I can advance the Sum, -'tis beft for both, your Cloth. A Minister, in mere Revenge and Sport, But, by this roving Meteor led, I tend Beyond my Theme, forgetful of my Friend. Then take Advice; I preach not out of Time, When good Lord Middlesex is bent on Rhyme. Their Humour check'd, or Inclination croft, Sometimes the Friendship of the Great is loft. Unless call'd out to wench, be sure comply, Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by: For For your Reward you gain his Love, and dine On the best Ven'fon and the beft French Wine: Nor to Lord *** ** make the Observation, Explore no Secrets, draw no Characters, A Secret gripes him till he lets it go: Words are like Bullets, and we wish in vain, Defend, dear Spence, the honeft and the civil, 'Tis a fine Thing, fome think, a Lord to know I wish his Tradesmen could but think fo too. He He gives his Word-then all your Hopes are gone ; Moft Folks fo partial to themselves are grown, gay the fad, Pope will inftruct you how to pafs away When to delicious Pimperne I retire, What greater Blifs, my Spence, can I defire ? Contented there my eafy Hours I fpend With Maps, Globes, Books, my Bottle and a Friend. There can I live upon my Income ftill, E'en though the House should pass the Quakers Bill: Yet Yet to my Share should some good Prebend fall, For Life or Wealth let Heav'n my Lot affign, MORNING. An O D E. The Author confined to College. Scribimus inclufi. PERS. Sat. 1. V. 13. Ο NCE more the vernal Sun's ambrofial Beams The Fields, as with a purple Robe, adorn: Charwell, thy fedgy Banks, and glift'ring Streams All laugh and fing at mild Approach of Morn; Thro' the deep Groves I hear the chaunting Birds And thro' the clover'd Vale the various-lowing Herds Up mounts the Mower from his lowly Thatch, Well pleas'd the Progress of the Spring to mark The fragrant Breath of Breezes pure to catch, And ftartle from her Couch the early Lark; More genuine Pleasure fooths his tranquil Breaft, Than high-thron'd Kings can boaft, in eastern Glory dreft. The The penfive Poet through the Green-wood fteals, Or treads the willow'd Marge of murm'ring Brook Or climbs the steep Afcent of airy Hills; There fits him down beneath a branching Oak. Whence various Scenes, and Profpects wide below, Still teach his mufing Mind with Fancies high to glow. But I nor with the Day awake to Bliss, (Inelegant to me fair Nature's Face, A Blank the Beauty of the Morning is, And Grief and Darkness all for Light and Grace; } Nor bright the Sun, nor green the Meads appear, Nor Colour charms mine Eye, nor Melody mine Ear. Me, void of Elegance and Manners mild, OR |