SECTION LX.
OF FOOLS WHOSE LABOUR CONSTITUTES
THEIR PLEASURE.
As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to
his folly.
To rise at dawn this fool takes pains;
Tho' not to stock his silly brains,
And boast bright wisdom's rules;
He rather idles time away,
And loves from wisdom's path to stray,
With other kindred fools.
He riseth with the matin sun,
And takes his pointer and his gun,
To toil thro' foul and fair;
To wade thro' bog, o'er hedge to scramble,
And feel the wound from many a bramble,
In hopes to kill an hare
.
Thro'new plough'd lands well drench'd with rains,
Up the steep hills, o'er swampy plains,
While wet o'ertops his boot,
Full thirty tedious miles he trudges,
Fatigue nor loss of time he grudges,
So he his brace can shoot.
Jaded at dark he gains his doors,
Gorges and drinks and yawns and snores,
And hies at length to bed;
What fool but envies him the lot
Of being dubb'd a d---d good shot,
The most that can be said
?
L'ENVOY OF THE POET.
If half the time thus spent in useless toil,
Was giv'n but to th' instruction of the mind,
These fools would not at common sense recoil,
And in laborious follies pleasure find.
THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.
Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.
