The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

Self-Interest by some is said,
To be the universal trade
Which men of ev'ry rank pursue;
And if, what some folks say, be true,
Of ev'ry kind of Woman too.
For wealth the Sailor ploughs the main,
The Merchant thinks of nought but gain;—
We even see superior sense,
And all the powers of eloquence,
Nay, ev'ry impulse of the breast,
Yield to the calls of Interest.
But if nor base, nor sordid view
Blends with the purpose we pursue,
If sage Discretion's cautious art
Corrects the errors of the heart;
If Prudence o'er the plan presides,
And for its ends the means provides,

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Which, pointed to some rightful use,
Shall tranquil Happiness produce:
'Tis that Self-Int'rest—that Self-Love
Which Truth and Virtue must approve;
And gives perfection to the plan
That ought to govern social Man.
How easy then to draw the line
Between the motives that combine,
To guide the intellectual power
Whose regulation rules the hour
Which fills the short, uncertain span
Allotted to the race of Man.
'Tis Good or Evil.—Passion's flame
That lights to deeds of splendid name,
Or the temp'rate warmth benign,
Whose rays on humble Virtue shine,
Alike, by different means, possess,
The varied boon of Happiness.

Beneath her roof domestic Care,
The daily labour doth prepare.

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The Father, anxious to provide
For the young Offspring by his side;
The Mother, with her infant press'd,
In doting fondness, to her breast;
The bounteous Man whose open door
Receives the wand'rer and the poor;
The Hero, in his banner'd car,
Smiling amid the scenes of war;
The learned, philosophic Sage
Who toils to teach a list'ning age,
And Piety, that points the way
To regions of eternal day;
Each has an Int'rest to pursue,
And keeps the fav'rite point in view,—
The Interest, well understood,
In each condition, to be Good;
And that true Happiness to know
Which Virtue only can bestow.

But less exalted views, we trust,
May still be honest, and be just;
And Int'rests, less refin'd, may be
Pursu'd with strict propriety.

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Wealth may be sought without a vice,
For Prudence is not Avarice.
The gen'rous, independent spirit,
Which 'tis a blessing to inherit,
In all its energies depends
On the right use of means to ends.
Nay, 'tis the use of these same tools
Distinguishes Wise Men from Fools.
—A reason soon will rise to view,—
Why we may add Wise Women too.

Tir'd of a stupid, single state,
Ned Freeman took a charming mate.
He was a man of some degree,
Renown'd for hospitality:
And all those virtues we admire
In him who's dubb'd a Country 'Squire.
Health beam'd upon his smiling face;
His cheeks display'd a ruddy grace.
His jolly form, and visage, bore
The marks of thirty years, or more,
And look'd as he might reach threescore.

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Such was the subject of their chat
One ev'ning as this couple sat,
And ponder'd o'er, like man and wife,
The prospect of their future Life.
She was a tender, faithful Spouse,
Obedient to her marriage vows;
Nor, like some wives, was fond to boast,
That, she at home, could rule the roast.
But Mrs. Freeman ne'er would balk
Her fancy, when she chose to talk.
And then dear Ned, but not through fear,
Would hold his tongue, and lend his ear.
This evening she had much to say,
And told it in her usual way.
—I know, my Dear, you love me well,
As I am very proud to tell;
And to confess, I am most willing,
You married me without a shilling:
But what disgrace 'twould be, you know,
Were you to die and leave me so:

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Nature, in all her freaks and fun,
Has never given us a Son;
And there's no jointure, Sir, for me
Without that same Contingency.
For your Estate's so bound and tied,
So settled and transmogrified,
(A thing one scarcely can believe)
You've not a thousand pounds to leave.
—To you, my Love, I trust in Heav'n,
The promise of long life is given,
And were I sure 'twas Heaven's intent
To take me first, I'd be content:
But you, I fear, my dearest Life
Are ten years older than your wife.
Besides, your spirit in the Field:—
To you the boldest Hunters yield;
And should He not his ardor check,
My Ned, perhaps, may break his neck;
And then, in that impoverish'd state,
Say, what would be your widow's fate?—
I know it well,—I act no part:—
Your Widow then would break her heart.

