 | Poems on several occasions |  |
V.
[My dear, whatever you believe]
May 6th, 1732.
My dear, whatever you believe,
To me 'tis natural to grieve,
When round about my eyes I throw,
And view my country's present woe,
And see—or think, at least, I see—
A worse, far worse futurity.
I inly mourn, but quickly try
To mingle laughter with a sigh.
This thought, perhaps, some satire draws
On villains who our ruin cause;
That patriots from continued grief
May find in mirth a short relief.
Thus laudanum will ease insure,
And dead the pain it cannot cure.
But if the respite others find
Gives greater torment to your mind,
For ever, if disliked by you,
To pleasantry in verse adieu!
Henceforth then, to my dying day,
Shall I compose the future lay
Merry or melancholy? Say.
| Poems on several occasions | |