University of Virginia Library

Our English Homer in his Rhimes,
Asserts our Notions change with Times;
This Maxim granted, makes me doubt,
When some few Years are whirl'd about,
Whether my present System then,
May not give Way to some new Plan:
Now would the Gods not take amiss,
What I've to ask, it should be this:
Let me from vile Dependance free,
Enjoy the Sweets of Liberty;
Let no vain upstart Purse-proud Fool,
Or o'er my Mind, or Person rule;
Lording it with a thousand Airs,
Drawcansir-like because he dares;
Let no vile Knave with smooth Address,
Deceive me cloak'd in Friendship's Dress:
From lukewarm Friends, ye Gods! preserve me,
Who'll nothing do—but wish—to serve me:
My Fortune, Heaven! be it such,
One nor too scanty, nor too much:
Oh! let me in the Midway steer,
And keep myself from Lawsuits clear;
Placed some half-score Miles from Town,
Where I could easily ride down;
I'd have a little Country Seat,
One that is elegant and neat;
No pompous Thing to strike the Eye,
Of each Beholder passing by;
But as fam'd Horace once did say,
Simplex munditiis be the Thing:
Thus the exterior, then within
All should be decent neat and clean;
Yet still I other Notions have,
Than to that Neatness be a Slave;
No sawcy Servant there should lour,
Give herself Airs, look crabb'd or sour;
If I or Friend trod off the Matt;
No, no, I would have none of that;
Neither would I thus you treat,
To make you pay for what you eat;
No one should stare you in the Face,
And seem to ask with awkward Grace;
Or blund'ring on before you stand,
Watching the Motion of your Hand;
Nor an officious prating Fool,
Nor fawning Wretch should there bear Rule.

When at my Leisure, void of Care,
Books some Part of it should share;
Antients or Moderns, Verse or Prose,
As Inclination should dispose;
Pope, Dryden, Addison and Boyle,
I own I should prefer to Hoyle;
Prior! you should tell a Story;
To tell a Tale there's none before thee:
O! how thy Emma's striking Charms,
Thy Nutbrown Maid my Bosom warms!
Who can enough thy Beauties Praise,
Thy happy, easy graceful Lays;
When you in tuneful Numbers shew,
That all is Vanity below?
Congreve! thy free Dramatic Page,
Should trace the Foibles of the Age;
Shakespeare! thy Flights unrivall'd shew,
What simple Nature once could do:
Or on Milton's Wing I'd soar,
Traverse thro' Worlds untrac'd before;
Or with Homer, Virgil climb,
Noting from them the true Sublime;
Or Horace's genteelest Art,
Should useful moral Truths impart:
Ovid, Tibullus, many more,
Whom I've not Time to reckon o'er;
Should all alternately take place,
And be receiv'd with welcome Grace:
But 'tis no Rule because I read,
And now and then talk with the Dead;
That I by Books should be engrost,
To ev'ry other Joy be lost:
No—soon as the Morning's chearful Grey,
Gleams thro' the Clouds, and hails the Day;
When with awful solemn State,
All Nature hush'd, seems then to wait
Light's grand Approach—
All but the Cock, whose clam'rous Voice,
Proclaims the same with shrilling Noise:
Long e'er Phœbus gilds the Tops
Of Mountains bleak, or drinks the Drops
Of balmy Dews, which Heav'n does yeild,
Long before that I'd take the Field:
With Horse and Hounds would chase the Hare,
Drink in large Draughts of vital Air:
Horses and Dogs, a motley Shew!
High mettl'd both with Ardour glow;
With Nose sagace the sprightly Hound,
Should trail her o'er the tainted Ground;
Hark! hark! what Music in their Crys?
How ev'ry Note doth higher rise!
The Hills, the Dales, the Woods rebound,
Re-echo warm the gladsome Sound:
The Hare's gone off, I d' impel the Chace,
Pursue her thro' each winding Maze;
Her artful Shifts at length evade
The eager Hound—the Tract she made,
Now dubious grown—the Hounds at Fault,
Now here, now there, now run, now halt:
Hark! to Rattler—she's now in View,
The joyous Dogs more close pursue;
I cheer them on, away she flies,
Men, Horses, Dogs too fly—she dies:
Such Sports as these do Vigour give,
And blest with that we truly live;
Return'd from these we better taste,
Our Studies, or Love's sweet Repast.

Another Time, some other Morn,
I'd range o'er Field that's newly shorn;
With Gun in Hand would softly steal,
Sancho attending at my Heel;
With wary circumspective Eyes,
The little Family he spies;
He winds 'em, points me where they lie,
The feather'd Folk disturbed fly;
The leaden Death conveys the Wound,
A Brace falls whirling to the Ground:
Alas! that we should owe our Joy,
To what we wantonly destroy:
Sancho now gallops o'er the Field,
And proud his best Respects to yield,
With smiling Looks and fond Caress,
Wishes me Joy of my Success:
I thank him, pat his Head, and then
With eager Haste I charge again:
Thus on—till weary of the Roam,
I call him off and seek my Home.

Sometimes I'd try my Greyhound's Pow'r,
Give Puss due Law and let her scow'r;
See! o'er the extended Lawn she flies,
The Dog his utmost Effort tries;
With Speed as quick almost as Sight,
He strives to intercept her Flight;
Strains ev'ry Nerve to turn her back,
You'd think his very Eye-balls crack:
Puss, fond of Life, outstrips the Wind,
The Dog lies chopping close behind;
And now hard-run, she tacks about,
With Art evasive throws him out;
The Dog his Glee still adding Strength,
Recovers her within a Length;
Both now near spent with dubious Strife,
Puss gets to Cover, saves her Life.

