 | Poems on several occasions |  |
575
LINES
ON HEARING SOME WISH THAT I HAD NEVER WRITTEN.
July 28th, 1733.
Not oaths of ministers of state,
Not starving threaten'd as my fate,
Could tempt me once to fear or frown,
Or make me leave “Hey derry down!”
Could cause my sporting pen to cease,
Or make me write a line the less.
But here my resolution ends;
I yield, I'm conquer'd by my friends.
“My cask of joy to dregs is run,
And I must taste my other tun.”
Not starving threaten'd as my fate,
Could tempt me once to fear or frown,
Or make me leave “Hey derry down!”
Could cause my sporting pen to cease,
Or make me write a line the less.
But here my resolution ends;
I yield, I'm conquer'd by my friends.
“My cask of joy to dregs is run,
And I must taste my other tun.”
Adieu, my mirth! to which alone
I owe that I am loved or known;
With which the rage of foes I stood,
And even friends' ingratitude;
Which willingly I'd not resign
For Homer's Iliad, Pope, and thine.
The pleasantry of life is o'er,
And I must laugh and sing no more.
No more thy strains I must pursue:
Adieu, my darling mirth, adieu!
I owe that I am loved or known;
With which the rage of foes I stood,
And even friends' ingratitude;
Which willingly I'd not resign
For Homer's Iliad, Pope, and thine.
The pleasantry of life is o'er,
And I must laugh and sing no more.
No more thy strains I must pursue:
Adieu, my darling mirth, adieu!
Now, granting what my friends would have,—
That, very wise and very grave,
With verse and satire I have done,
And shadows of offences shun,
Till deep discretion owns at last
The quarantine is fully past;
Behold the' effect! At fifty-five,
If things should hit and I should live,
Or not perhaps till seven years more,
Preferment comes, at past threescore:
Then (woundrous fruit of wisdom!) I
Shall just be rich enough to die.
That, very wise and very grave,
With verse and satire I have done,
And shadows of offences shun,
576
The quarantine is fully past;
Behold the' effect! At fifty-five,
If things should hit and I should live,
Or not perhaps till seven years more,
Preferment comes, at past threescore:
Then (woundrous fruit of wisdom!) I
Shall just be rich enough to die.
Fuit lætitia.
| Poems on several occasions | |