you please,
The cursed Liquor murders by Degrees.
Dip but your Letter in a flowing Bowl,
Assoon as read departs its Reader's Soul.
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Not more is scorch'd an Ethiopian's Skin
With Phoebus' Beams, than I with Punch within:
Nor felt more Torments Hercules the brave,
Wearing the Shirt his Dejanira gave.
Compar'd to mine, how faint the Flames below,
Which sinful Souls of Papists undergo,
'Till, purg'd and pure, they wing towards the Skies,
Swift as from Bow a bearded Arrow flies!
With Phoebus' Beams, than I with Punch within:
Nor felt more Torments Hercules the brave,
Wearing the Shirt his Dejanira gave.
Compar'd to mine, how faint the Flames below,
Which sinful Souls of Papists undergo,
'Till, purg'd and pure, they wing towards the Skies,
Swift as from Bow a bearded Arrow flies!
If e'er your Lordship after Punch shou'd lust,
Ne'er may you buss my Lady, nor be buss'd:
And, ev'ry Time you taste it, may she cry
Foh! and, offended, your Embraces fly.
Ne'er may you buss my Lady, nor be buss'd:
And, ev'ry Time you taste it, may she cry
Foh! and, offended, your Embraces fly.
FINIS.
| A Sick-Bed Soliloquy to An Empty Purse | |