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Is't not enough that, o'er the grave
Of him I lov'd my grief must rave;
But I, to aggravate my cares,
Must be dependent on his Heirs!
They hate me now,—illiberal men!
Nor can I think they'd love me then.
'Squire Freeman's Relict must not live
On any thing they chuse to give.
—The tears now flow'd, and honest Ned
Pinch'd her plump cheek, and kindly said,
Weep not yet, Girl, I am not dead:
And, if we live another day,
The Mail shall bear us on our way,
With rapid haste, to London town,
Where all you wish for shall be done.
To prove how much I love my wife,
By Jingo, I'll insure my Life;
And if kind Fate is pleas'd to give
Ned Freeman but ten days to live;—
Then, if he dies;—why, I'll be bound
You shall be worth ten thousand pound.

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At length arriv'd,—with spirits light
From the refreshments of the night,
The parties leave the Two-neck'd Swan,
Or for the Globe, or Pelican,
When they explain, with all due care,
The object of their errand there.

The Doctor's call'd—his eye to throw
On the good 'Squire from top to toe.
The sage Director stands beside
In dictatorial pomp and pride,
Th'important Scrutiny to guide.
—Doctor,—you'll now be pleas'd to scan
The features of that Gentleman;
And tell us, whether that round paunch
Has been nurs'd by up ham and haunch:
Say, if that vast protuberance
Comes from ill habits, or from chance.
Think you that crimson glow is health,
Or form'd by drink, or made by stealth.
Those legs, which now appear so stout,
Have they been tickled by the Gout.—

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—And, Doctor, for your private ear,
Does not this Country 'Squire appear
Older, at least, by half a year
Than what he has been pleas'd to state?
—May we trust the Certificate?—
To this the Doctor sage agreed:—
The Office then was duly feed;
And sign'd and seal'd each formal deed.
Now Death, who sometimes loves to wait
At an Insurance Office gate,
To baffle the Accountant's skill
And mock the calculating quill,
Had just prepar'd his cunning dart
To pierce Ned Freeman's tranquil heart:—
But lest the stroke should cause dispute,
And Lawyers conjure up a Suit,
Death was determined to delay
Ned's exit to a future day;
And the dull moment to amuse,
He turn'd—and kill'd a pair of Jews.

Thus was the Husband's life insur'd,
And the Wife's future wealth secur'd.

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Then to their Inn they went to dine;
And while the 'Squire enjoy'd his wine,
Madam, thus thought she might impart
The secret wishes of her heart.
—Now, my dear Ned, as we're in Town,
And all this happy bus'ness done,
We may as well a fortnight stay;
Go to Vauxhall—and see a Play;
With every sight which now occurs:
The Grand Illustrious Visitors,
Princes, and Cossacs, and Lord Mayors,
And flaming Fire-works, and Fairs;
With all the noble, splendid train,
Which London may ne'er see again.
It will, no doubt, respect command
To've had an Emperor by the hand.
How great the boast, 'mong country folk,
To say we've seen old Blucher smoke.
How, at my head they'll stare, when on it
They see an Oldenburghian Bonnet.
—Hunting, you know, has long been done,
And Harvest is not yet begun:

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Let us the interval employ
These recreations to enjoy.
'Squire Freeman, with his heart at ease,
Happy and proud his wife to please,
To grant her ev'ry wish consented,
And smil'd to see her so contented.
But Death had not forgot his Fiat—
So bid a Fever set him quiet;
And e'er, alas, ten days were past,
Honest Ned Freeman breath'd his last.
The Doctor call'd, to certify
His glowing health, now saw him die.

Thus she, who lately came to Town,
With not a doit that was her own,
Weeping attends her Husband's hearse,
With many a thousand in her purse;
And proves that she's of Wives the best,
Who knows her Real Interest.