Ì, like you, was born a woman,
Well I know what vapours mean :
The disease, alas! is common ;
Single, we have all the spleen.
All the morals that they tell us,
Never cur'd the forrow yet:
Chufe, among the pretty fellows,
One of honour, youth, and wit.
VI.
Prithee hear him every morning,
At the leaft an hour or two;
Once again at night returning
I believe the dofe will do.
An EPISTLE to Mr. C J———.
By Mr. MATTHEW GREEN of the Custom-house.
HIS motly piece to you I fend,
Who always were a faithful friend
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I fing, fo often feel.
The want of method pray excufe,
Allowing for a vapour'd Mufe;
Nor to a narrow path confin'd,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.
The child is genuine, you may trace
Throughout the fire's tranfmitted face.
Nothing is ftol'n: my Mufe, tho' mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within
Nor vainly buys what Gildon fells,
Poetick buckets for dry wells.
School-helps I want, to climb on high,
Where all the ancient treasures lie,
And there unfeen commit a theft
On wealth in Greek exchequers left.
Then where? from whom? what can I steal,
Who only with the moderns deal?
This were attempting to put on
Raiment from naked bodies won :
They fafely fing before a thief,
They cannot give who want relief;
Some few excepted, names well known,
And justly laurel'd with renown,
Whose stamp of genius marks their ware,
And theft detects of theft beware;
From Moore fo lafh'd, example fit,
Shan petty larceny in wit.
First know, my friend, I do not mean
To write a treatise on the Spleen ;
Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;
Nor mend th' alarum watch, you pulse.
If I am right, your question lay,
What course I take to drive away
The day-mare Spleen, by whofe falfe pleas
Men prove mere fuicides in eafe ;
And how I do myself demean
In ftormy world to live ferene.
When by its magick lantern Spleen With frightful figures spreads life's scene, And threat'ning profpects urg'd my fears, A ftranger to the luck of heirs ;
Reafon, fome quiet to restore,
Shew'd part was substance, fhadow more ;
With Spleen's dead weight tho' heavy grown,
In life's rough tide I funk not down,
But fwam, till Fortune threw a rope,
Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.
I always choose the plaineft food
To mend vifcidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor;
Thy help love's confeffors implore,
And doctors fecretly adore;
To thee I fly, by thee dilute
Thro' veins my blood doth quicker fhoot,
And by fwift current throws off clean`
Prolifick particles of Spleen.
I never fick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And feldom Cloe's lodgings haunt,
Thrifty of spirits, which I want.
Hunting I reckon very good
To brace the nerves, and ftir the blood;
But after no field-honours itch,
Atchiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch.
While Spleen lies foft relax'd in bed,
Or o'er coal fires inclines the head,
Hygeia's fons with hound and horn,
And jovial cry awake the morn.
These fee her from the dusky plight,
Smear'd 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 the flies.
Then horfe and hound fierce joy display,
Exulting at the Hark-away,
And in pursuit o'er tainted ground
From lungs robust field-notes refound.
Then, as St. George the dragon flew,
Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view;
While all their spirits are on wing,
And woods, and hills, and vallies ring.
To cure the mind's wrong biafs, 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 humour hit,
Has harlequin'd away the fit.
Since mirth is good in this behalf,
At fome partic❜lars let us laugh.
Witlings, brisk fools, curs'd with half sense,
That ftimulates their impotence;
Who buz in rhyme, and, like blind flies,
Err with their wings for want of eyes,
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