When I am in less gayer Mood,
And more dispos'd for Solitude;
In the cool Decline of Day,
I'd to the Riv'let take my Way;
There to decoy the finny Race,
Their various Haunts and Holes would trace;
Under Pretence of proffer'd Good,
Would drag 'em from their native Flood;
Unless they cautiously beware,
And shun the sly intended Snare:
Ah! how too oft is this the Way,
That Men on one another prey:
Now Hopes and Fears alternate rise,
Suspend the Mind in equal Poise;
I feel him nibbling at my Hook,
I see him too, so clear the Brook;
What various Turns, what Rounds he takes!
What different Attacks he makes!
How oft retreats! the tempting Prize
Grows still more lovely to his Eyes;
Lures him still on, he 'ttempts again,
But fear his Wishes doth restrain;
'Till bolder grown, he takes the Bait,
Ventures too far, and meets his Fate:
So have I seen an heedless Youth,
Reluctant quit the Paths of Truth;
'Till by Degrees he plunges on,
And finds too late himself undone.

Nor so engag'd in rural Sport,
Would I neglect the social Sort;
Each honest Man should welcome be,
My Friends I should be glad to see;
With them my Soul I would unbend,
With them the cheerful Ev'ning spend:
The sparkling Glass or friendly Bowl,
With temp'rate Mirth should tune the Soul;
The Song with Sentiments refin'd,
Music should elevate the Mind;
Freedom and Ease should here take place,
Politeness heighten ev'ry Grace;
No Nonsense loud, or roaring Noise,
Should here confound our social Joys;
No impious Jest should pass for Wit,
Nor fulsome Rabaldry unfit;
The mean, the low, ill-manner'd Sneer,
Should meet with no Reception here:
No Tale obscene should give Offence,
Betraying Want of better Sense;
No senseless Pun should Mirth excite,
Resolv'd to laugh, or wrong, or right:
Far hence be these mean vulgar Ways,
We want not these our Mirth to raise;
Let Fools and Blockheads count for Joys,
Such wretched Stuff, such empty Noise.

Neither I here my Joys would end,
Some of a softer Kind attend;
Visit the Circle of the Fair,
Th'Assembly gay and debonair:
O! how sweet the Morning Breeze,
Sweeter still the Talk of these;
To taste 'em both I would resort,
To Putney, Dulwich, or Ruckholt:
What various Scenes upon the Green!
The World in Miniature is seen:
Here Belles and Beaus, and Smarts and Wits,
Jostle with Quality and Cits:
See! here the Lady Dishabille,
There the modish Ma'amoiselle:
Here hoyd'ning Miss brimful of Laughter;
Miss of Threescore still hobbles after;
Survey the whole and look around,
What diff'rent Figuers may be found!
The Tall, the Short, the Young, the Old,
The Gay, the Grave, the Coy, the Bold:
—See! the affected vain Coquette;
The Prude can't here her Airs forget:
Delia reserv'd, puts on Disdain,
Giving herself the greatest Pain;
In vain she acts the mimic Part,
Her sparkling Eyes betray her Heart:
Proud Flavia with an haughty Grace,
Demands your Homage to her Face;
Belinda with neglectful Air,
Consigns her Lovers to Despair:
Not that I would be thought to mean,
That nothing else fills up the Scene;
No, no; see! what a blooming Grace,
Sits smiling on Amanda's Face;
What Ease! what unaffected Air!
Attends the lovely Mira there;
Their native Charms disdaining Art,
At first Sight captivate the Heart:
No Pride, Ill-nature, there appear,
Affected Scorn, invidious Leer;
Wit and Good-humour, ever gay,
In Loves and Smiles around them play:
O! how sweet with these to walk,
O! how sweet with these to talk;
Or blest with Stella to advance,
And join the rest in sprightly Dance:
Where Beauty and Politeness meet,
The Bliss must needs be then complete;
Their Converse sure must raise the Mind,
Give us the Pleasure most refin'd;
To the Fair Sex alone we owe,
The Sweets that from Politeness flow;
Such Influence their Charms impart,
They soften and enlarge the Heart;
They all our ruffl'd Passions sooth,
They all our rugged Natures smooth;
Insensibly by them refin'd,
We grow benevolent and kind.

Thus let me pass my Hours away,
Serene—or innocently gay;
But still to taste the Sweets of Life,
Grant me, kind Heav'n! a virtuous Wife;
No domineering high-flown Dame,
Superiority to claim:
A Mistress some would sooner keep,
Than e'er with such a Vixen sleep:
In this Affair, it is most fit,
That chiefly Love the Knot should knit;
A mere Wife's what I can't but hate,
Joyless and flat that wedded State:
Give me the She in whom contend,
The fairest with the faithful Friend;
One whose beauteous Face invites,
To taste of Hymen's sacred Rites;
One whose Virtue, Manners, Truth,
Heighten the Charms of blooming Youth;
One whose Dress isn't all her Care,
Not puzzl'd how t'adjust an Hair;
But whose polish'd well-drest Mind,
Makes her amiable and kind:
Now would, ye Gods! but grant all this,
I would not ask for farther Bliss:
At this my conscientious Pray'r,
Methinks I see your Godships stare;
Nay—if ye throw my Petition out,
I know the worst—I will do without.