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Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;
Nor mend th' alarum-watch, your pulse.
If I am right, your question lay,
What course I take to drive away
The day-mare, Spleen, by whose false pleas
Men prove mere suicides in ease;
And how I do myself demean
In stormy world to live serene.
When by its magic-lantern Spleen
With frightful figures spreads life's scene,
And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears,
A stranger to the luck of heirs;
Reason, some quiet to restore,
Show'd part was substance, shadow more ;
With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown,
In life's rough tide I sunk not down,
But swam, till Fortune threw a rope,
Buoyant on bladders fill’d with hope.
I always choose the plainest food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor ;
Thy help love's confessors implore,
And doctors secretly adore ;
To thee I fly, by thee dilute-
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolific particles of Spleen.
I never sick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And seldom Chloe's lodgings haunt,
Thrifty of spirits, which I want.
Hunting I reckon very good,
To brace the nerves, and stir the blood :
But after no field-honors itch,
Achiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch.
While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed,
Or o'er coal fires inclines the head,
Hygeia's sons with hound and horn,
And jovial cry, awake the Morn.
These see her from the dusky plight,
Smeard by th' embraces of the Night,
With roral wash redeem her face,
And prove herself of Titan's race,
And, mounting in loose robes the skies,
Shed light and fragrance as she flies.
Then horse and hound fierce joy display,
Exulting at the hark-away,
And in pursuit o'er tainted ground,
From lungs robust field-notes resound.
Then, as St. George the dragon slew,
Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view;
While all their spirits are on wing,
And woods, and hills, and valleys ring.
To cure the mind's wrong bias, Spleen,
Some recommend the bowling-green;
Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ;
Fling but a stone, the giant dies ;
Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been
Extreme good doctors for the Spleen;
And kitten, if the humor hit,
Has harlequin'd away the fit.
Since mirth is good in this behalf,
At some partic'lars let us laugh.
Witlings, brisk fools, curst with half sense,
That stimulates their impotence ;
Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies,
Err with their wings for want of eyes.
Poor authors worshipping a call,
Deep tragedies that make us laugh,
A strict dissenter saying grace,
A lect'rer preaching for a place,
Folks, things prophetic to dispense,
Making the past the future tense,
The popish dubbing of a priest,
Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd,
Green-apron'd Pythonissa's rage,
Great Æsculapius on his stage,
A miser starving to be rich,
The prior of Newgate's dying speech,
A jointur'd widow's ritual state,
Two Jews disputing tête-à-tête,
New almanacs compos'd by seers,
Experiments on felons' ears,
Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
The superb muscle of the eye,
A coquet's April-weather face,
A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace,
And fops in military show,
Are sov'reign for the case in view.
If spleen-fogs rise at close of day,
I clear my ev'ning with a play,
Or to some concert take my way,
The company, the shine of lights,
The scenes of humor, music's flights,
Adjust and set the soul to rights.
Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays,
To others' grief attention raise :
Here, while the tragic fictions glow,
We borrow joy by pitying woe ; .
There gaily comic scenes delight,
And hold true mirrors to our sight.
Virtue, in charming dress array'd,
Calling the passions to her aid,
When moral scenes just actions join,
Takes shape, and shows her face divine.
Music has charms, we all may find,
Ingratiate deeply with the mind.
When art does sound's high pow'r advance,
To music's pipe the passions dance ;
Motions unwill'd its pow'rs have shown,
Tarantulated by a tune.
Many have held the soul to be
Nearly allied to harmony.
Her have I known indulging grief,
And shunning company's relief,
Unveil her face, and, looking round,
Own, by neglecting sorrow's wound,
The consanguinity of sound.
In rainy days keep double guard,
Or Spleen will surely be too hard ;
Which, like those fish by sailors met,
Fly highest, while their wings are wet.
In such dull weather, so unfit
To enterprise a work of wit,
When clouds one yard of azure sky,
That's fit for simile, deny,
I dress my face with studious looks,
And shorten tedious hours with books.
But if dull fogs invade the head,
That mem'ry minds not what is read,
I sit in window dry as ark,
And on the drowning world remark:
Or to some coffee-house I stray
For news, the manna of a day,
And from the hipp'd discourses gather,
That politics go by the weather :
Then seek good-humor'd tavern chums,
And play at cards, but for small sums;
Or with the merry fellows quaff,
And laugh aloud with them that laugh ;
Or drink a joco-serious cup
With souls who've took their freedom up,
And let my mind, beguild by talk,
In Epicurus' garden walk,
Who thought it Heav'n to be serene ;
Pain, Hell, and Purgatory, Spleen.
