Oh had I Sh-ll's fecond bays,
Or T-! thy part and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the fhrine,
(That only way you please the Nine)
But fince I chance to want these two,
I'll make the fongs of Dy do.
Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
I hang the scales that brac'd it in;
I hang my ftudious morning gown,
And write my own Infcription down.
This Trophy from the Python won, 6 This robe, in which the deed was done,
Thefe, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
'Hung on these shelves, the Muses feat. 6 Here Ignorance and Hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage round; 'Here Ignorance and Hunger fell; 'Two foes in one I sent to hell.
Ye Poets, who my labours fee,
Come share the triumph all with me!
Ye critics! born to vex the Mufe,
'Go mourn the grand Ally you
M A N.
A Thoughtful being, long and spare,
Our race of mortals call him care:
(Were Homer living, well he knew
What name the Gods have call'd him too)
With fine mechanic genius wrought,
And lov'd to work, tho' not one bought.
This being, by a model bred
In Jove's eternal fable head,
Contriv'd a shape impower'd to breathe,
And be the Worldling here beneath.
The Man rose staring, like a stake;
Wond'ring to fee himself awake!
Then look'd fo wife, before he knew
The business he was made to do;
That pleas'd to fee with what a grace
He gravely fhew'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An Under-fomething of the sky.
But ere he gave the mighty Nod,
Which ever binds a Poet's God:
(For which his curls ambrofial shake,
And mother Earth's oblig'd to quake:)
He faw old mother Earth arise,
She ftood confefs'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read she wore,
A caftle for a crown before,
Nor with long streets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
As yet with wreaths alone fhe drest,
And trail'd a landskip-painted vest.
Then thrice she rais'd (as Ovid faid)
And thrice she bow'd her weighty head.
Her honours made, great Jove, fhe cry'd,
This Thing was fashion'd from my fide ;
His hands, his heart, his head are mine;
Then what haft thou to call him thine?
Nay rather afk, the monarch faid,
What boots his hand, his heart, his head,
Were that I gave remov'd away?
Thy part's an idle shape of clay.
Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care,
Your pleas wou'd make your titles fair,
You claim the body, you the foul,
But I who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the Gods debate began,
On fuch a trivial caufe, as Man.
And can celestial tempers rage?
(Quoth Virgil in a latter age.)
As thus they wrangled, Time came by ;
(There's none that paint him such as I,
For what the fabling Ancients fung
Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.)
As yet his Winters had not shed
Their filver honours on his head;
He just had got his pinions free
From his old fire Eternity.
A Serpent girdled round he wore,
The tail within the mouth before;
By which our Almanacks are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A staff he carry'd, where on high
A glafs was fix'd to measure by,
As amber boxes made a fhow
For heads of canes an age ago.
His veft, for day, and night, was py'd;
A bending fickle arm'd his fide;
And Spring's new months his train adorn ;
The other feafons were unborn.
Known by the Gods, as near he draws, They make him Umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid (Where fince his Hours a Dial made ;) Then leaning heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of fate.
Since Body from the parent Earth, And Soul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they first began; But fince their Union makes the Man, 'Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, Man is due. He faid, and fprung with fwift career To trace a circle for the year; Where ever fince the Seafons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.
'Tis well, faid Jove; and for confent
Thund'ring he fhook the firmament.
Our Umpire Time shall have his way,
With Care I let the creature stay:
Let Business vex him, Av'rice blind,
Let Doubt and Knowlege rack his mind,
Let Error act, Opinion speak,
And Want afflict, and Sickness break,
And Anger burn, Dejection chill,
And Joy diftract, and Sorrow kill.
'Till arm'd by Care, and taught to mow,
Time draws the long deftructive blow;
And wafted Man, whofe quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find, by this decree,
The Soul flies fooner back to me.
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