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IV. 1, 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 :
Chuse, among the pretty fellows
One of honour, youth, and wit.

Prithee hear him every morning,

At the least an hour or two;
Once again at night returning

I believe the dose will do.

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The S P L E E N.

An EPISTLE to Mr. C-J.

By Mr. MATTHEW GREIN of the Custom-house.


HIS motly piece to you I send,
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, so often feel.

The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapour'd Muse;
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 transmitted face.
Nothing is ftol'n: my Muse, 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 unseen 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 safely fing before a thief,
They cannot give who want relief;
Some few excepted, names well known,
And juftly laureld with renown,
Whose stamp of genius marks their ware,
And theft detects : of theft beware;
From Moore fo lah'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 whose false pleas

prove mere suicides in case ;
And how I do myself demean
In stormy world to live serene.

When by its magick lantern Spleen
With frightful figures spreads life's scene,
And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears,
A franger to the luck of heirs ;
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Reason, some quiet to reftore,
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 swam, till Fortune threw a rope,
Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope,

I always choofe the plaineft food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor ;
Thy help love's confeffors implore,
And doctors secretly adore ;
To thee I fly, by thee dilute-
Thro' veins my blood doth quicker fhoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolifick particles of Spleen,

I never fick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And seldom Cloe's lodgings haunt,
Thrifty of fpirits, which I want,

Hunting I reckon very good
To brace the nerves, and stir the blood;
But after no field-honours įtch,
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 see her from the dusky plight,
Smear'd by th' embraces of the night,
With roral wash redeem her face,

herself of Titan's race,
And, mounting in loose robes the skies,
Shed light and fragrance as the fies.
Then horse and hound fierce joy display,
Exulting at the Hark-away,
And in pursuit o'er tainted ground
From langs robuft field-notes resound.
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 biass, 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 some partic'lars let us laugh.
Witlings, brisk fools, curs'd with half sense,
That stimulates their impotence;
Who buz in rhyme, and, like blind Aies,
Err with their wings for want of eyes,


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