Sometimes I dress, with women sit,
And chat away the gloomy fit;
Quit the stiff garb of serious sense,
And wear a gay impertinence,
Nor think nor speak with any pains,
But lay on Fancy's neck the reins;
Talk of unusual swell of waist
In maid of honor loosely lac'd,
And beauty borr'wing Spanish red,
And loving pair with sep'rate bed,
And jewels pawn'd for loss of game,
And then redeem'd by loss of fame;
Of Kitty (aunt left in the lurch
By grave pretence to go to church)
Perceiv'd in hack with lover fine,
Like Will and Mary on the coin:
And thus in modish manner we,
In aid of sugar, sweeten tea.
Permit, ye fair, your idol form,
Which e'en the coldest heart can warm,
May with its beauties grace my line,
While I bow down before its shrine,
And your throng'd altars with my lays
Perfume, and get by giving praise.
With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien
You excommunicate the Spleen,
Which, fiend-like, flies the magic ring
You form with sound, when pleas'd to sing ;
Whate'er you say, howe'er you move,
We look, we listen, and approve.
Your touch, which gives to feeling bliss,
Our nerves officious throng to kiss;
By Celia's pat, on their report,
The grave-air'd soul, inclin'd to sport,
Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp,
And loves the floral game, to romp.
But who can view the pointed rays,
That from black eyes scintillant blaze?
Love on his throne of glory seems
Encompass'd with satellite beams.
But when blue eyes, more sofily bright,
Diffuse benignly humid light,
We gaze, and see the smiling loves,
And Cytherea's gentle doves,
And raptur'd fix in such a face
Love's mercy-seat, and throne of grace.
Shine but on age, you melt its snow;
Again fires long-extinguish'd glow,
And, charm’d by witchery of eyes,
Blood long congealed liquefies !
True miracle, and fairly done
By heads which are ador'd while on.
But oh, what pity 'tis to find
Such beauties both of form and mind,
By modern breeding much debas'd,
In half the female world at least !
Hence I with care such lott’ries shun,
Where, a prize miss’d, I'm quite undone ;
And han't, by vent'ring on a wife,
Yet run the greatest risk in life.
Mothers, and guardian aunts, forbear
Your impious pains to form the fair,
Nor lay out so much cost and art,
But to deflow'r the virgin heart;
Of every folly-fost'ring bed
By quick'ning heat of custom bred.
Rather than by your culture spoil'd,
Desist, and give us nature wild,
Delighted with a hoyden soul,
Which truth and innocence control.
Coquets, leave off affected arts,
Gay fowlers at a flock of hearts;
Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill,
You show so plain, you strive to kill.
In love the artless catch the game,
And they scarce miss who never aim.
The world's great Author did create
The sex to fit the nuptial state,
And meant a blessing in a wife
To solace the fatigues of life;
And old inspired times display,
How wives could love, and yet obey.
Then truth, and patience of control,
And housewife arts, adorn'd the soul;
And charms, the gift of Nature, shone ;
And jealousy, a thing unknown:
Veils were the only masks they wore ;
Novels (receipts to make a whore)
Nor ombre, nor quadrille, they knew,
Nor Pam's puissance felt at loo.
Wise men did not, to be thought gay,
Then compliment their pow'r away :
But lest, by frail desires misled,
The girls forbidden paths should tread,
Of ign'rance rais'd the safe high wall;
We sink haw-haws, that show them all.
Thus we at once solicit sense,
And charge them not to break the fence.
Now, if untir’d, consider, friend,
What I avoid to gain my end.
I never am at meeting seen,
Meeting, that region of the Spleen;
The broken heart, the busy fiend,
The inward call, on Spleen depend.
Law, licens'd breaking of the peace,
To which vocation is disease :
A gipsy diction scarce known well
By th' magi, who law-fortunes tell,
I shun; nor let it brced within
Anxiety, and that the Spleen;
Law, grown a forest, where perplex
The mazes, and the brambles vex;
Where its twelve verd'rers every day
Are changing still the public way:
Yet, if we miss our path and err,
We grievous penalties incur;
And wand'rers tire, and tear their skin,
And then get out where they went in.
I never game, and rarely bet,
Am loth to lend, or run in debt.
No compter-writs me agitate ;
Who moralizing pass the gate,
And there mine eyes on spendthrifts turn,
Who vainly o'er their bondage mourn.
Wisdom, before beneath their care,
Pays her upbraiding visits there,
And forces folly through the grate,
Her panegyric to repeat.
This view, profusely when inclind,
Enters a caveat in the mind :
Experience join'd with common sense,
To mortals is a providence.
Passion, as frequently is seen,
This view my forward zeal so shocks, Subsiding settles into Spleen.
In vain they hold the money-box. Hence, as the plague of happy life,
At such a conduct, which intends I run away from party-strife.
By vicious means such virtuous ends, A prince's cause, a church's claim,
I laugh off Spleen, and keep my pence I've known to raise a mighty flame,
From spoiling Indian innocence. And priest, as stoker, very free
Yet philosophic love of ease To throw in peace and charity.
I suffer not to prove disease, That tribe, whose practicals decree
But rise up in the virtuous cause Small-beer the deadliest heresy ;
Of a free press and equal laws. Who, fond of pedigree, derive
The press restrain'd! nefandous thought! From the most noted whore alive;
In vain our sires have nobly fought : Who own wine's old prophetic aid,
While free from force the press remains, And love the mitre Bacchus made,
Virtue and Freedom cheer our plains, Forbid the faithful to depend
And Learning largesses bestows, On half-pint drinkers for a friend,
And keeps uncensur'd open house. And in whose gay red-letter'd face
We to the nation's public mart We read good-living more than grace:
Our works of wit, and schemes of art, Nor they so pure, and so precise,
And philosophic goods this way, Immac'late as their white of eyes,
Like water-carriage, cheap convey. Who for the spirit hug the Spleen,
This tree, which knowledge so affords, Phylacter'd throughout all their mien,
Inquisitors with Naming swords Who their ill-tasted home-brew'd pray'r
From lay approach with zeal defend, To the state's mellow forms prefer;
Lest their own paradise should end. Who doctrines, as infectious, fear,
The Press from her fecundous womb Which are not steep'd in vinegar,
Brought forth the arts of Greece and Rome , And samples of heart-chested grace
Her offspring, skill'd in logic war, Expose in show-glass of the face,
Truth's banner wav'd in open air; Did never me as yet provoke
The monster Superstition fled, Either to honor band and cloak,
And hid in shades its Gorgon head; Or deck my hat with leaves of oak.
And lawless pow'r, the long-kept field, I rail not with mock-patriot grace
By reason quell'd, was forc'd to yield. At folks, because they are in place ;
This nurse of arts, and freedom's fence, Nor, hir'd to praise with stallion pen,
To chain, is treason against sense ; Serve the ear-lechery of men;
And, Liberty, thy thousand tongues But to avoid religious jars,
None silence, who design no wrongs; The laws are my expositors,
For those, who use the gag's restraint, Which in my doubting mind create
First rob, before they stop complaint. Conformity to church and state.
Since disappointment galls within, I go, pursuant to my plan,
And subjugates the soul to Spleen, To Mecca with the caravan.
Most schemes, as money-snares, I hate, And think it right in common sense
And bite not at projectors' bait, Both for diversion and defence.
Sufficient wrecks appear each day, Reforming schemes are none of mine ;
And yet fresh fools are cast away. To mend the world's a vast design :
Ere well the bubbled can turn round, Like theirs, who tug in little boat,
Their painted vessel runs aground; To pull to them the ship afloat,
Or in deep seas it oversets While to defeat their labor'd end,
By a fierce hurricane of debts; At once both wind and stream contend :
Or helm directors in one trip, Success herein is seldom seen,
Freight first embezzled, sink the ship. And zeal, when baffled, turns to Spleen.
Such was of late a corporation,* Happy the man, who innocent,
The brazen serpent of the nation, Grieves not at ills he can't prevent;
Which, when hard accidents distress'd, His skiff does with the current glide,
The poor must look at to be blest, Not puffing pull'd against the tide.
And thence expect, with paper seald He, paddling by the scuffling crowd,
By fraud and us’ry, to be heal'd. Sees unconcern'd life's wager row'd,
I in no soul-consumption wait And when he can't prevent foul play,
Whole years at levees of the great, Enjoys the folly of the fray.
By these reflections I repeal Each hasty promise made in zeal. When Gospel propagators say,
* The Charitable Corporation, instituted for the relief
of the industrious poor, by assisting them with small We're bound our great light to display, And Indian darkness drive away,
sums upon pledges at legal interest. By the villany of
those who had the management of this scheme, the proYet none but drunken watchmen send,
prietors were defrauded of very considerable sums of And scoundrel link-boys for that end;
money. In 1732 the conduct of the directors of this body When they cry up this holy war,
became the subject of a parliamentary inquiry, and some Which every Christian should be for ;
And hungry hopes regale the while
Scarce known to the fastidious dames, On the spare diet of a smile.
