The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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The Temperate Epicure, written by that
Celebrated Wit of France, Monsieur la
Fountaine, when troubled with a Rheumatism.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
76
The Temperate Epicure, written by that Celebrated Wit of France, Monsieur la Fountaine, when troubled with a Rheumatism.
Imitated in English by Mr. Tho. Brown.
Since my Day's spent so near the Night,
Why shou'd I beat my Brains to write?
'Tis better far with prying Look,
To read the World's amazing Book,
And Nature's mystick Springs to know,
And the vast Mind that does bestow
Motion and Life on all below.
When this is done, what should deny
To take our fill of harmless Joy?
Joy we may taste a thousand Ways,
And still find something new to please:
Whether by some cool River's side,
We see the silver Waters glide,
The Fishes sport, and Sun-beams gay,
On the smooth liquid Surface play;
Or seek some lonely Sylvan Shade,
Or glimmering Bower, or russet Glade,
Where the dark Horrors of the Wood
Solemn Thoughts inspire and good.
Sometimes at Table, when we dine,
We may dissolve our Cares in Wine,
And o'er the generous Nectar sport,
And laugh at City and at Court:
And sometimes too a new Amour,
May serve to pass an idle Hour.
Long with the Fair we must not stay,
But from the Charmers part away.
Love does unseen the Flame impart,
And finds a Passage to the Heart.
Why shou'd I beat my Brains to write?
'Tis better far with prying Look,
To read the World's amazing Book,
And Nature's mystick Springs to know,
And the vast Mind that does bestow
Motion and Life on all below.
When this is done, what should deny
To take our fill of harmless Joy?
Joy we may taste a thousand Ways,
And still find something new to please:
Whether by some cool River's side,
We see the silver Waters glide,
The Fishes sport, and Sun-beams gay,
On the smooth liquid Surface play;
Or seek some lonely Sylvan Shade,
Or glimmering Bower, or russet Glade,
Where the dark Horrors of the Wood
Solemn Thoughts inspire and good.
Sometimes at Table, when we dine,
We may dissolve our Cares in Wine,
And o'er the generous Nectar sport,
And laugh at City and at Court:
And sometimes too a new Amour,
May serve to pass an idle Hour.
Long with the Fair we must not stay,
But from the Charmers part away.
Love does unseen the Flame impart,
And finds a Passage to the Heart.
But is it not alas high Time,
To chase the Cœlia's from my Rhime,
When the grave City is preparing
To give our Damsels Indian Airing.
Oh! that my persecuting Pain,
Would with these Ladies cross the Main,
And never visit me again!
To chase the Cœlia's from my Rhime,
77
To give our Damsels Indian Airing.
Oh! that my persecuting Pain,
Would with these Ladies cross the Main,
And never visit me again!
Cruel Disease! old Saturn's Son,
Quit this Abode and get thee gon.
Some lazy Prelate's Limbs invade,
Or Lawyer's batt'ning on his Trade;
Or with thy dire Attendants wait
On some dull Minister of State;
But why, thy Visits never timing,
Should'st thou intrude to spoil my Rhiming?
Quit this Abode and get thee gon.
Some lazy Prelate's Limbs invade,
Or Lawyer's batt'ning on his Trade;
Or with thy dire Attendants wait
On some dull Minister of State;
But why, thy Visits never timing,
Should'st thou intrude to spoil my Rhiming?
The Devil a Verse can from me creep,
But shews what Company I keep.
But shews what Company I keep.
If this be thy felonious Aim,
To chill my Muse, and damp her Flame,
Prithee to some new Host repair,
And all this needless trouble spare:
In few Months more, without thy Aid,
Old Age will spoil me for that Trade.
To chill my Muse, and damp her Flame,
Prithee to some new Host repair,
And all this needless trouble spare:
In few Months more, without thy Aid,
Old Age will spoil me for that Trade.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |