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The copy that we follow; says, The man Rubb'd down the ass, and took to his first plan; Walk'd to the fair, and sold him, got his price, And gave his son this pertinent advice: "Let talkers talk; stick thou to what is best; To think of pleasing all-is all a jest."

SPOKEN ON THE SAME OCCASION.

In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas
Corpora.

PYTHAGORAS, an ancient sage, opin'd

That form and shape were indexes of mind;
And minds of men, when they departed hence,
Would all be form'd according to this sense:
Some animal, or human shape again,
Would show the minds of all the former men.
Let us adopt this transmigration plan,
And mark how animal exhibits man:
Tyrants, for instance, (to begin with those
Who make the greatest noise, the greatest woes:)
Of their dominion lious are the key,

That reign in deserts now, and hunt their prey;
Sometimes dethron'd, and brought upon a stage,
Or coop'd, like Bajazet, within a cage;
For sixpence, safe from all tyrannic harms,
One may see kings, perhaps, at the King's-arms.
See savage monarchs, who had shown before
The tusky temper of the wildest boar,
Vested in proper shape, when they are dead,
Reviv'd and caught, and shown at the Boar's-head.

In some tam'd elephants our eyes may scan
The once great, rich, o'ergrown, half-reas'ning man:
My lord had sense to wind into his maw
All within reach, that lay within the law;
What would have fed a thousand mouths was sunk
To fill his own, by hugeous length of trunk,
He grew to monstrous grandeur, liv'd a show;
And stones high rais'd told where he was laid low:
By transmigration it appears at least,
That such great man is really a great beast.

From animals, that once were men, to pass
To men, of now almost ambiguous class:
Players, and Harlequins, and pantomimes,
Who sell their shapes, to mimic men and times;
With all the servile, second-handed tribe
Of imitators, endless to describe,

In their own figures when they come to range,
With small transition into monkeys change:
For now men-monkeys have not in their view
What should be done by men, but what they do.
Of tempers, by inferior forms express'd,
And seen for nothing, something may be guess'd.
When the sly fox ensnares the silly geese,
Who does not see that mind is of a piece
With former lawyers, who devour'd by far
The sillier clients drawn into the bar?

"Why not physicians?" Hear the lawyer say; "Are not they too as wily in their way?" "Why yes, dear barrister; but then they own The shapes in which their cunning arts are shown: Serpents confess, around the rod entwin'd, Wily or wise the Esculapian kind."

"Why not divines?" The doctor may object; "They have devourers too in every sect;" "True: but if one devour, there is for him A transmigration more upon the grim;

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In human shape when he has spent his years,
Stript of sheep's clothing, real wolf appears."
Plain in four footed animals, let's try
Instance, that first occurs, in such as fly:
The parrot shows, by its unmeaning prate,
Full many a talker's metamorphos'd fate,
Whose tongue outstrips the clapper of a mill,
And still keeps saying the same nothing still:
As full the city, and as full the court,
As lodia's woods, with creatures of this sort,
If rightly the gay feather'd bird foretels
The future shape of eloquenter belles,
Or beaux, transmigrated, the human dolls
Will talk, and shine caress'd in pretty Polls.

Belles, you may see, pursue a butterfly With painted wings that flutter in the sky; And sparkling to the solar rays, unfold Red mix'd with purple, green with shining gold; Nor wouder at the fond pursuit, for know That this same butterfly was once a beau; And, dress'd according to the newest whim, Ran after them, as they run after him.

Footed or flying, all decypher men:
Enough to add one other instance then,
One from a courtier, a creeping thing;
He takes new colours as there comes new king;
Lives upon airy promises, and dies;
His transmigration can be no surprise;
Cameleon-shape by that he comes to share;
Still changes colours, and still feeds on air.
By his ingenious fiction, in the end,
What could the wise Pythagoras intend?
Too wise a man not to intend a clue
To change, hereafter, literally true.
The solar system of our boasted age
Was known of old to this enlighten'd sage:
So might his thoughts on man's immortal soul,
Howe'er express'd, be right upon the whole:
He meant, one need not scruple to affirm,
This real truth, by transınigration term.

Our tempers here must point to the degree
In which hereafter we design to be.
From vice in minds, undoubtedly will grow
More ugly shapes than any here below;
But sacred virtue, piety, and love,

What beauteous forms will they produce above!

THE POND.

At qui tantulo eget, quanto est opus, is neque limo
Turbatam haurit aquam, neque vitam amittit in
undis.
Hor.

ONCE on a time, a certain man was found
That had a pond of water in his ground:
A fine large pond of water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his turn for many a year.
Yet so it was a strange unhappy dread
Of wanting water seiz'd the fellow's head:
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his pond should sink,
Perpetually tormented with this thought,
He never ventur'd on a hearty draught;
Still dry, still fearing to exhaust his store,
When half refresh'd, he frugally gave o'er;
Reviving of himself reviv'd his fright,

"Better," quoth he, "to be half chok'd than quite."

Upon his pond continually intent, In cares and pains his anxious life he spent; Consuming all his time and strength away, To make the pond rise higher every day: He work'd and slav'd, and-oh! how slow it fills! Pour'd in by pail-fulls, and took out-by gills. In a wet season-he would skip about, Placing his buckets under ev'ry spout; From falling show'rs collecting fresh supply, And grudging ev'ry cloud-that passed by; Cursing the dryness of the times each hour, Altho' it rain'd as fast as it could pour Then he would wade thro' ev'ry dirty spot, Where any little moisture could be got; And when he had done draining of a bog, Still kept himself as dirty as a hog:

And cry'd, whene'er folks blam'd him, "What d'ye mean?

i

It costs a world of water to be clean!"

If some poor neighbour crav'd to slake his thirst, "What! rob my pond! I'll see the rogue hang'd A burning shame, these vermin of the poor [first: Should creep unpunish'd thus about my door! As if I had not frogs and toads enoo, That suck my pond whatever I can do."

The Sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always of quest in matters-that were wet:
Betimes he rose to sweep the morning dew,
And rested late to catch the ev'ning too.
With soughs and troughs he labour'd to enrich
The rising pond from ev'ry neighb'ring ditch;
With soughs, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts,
and sluices,

From growing plants he drain'd the very juices;
Made ev'ry stick of wood upon the hedges
Of good behaviour to deposit pledges;
By some conveyance or another, still
Devis'd recruits from each declining hill:
He left, in short, for this beloved plunder
No stone unturn'd—that could have water under.
Sometimes when forc'd to quit his awkward
toil,

guess,

And-sore against his will-to rest awhile;
Then straight he took his book, and down he sat
To calculate th' expenses he was at;
How much he suffer'd, at a mod'rate:
From all those ways by which the pond grew less;
For as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd-not a single figure:
He knew a wise old saying, which maintain'd
That 't was bad luck to count what one had gain'd.
First, for myself-my daily charges here
Cost a prodigious quantity a year:

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Altho', thank Heaven, I never boil my meat,
Nor am I such a sinner as to sweat:
But things are come to such a pass, indeed
We spend ten times the water that we need;
People are grown with washing, cleansing, rinc-
ing,

So finical and nice, past all convincing;
So many proud fantastic modes in short
Are introduc'd, that my poor pond pays for't.
"Not but I could be well enough content
With what, upon my own account, is spent;
But those large articles, from whence I reap
No kind of profit, strike me on a heap:
What a vast deal each moment, at a sup,
This ever thirsty Earth itself drinks up!
Stich holes! and gaps! Alas! my pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable sides:

Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many creatures as it keeps alive!
That creep from ev'ry nook and corner, marry!
Filching as much as ever they can carry:
Then all the birds that fly along the air
Light at my pond, and come in for a share:
Item, at ev'ry puff of wind that blows,
Away at once-the surface of it goes:
The rest, in exhalations to the Sun-
One month's fair weather-and I am undone."
This life he led for many a year together;
Grew old and grey in watching of his weather;
Meagre as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopt, as the saying is, his vital breath;
For as th' old fool was carrying to his field
A heavier burthen than he well could wield,
He miss'd his footing, or some how he fumbl'd
In tumbling of it in-but in he tumbled:
Mighty desirous to get out again,
He scream'd and scrambl'd, but 't was all in vain:
The place was grown so very deep and wide,
Nor bottom of it could he feel, nor side,
And so i'the middle of his pond-he dy'd.
What think ye now from this imperfect sketch,
My friends, of such a miserable wretch?

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Why, 'tis a wretch, we think, of your own makNo fool can be suppos'd in such a taking: [ing; Your own warm fancy"-Nay, but warm or cool,

The world abounds with many such a fool:
The choicest ills, the greatest torments, sure
Are those, which numbers labour to endure.-
"What! for a pond?"-Why, call it an estate:
You change the name, but realize the fate.

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Well, well," replies his friend,—no such affront, I did but ask ye-if you won't-you won't." So they jogg'd on-till, in another strain, The querist mov'd to honest Tom again;

16

Suppose," says he,-for supposition sake,'Tis but a supposition that I make,— Suppose that we should filch a horse, I say?" "Filch! filch!" quoth Tom,-demurring by the way;

"That's not so bad as downright theft-I own—
But-yet-nethinks-'twere better let alone:
It soundeth something pitiful and low;
Shall we go filch a horse, you say why no-
I'll filch no filching;-and I'll tell no lie:
Honesty's the best policy-say L”

Struck with such vast integrity quite dumb
His comrade paus'd-at last, says he,-"Come,
Thou art an honest fellow-I agree- [come;
Honest and poor;-alas! that should not be:
And dry into the bargain-and no drink!
Shall we go nim a horse, Tom,-what dost' think?"
How clear things are when liquor's in the case?
Tom answers quick, with casuistic grace,
"Nim? yes, yes, yes, let's nim with all my heart,
I see no harm in nimming, for my part;
Hard is the case, now I look sharp into't,
That honesty should trudge i'th' dirt a foot;

So many empty horses round about,

That honesty should wear its bottoms out;
Besides shall honesty be chok'd with thirst?
Were it my lord mayor's horse-I'd nim it first.
And-by the by-my lad-no scrubby tit-
There is the best that ever wore a bit, [friend,
Not far from hence"" I take ye," quoth his
"Is not yon stable, Tom, our journey's end."
Good wits will jump-both meant the very
steed;

The top o'th' country, both for shape and speed:
So to't they went-and, with an halter round
His feather'd neck, they nimm'd him off the ground.
And now, good people, we should next relate
Of these adventurers the luckless fate:
Poor Tom!-but here the sequel is to seek,
Not being yet translated from the Greek:
Some say, that Tom would honestly have peach'd.
But by his blabbing friend was over-reach'd;
Others insist upon't that both the elves
Were, in like manner, halter-nimm'd themselves.

It matters not-the moral is the thing,

For which our purpose, neighbours, was to sing.
If it should hit some few amongst the throng,
Let 'em not lay the fault upon the song
Fair warning all: he that bas got a cap,
Now put it on--or else beware a rap:
'Tis but a short one, it is true, but yet
Has a long reach with it-videlicet,

Twixt right and wrong how many gentle trimmers
Will neither steal nor filch, but will be plaguy
Nimmers!

I

CARELESS CONTENT.

AM content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground as I could see:
So when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,

Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle humour'd hearts,
I choose to chat where e'er I come,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the troth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth,

For chance or change of peace or pain; For Fortune's favour or her frown; For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge, nor up nor down:

But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of ev'ry tide;
If simple sense will not succeed

I make no bustling, but abide:
For shining wealth, or scaring woe
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,

Of they're i'th' wrong, and we're i'th' right,
I shun the rancours and the routs,
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.
With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;
If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none dispos'd to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.
Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave;
But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:

I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.
Fond of a true and trusty tie,

I never loose where'er Ilink;
Tho' if a bus'ness budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think:
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,

And read or write, but without wrath;
For should I burn, or break my brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

I love my neighbour as myself,

Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, pow'r, or pelf,

Came I to crouch, as I conceive:
Dame Nature doubtless has design'd
A man the monarch of his mind.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,

That man does right to mar his sest,
Let me be deft, and debonair,

I am content, I do not care.

ON PATIENCE.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A FRIEND.

PART I.

"AVERSE On patience?" Yes;-but then prepare
Your mind, friend T-c-t, with a reading share;
Or else 't will give you rather less than more,
To hear it mention'd, than you had before:
If mine to write, remember, 't is your task
To bear the lines, which you are pleas'd to ask.

Patience the theme?-a blessed inmate this!
The nursing parent of our bosom bliss:
Abroad for bliss she bids us not to roam,
But cultivate its real fund at home:
A noble treasure-when the patient soul
Sits in the centre, and surveys the whole.

The bustling world, to fetch her out from thence,
Will urge the various, plausible pretence;
Will praise perfections of a grander name,
Sound great exploits, and call her out to fame;

Amuse and flatter, till the soul, too prone
To self-activity, deserts her throne.

Be on your guard-the bus'ness of a man
Is, to be sure, to do what good he can;
But first at home; let patience rule within
Where charity, you know, must first begin:
Not monied love, as fondly understood,
But calm, sedate propensity to good;

The genuine product of the virtue, friend,
Which you oblige me here to recommend;
The trial this of all the rest beside,
For without patience they are all but pride:
A strong ambition shines within its sphere,
But proves its weakness-when it cannot bear.

There lies the test; bring ev'ry thing to that;
It shows us plainly what we would be at:
Of gen'rous actions we may count the sum,
But scarce the worth, till disappointments come:
Men oft are then most gen'rously absurd,
Their own good actions have their own bad word.

Impatience hates ingratitude, forsooth;
Why?-it discovers an ungrateful truth;
That having done for interest or fame
Such and such doings, she has lost her aim;
While thankless people, really in her debt,
Have all got theirs-and put her in a fret.

Possest of patience, a right humble mind,
At all events, is totally resign'd;

Does good for sake of good, not for th' event,
Leaves that to Heav'n, and keeps to its content:
Good to be done, or to be suffer'd ill,
It acts, it bears with meek submissive will—

"Enough, enough.-Now tell me, if you please,
How is it to be had, this mental ease?"
God knows, I do not, how it is acquir'd-
But this I know-if heartily desir'd,
We shall be thankful for the donor's leave
To ask-to hope-and wait till we receive.

PART II.

"Virtues," you say," by patience must be tried-
If that be wanting, they are all but pride,
Of rule so strict, I want to have a clue."
Well, if you'll have the same indulgence too,
And take a fresh compliance in good part,
I'll do the best I can with all my heart.

Pride is the grand distemper of the mind;
The source of ev'ry vice of ev'ry kind:
That love of self, wherein its essence lies,
Gives birth to vicious tempers, and supplies:
We coin a world of names for them, but still
All comes to fondness for our own dear will.

We see, by facts, upon the triple stage
Of present life, youth, manhood, and old age,
How to be pleas'd-be honour'd-and be rich-
These three conditions commonly bewitch:
From young to old, if human faults you weigh,
Tis selfish pride, that grows from green to grey.

Pride is, indeed, a more accustom'd name
For quest of grandeur, eminence, or fame;
But that of pleasure, that of gold betrays
What inward principle it is that sways:
The rake's young dotage, and the miser's old,
One same inslaving love to self unfold.

If pride be thus the fountain of all vice;
Whence must we say that virtue has its rise,
But from humility? and what the sure,
And certain sign, that even this is pure?
For pride itself will in its dress appear,
When nothing touches that same self too near.