Nor skill'd to call them by their names. There you may see the idol stand
Nor can their passports in these days, With mirror in his wanton hand;
Your profit warrant, or your praise. Above, below, now here, now there,
On poems by their dictates writ, He throws about the sunny glare.
Critics, as sworn appraisers, sit, Crowds pant, and press to seize the prize,
And mere upholst'rers in a trice The gay delusion of their eyes.
On gems and paintings set a price. When Fancy tries her limning skill
These tayl’ring artists for our lays To draw and color at her will,
Invent cramp'd rules, and with straight stays And raise and round the figure well,
Striving free Nature's shape to hit, And show her talent to excel,
Emaciate sense, before they fit. I guard my heart, lest it should woo
A commonplace and many friends, Unreal beauties Fancy drew,
Can serve the plagiary's ends, And, disappointed, feel despair
Whose easy vamping talent lies, At loss of things that never were.
First wit to pilfer, then disguise. When I lean politicians mark
Thus some, devoid of art and skill Grazing on ether in the Park;
To search the mine on Pindus' hill, Who c'er on wing with open throats
Proud to aspire and workmen grow, Fly at debates, expresses, votes,
By genius doom'd to stay below, Just in the manner swallows use,
For their own digging show the town Catching their airy food of news;
Wit's treasure brought by others down.
Whose latrant stomachs oft molest
Some wanting, if they find a mine,
The deep-laid plans their dreams suggest; An artist's judgment to refine,
Or see some poet pensive sit,
On fame precipitately fix'd,
Fondly mistaking Spleen for Wit:
The ore with baser metals mix'd Who, though short-winded, still will aim Melt down, impatient of delay, To sound the epic trump of Fame;
And call the vicious mass a play. Who still on Phobus' smiles will dote,
All these engage to serve their ends, Nor learn conviction from his coat;
A band select of trusty friends, I bless'd my stars, I never knew
Who, lesson'd right, extol the thing, Whimsies, which close pursu'd, undo,
As Psapho * taught his birds to sing ; And have from old experience been
Then to the ladies they submit, Both parent and the child of Spleen.
Returning officers on wit: These subjects of Apollo's state,
A crowded house their presence draws, Who from false fire derive their fate,
And on the beaux imposes laws, With airy purchases undone
A judgment in its favor ends, Of lands, which none lend money on,
When all the panel are its friends : Born dull, had follow'd thriving ways,
Their natures merciful and mild Nor lost one hour to gather bays.
Have from mere pity sav'd the child ; Their fancies first delirious grew,
In bulrush ark the bantling found And scenes ideal took for true.
Helpless, and ready to be drown'd, Fine to the sight Parnassus lies,
They have preserv'd by kind support, And with false prospects cheats their eyes ; And brought the baby-muse to court. The fabled gods the poets sing,
But there's a youth † that you can name, A season of perpetual spring,
Who needs no leading-strings to fame, Brooks, flow'ry fields, and groves of trees, Whose quick maturity of brain Affording sweets and similes,
The birth of Pallas may explain : Gay dreams inspir'd in myrtle bow'rs,
Dreaming of whose depending fate, And wreaths of undecaying flow'rs,
I heard Melpomene debate, Apollo's harp with airs divine,
“ This, this is he, that was foretold The sacred music of the Nine,
Should emulate our Greeks of old. Views of the temple rais'd to Fame,
Inspir'd by me with sacred art, And for a vacant niche proud aim,
He sings, and rules the varied heart; Ravish their souls, and plainly show
If Jove's dread anger he rehearse, What Fancy's sketching power can do.
We hear the thunder in his verse; They will attempt the mountain steep,
If he describes love turn'd to rage,
Where on the top, like dreams in sleep,
The furies riot in his page.
The Muse's revelations show,
That find men crack'd, or make them so.
You, friend, like me, the trade of rhyme
Avoid, elab'rate waste of time,
Psapho was a Lybian, who, desiring to be account Nor are content to be undone,
a god, effected it by this means : he took young birds and To pass for Phæbus' crazy son.
taught them to sing, Psapho is a great god. When tby Poems, the hop-grounds of the brain,
were perfect in their lesson, he let them fly; and other Afford the most uncertain gain;
birds learning the same ditty, repeated it in the woods ; And lott'ries never tempt the wise
on which his countrymen offered sacrifice to him, and With blanks so many to a prize.
considered him as a deity, I only transient visits pay,
| Mr. Glover, the excellent author of Leonidas, Boadicea, Meeting the Muses in my way,
If he fair liberty and law
By ruffian pow'r expiring draw,
The keener passions then engage
Aright, and sanctify their rage ;
If he attempt disastrous love,
We hear those 'plaints that wound the grove.
Within the kinder passions glow,
And tears distilld from pity flow."
From the bright vision I descend,
And my deserted theme attend.
Me never did ambition seize,
Strange fever most inflam'd by ease!
The active lunacy of pride,
That courts jilt Fortune for a bride,
This par'dise-tree, so fair and high,
I view with no aspiring eye:
Like aspen shake the restless leaves,
And Sodom-fruit our pains deceives,
Whence frequent falls give no surprise,
But fits of Spleen, call'd growing wise.
Greatness in glitt'ring forms display'd
Affects weak eyes much us’d to shade,
And by its falsely-envied scene
Gives self-debasing fits of Spleen.
We should be pleas'd that things are so,
Who do for nothing see the show,
And, middle-siz'd, can pass between
Life's hubbub safe, because unseen,
And midst the glare of greatness trace
A wat’ry sunshine in the face,
And pleasure fled to, to redress
The sad fatigue of idleness.
Contentment, parent of delight,
So much a stranger to our sight,
Say, goddess, in what happy place
Mortals behold thy blooming face ;
Thy gracious auspices impart,
And for thy temple choose my heart.
They, whom thou deignest to inspire,
Thy science learn, to bound desire;
By happy alchymy of mind
They turn to pleasure all they find ;
They both disdain in outward mien
The grave and solemn garb of Spleen,
And meretricious arts of dress,
To feign a joy, and hide distress;
Unmov'd when the rude tempest blows,
Without an opiate they repose ;
And, cover'd by your shield, defy
The whizzing shafts, that round them fly:
Nor meddling with the god's affairs,
Concern themselves with distant cares ;
But place their bliss in mental rest,
And feast upon the good possess’d.
Fore'd by soft violence of pray'r,
The blithesome goddess soothes my care :
I feel the deity inspire,
And thus she models my desire.
Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid,
Annuity securely made,
A farni some twenty miles from town,
Small, tight, salubrious, and my own;
Two maids, that never saw the town,
A serving-man, not quite a clown;
A boy to help to tread the mow,
And drive, while t'other holds the plow;
A chief, of temper formn'd to please,
Fit to converse, and keep the keys;
And better to preserve the peace,
Commission'd by the name of niece,
With understandings of a size
To think their master very wise.
May Heav'n (it's all I wish for) send
One genial room to treat a friend,
Where decent cupboard, little plate,
Display benevolence, not state.
And may my humble dwelling stand
Upon some chosen spot of land :
A pond before full to the brim,
Where cows may cool, and geese may swim;
Behind, a green-like velvet neat,
Soft to the eye, and to the feet ;
Where od'rous plants in evening fair
Breathe all around ambrosial air;
From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground,
Fenc'd by a slope with bushes crown'd,
Fit dwelling for the feather'd throng,
Who pay their quit-rents with a song ;
With op’ning views of hill and dale,
Which sense and fancy too regale,
Where the half-cirque, which vision bounds,
Like amphitheatre surrounds;
And woods impervious to the breeze,
Thick phalanx of embodied trees,
From hills through plains in dusk array
Extended far, repel the day.
Here stillness, height, and solemn shade
Invite, and contemplation aid :
Here nymphs from hollow oaks relate
The dark decrees and will of Fate,
And dreams beneath the spreading beech
Inspire, and docile fancy teach ;
While soft as breezy breath of wind,
Impulses rustle through the mind.
Here Dryads, scorning Phæbus' ray
While Pan melodius pipes away,
In measur'd motions frisk about,
Till old Silenus puts them out.
There see the clover, pea, and bean,
Vie in variety of green;
Fresh pastures speckled o'er with sheep,
Brown fields their fallow sabbaths keep,
Plump Ceres golden tresses wear,
And poppy top-knots deck her hair,
And silver streams through meadows stray,
And Naïads on the margin play,
And lesser nymphs on side of hills
From plaything urns pour down the rills.
Thus shelter'd, free from care and strife,
May I enjoy a calm through life ;
See faction, safe in low degree,
As men at land see storms at sea,
And laugh at miserable elves,
Not kind, so much as to themselves,
Curs'd with such souls of base alloy,
As can possess, but not enjoy ;
Debarr'd the pleasure to impart
By av’rice, sphincter of the heart,
Who wealth, hard-earn'd by guilty cares,
Bequeath untouch'd to thankless heirs.
May I, with look ungloom'd by guile,
And wearing Virtue's liv'ry-smile,
Prone the distressed to relieve,
And little trespasses forgive,
With income not in Fortune's pow'r,
And skill to make a busy hour,