"To pafs thefe tedious hours, these winter nights, "Not that he dreads invafions, rogues, or sprites." Strait for your two beft wigs aloud you call,
This ftiff in buckle, that not curl'd at all.
"And where, you rascal, are the spurs," you cry;
"And O! what blockhead laid the buskins by?”
On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be
(No matter whether on four legs or none)
Splash, plunge, and ftumble, as you fcour the heath,
All fwear at Morden 'tis on life or death:
Wildly thro' Wareham ftreets you fcamper on,
Raise all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for fix long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high refpect, it feems, and eager love:
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Dodington may fend in vain.
Before you go, we curse the noise you make,
And blefs the moment that you turn your back.
As for myfelf, I own it to your face,
I love good eating, and I take my glass:
But fure 'tis ftrange, dear fir, that this should be
In you amusement, but a fault in me.
All this is bare refining on a name,
To make a difference where the fault's the fame.
My father fold me to your service here,
For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
A livery you should wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove-but lay your cudgel by.
You ferve your paffions-Thus, without a jeft,
Both are but fellow-fervants at the beft.
Yourself, good fir, are play'd by your defires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.
P. Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S. The brave, wife, honeft man, and only he:
All elfe are flaves alike, the world around,.
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, fir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater ftill) is mafter of himself:
Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But loofe to all the interefts of the world:
And while that world turns round, entire and whole
He keeps the facred tenor of his foul;
In every turn of fortune ftill the fame,
As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike pride,
Ile fees the darts of envy glance afide;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempefts blow,
Smiles at the idle ftorms that roar below.
One fuch you know, a layman, to your fhame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name.
If you can fuch a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your flave again.
But when in Hemfkirk's pictures you delight, More than myfelf, to fee two drunkards fight;
"Fool, rogue, fot, blockhead," or fuch names are mine :
"Your's are "a Connoiffeur," or " Deep Divine." I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,
The facred prize of learning, worth and wit:
And yet fome fell their lands these bits to buy ;
Then, pray, who fuffers moft from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I feal no bonds, I mortgage no estate.
Befides, high living, fir, muft wear you out
With furfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By fome new pleasures are you ftill engrofs'd,
And when you fave an hour, you think it loft.
To fports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, fleep, or (idler ftill) you rhyme:
Why?but to banish thought, and murder time.
And yet that thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.
P. Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a ftone,
S. For what?
P. A fword, a pistol, or a gun :
I'll fhoot the dog.
S. Lord! who would be a wit?
He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.
P. Fly, fly, you rafcal, for your fpade and fork;
For once I'll fet your lazy bones to work.
Fly, or I'll fend you back, without a groat,
To the bleak mountains where you firft were caught.
HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK I. IMITATED.
To all my trifles you attend, But drop the critic to indulge the friend; And with moft Chriftian patience lofe your time, To hear me preach, or pefter you with rhyme. Here with my books or friends I spend the day, But how at Kingston pafs your hours away? Say, fhall we fee fome plan with ravish'd eyes, Some future pile in miniature arife? (A model to excel, in every part,
Judicious Jones, or great Palladio's art ;)
Or fome new bill, that, when the house is met, Shall claim their thanks, and pay the nation's debt? Or do you study, in the filent wood,
The facred duties of the wife and good?
Nature, who form'd you, nobly crown'd the whole
With a strong body, and as firm a foul:
The praise is your's to finish every part
With all th' embellishments of tafte and art.
Some fee, in canker'd heaps, their riches roll'd,
Your bounty gives new fplendor to your gold.
Could your dead father hope a greater blifs,
Or your furviving parent more than this?
-a lover of the laws,
And ever true to honour's glorious cause;
Who fcorns all parties, tho' by parties fought;
Who greatly thinks, and truly speaks his thought,
With all the chafte feverity of fense,
Truth, judgment, wit, and manly eloquence.
So, in his youth, great Cato was rever'd,
By Pompey coufted, and by Cæfar fear'd;
Both he difdain'd alike with godlike pride;
For Rome and Liberty he liv'd—and died!
In each perfection as you rife fo faft,
Well may you think each day may be your last:
Uncommon worth is fill with fate at ftrife,
Still inconfiftent with a length of life.
The future time is never in your power,
Then 'tis clear gain to feize the present hour :
Break from your ferious thoughts, and laugh away,
In Pimpern walls, one idle eafy day.
You'll find your rhyming kinfman well in cafe,
For ever fix'd to this delicious place;
Tho' not like Lynch with corpulence o'ergrown;
For he has twenty cures-
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