But when provok'd, and say unjustly too,
Then pride disrobes; then what a huge ado!
Then who can blame the passion of a pride
That has got reason, reason of its side;
"He's in the wrong—and I am in the right—
Resentment come, Humility, good night!"

Now the criterion, I apprehend,
On which, if any, one may best depend,
Is patience;-is the bear and the forbear;
To which the truly virtuous adhere;
Resolv'd to suffer, without pro and con,
A thousand evils, rather than do one.

Not to have patience, and yet not be proud,
Is contradiction not to be allow'd:
All eyes are open to so plain a cheat,
But of the blinded by the self-deceit ;
Who, with a like consistency, may tell
That nothing ails them, tho' they are not well.

Strict is the rule; but notwithstanding true;
However I fall short of it, or you:

Best to increase our stock, if it be small,
By dealing in it with our neighbours all;
And then, who knows, but we sball in the end,
Learn to have patience with ourselves—and mend.

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A HINT TO A YOUNG PERSON,

FOR HIS BETTER IMPROVEMENT BY READING OR
CONVERSATION.

In reading authors, when you find
Bright passages that strike your mind,
And which perhaps you may have reason
To think on at another season,
Be not contented with the sight,
But take them down in black and white;
Such a respect is wisely shown
That makes another's sense one's own.

When you're asleep upon your bed
A thought may come into your head,
Which may be of good use if taken
Due notice of when you're awaken;
Of midnight thoughts to take no heed,
Betrays a sleepy soul indeed;
It is but dreaming in the day
To throw our nightly hours away.

In conversation, when you meet
With persons cheerful and discreet,

2 Alluding to a celebrated poem, written by Dr. Akenside, entitled The Pleasures of the Imagination.

Animos in martia bella

3

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That speak or quote in prose or rhyme
Things or facetious or sublime,
Observe what passes, and anon,
When you come home think thereupon;
Write what occurs, forget it not,

A good thing sav'd's a good thing got.

Let no remarkable event
Pass with a gaping wonderment,

A fool's device" Lord who would think!"
Commit it safe to pen and ink

Whate'er deserves attention now,
For when 'tis pass'd, you know not how,
Too late you'll find it to your cost
So much of human life is lost.

Were it not for the written letter,
Pray what were living men the better
For all the labours of the dead,
For all that Socrates e'er said?
The morals brought from Heav'n to men
'He would have carried back again:
'Tis owing to his short-hand youth
That Socrates does now speak truth.

TO LADY B W

UPON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH THE
MOIETY OF A LOTTERY TICKET.
THIS ticket is to be divided-well;
To lady Betty let these presents tell
How much I value, chances all apart,
This gentle token of her friendly heart;
Without regard to prizes or to blanks,
My obligation is immediate thanks;
And here they come as hearty and as free
As this unlook'd for favour came to me.

Five thousand pounds perhaps a handsome
Av, but in specie five may never come.- [sum-
That as you please, dame Fortune, in my mind
I have already taken it in kind;

Am quite contented with my present lot,
Whether you're pleas'd to second it or not:
Chance is but chance, however, great or small,
The spirit of a loving gift is all.

"Three tickets offer'd to make choice of one,
And write the memorandum thereupon"-
Spread in successive order, as they lie,
May all be prizes for her sake, thought I!
That upon which my fancy chose to fix,
Was (let me see) four hundred fifty-six:
Four, five, and six-they are, if I can read,
Numbers that regularly should succeed.

Thou backward Fortune, that in days of yore Hast read from six to five, from five to four, Once, for the lady's sake, reverse thy spite, And trace a luckier circle to the right, If thou art angry that I should despise Thy gifts, which never dazzl'd much my eyes; Now speak me fair, nor let the occasion slip Of such an honourable partnership.

Stand still a moment on thy bridge's pier, And the conditions of success let's hear;

See Verses to the People of England, 1758, by Say what the bard shall offer at thy shrine, William Whitehead, esq. poet laureat.

Any thing less than worship, and 'tis thine.

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