'Tis time to quit their company, and chuse
Some fitter fubject for a fharper Mufe.

First, let's behold the merrieft man alive
Against his careless genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay,
'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day :
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Juft as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reafon or at rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er fo earnest fit,

Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit
That shadow of a jeft fhall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd.
So cat transform'd fat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure
But foon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find

That nimbleft creature of the busy kind,

His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this buftle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.

What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To fee him drag his feeble legs about,

Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still

Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill.

'Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To ufe a body fo, though 'tis one's own :
Yet this falfe comfort never gives him o'er,

That whilft he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar :
Alas! that foaring, to thofe few that know,
Is but a bufy groveling here below.

So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilft on the ground th' intranced wretches lie:
So modern fops have fancy'd they could fly.
As the new earl with parts deferving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet lofes all foft days and fenfual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune flights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,

For the fine notion of a bufy man.

And what is that at beft, but one, whofe mind.
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if fome odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm so wittingly contrives?
Will any dog, that has his teeth and stones,
Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones,
To turn a wheel? and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd ?
Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.

Though fatire nicely writ no humour ftings
But those who merit praise in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos fake;
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore fcarce deferves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing fmoothly, and for reasoning wrong.
As boys on holy-days let loose to play,
Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way;
Then shout to fee in dirt and deep diftrefs
Some filly cit in her flower'd foolish dress :
So have I mighty fatisfaction found,
To fee his tinfel reafon on the ground:
To fee the florid fool defpis'd, and know it,
By fome who scarce have words enough to fhow it :
For fenfe fits filent, and condemns for weaker
The finner, nay fometimes the wittiest speaker:
But 'tis prodigious fo much eloquence

Should be acquired by fuch little sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:
At bar abufive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolfack, fop at council-table.
These are the grievances of fuch fools as would
Be rather wife than honeft, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excefs of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease :

To live diffolv'd in pleasures still they feign,
Though their whole life's but intermitting pain :
So much of furfeits, head-aches, claps are feen,
We scarce perceive the little time between :
Well-meaning men who make this grofs mistake,
And pleasure lofe only for pleasure's fake;
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we fquander life away.

Thus Dorfet, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Marry'd, but wiser pufs ne'er thought of that:
And first he worry'd her with railing rhime,
Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time;
Then for one night fold all his flavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife;
Swell'd by contact of such a fulfom toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load;
Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill reftor'd him to his liberty;
Which he would ufe in his old fneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times
Had fam'd for dulnefs in malicious rhymes.

Mulgrave had much ado to scape the snare,
Though learn'd in all thofe arts that cheat the fair:
For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks,
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes,
To fee him catch his tartar for his prize :

Th' impatient town waited the wish'd-for change, And cuckolds fmil'd in hopes of sweet revenge;

Till Petworth plot made us with forrow see,
As his eftate, his perfon too was free:

Him no foft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against his will:
'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and
Break not his boafted quiet every hour.

power

And little Sid. for fimile renown'd,
Pleasure has always fought but never found :
Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are fo bad, fure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong,
His meat and miftreffes are kept too long.
But fure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his perfon all he can :
What we uncharitably take for fin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin ;
For never hermit under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense
And 'tis a miracle we may suppose,
No naftiness offends his skilful nofe;
Which from all ftink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume and essence from a f―t :
Expecting fupper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night:
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.

Rochester I despise for want of wit,

Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet;