Poor authors worshipping a calf;
Deep tragedies that make us laugh,
A ftrict diffenter saying grace,
A lect'rer preaching for a place ;
Folks, things prophetick to dispense,
Making the past the future tenfe,
The popish dubbing of a priest,
Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd,
Green-apron'd Pythoniffa's rage,
Great Æfculapius on his ftage,
A miser starving to be rich,
The prior of Newgate's dying speech,
A jointur'd widow's ritual ftate,
Two Jews difputing tête à tête,
New almanacks compos'd by feers,
Experiments on felons ears,
Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
The superb muscle of the eye,
A coquet's April-weather face,
A Queenb'rough mare behind his mace,
And fops in military show,
Are fo'vreign for the cafe in view.
If Spleen-fogs rife at close of day,
I clear my ev'ning with a play,
Or to fome concert take my way.
The company, the fhine of lights,
The scenes of humour, mufick's flights,
Adjust and set the foul to rights.
Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays, To others' griefs attention raise:
Here, while the tragick fictions glow,
We borrow joy by pitying woe;
There gaily comick scenes delight,
And hold true mirrors to our fight.
Virtue in charming dress array'd,
Calling the paffions to her aid,
When moral scenes just actions join,
Takes shape, and shews her face divine.
Mufick has charms, we all may find,
Ingratiate deeply with the mind.
When art does found's high pow'r advance,
To mufick's pipe the paffions dance;
Motions unwill'd its pow'rs have shewn,
Tarantulated by a tune.
Many have held the foul to be
Nearly ally'd to harmony.
Her have I known indulging grief,
And fhunning company's relief,
Unveil her face, and looking round,
Own, by neglecting forrow's wound,
The confanguinity of found.
In rainy days keep double guard,
Or Spleen will furely be too hard;
Which, like those fish by failors met,
Fly higheft, while their wings are wet,
In fuch dull weather, fo unfit
To enterprize a work of wit,
When clouds one yard of azure sky,
That's fit for fimile, deny,
I drefs my face with ftudious looks,
And shorten tedious hours with books.
But if dull fogs invade the head,
That mem'ry minds not what is read,
I fit in window dry as ark,
And on the drowning world remark :
Or to fome coffee-house I ftray
For news, the manna of a day,
And from the hipp'd difcourfes gather,
That politicks go by the weather:
Then feek good-humour'd tavern chums,
And play at cards, but for fmall fums;
Or with the merry fellows quaff,
And laugh aloud with them that laugh;
Or drink a joco-ferious cup
With fouls who've took their freedom
And let my mind, beguil'd by talk,
In Epicurus' garden walk,
Who thought it heav'n to be ferene,
Pain hell; and purgatory spleen.
Sometimes I drefs, with women fit,
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 fwell of waist
In maid of honour loosely lac'd,
And beauty borr'wing Spanish red,
And loving pair with fep'rate bed,
And jewels pawn'd for lofs 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 modifh manner we,
In aid of fugar, fweeten 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 fhrine,
And your throng'd altars with my lays
Perfume, and get by giving praife.
With speech fo fweet, fo fweet a mien
You excommunicate the Spleen,
Which, fiend-like, flies the magick ring
You form with found, when pleas'd to fing;
Whate'er you fay, howe'er you move,
We look, we liften, and approve.
Your touch, which gives to feeling blifs,
Our nerves officious throng to kifs;
By Celia's pat, on their report,
The grave-air'd foul, inclin'd to sport,
Renounces wisdom's fullen pomp,
And loves the floral game, to romp.
But who can view the pointed rays,
That from black eyes fcintillant blaze ?
Love on his throne of glory feems
Encompass'd with Satellite beams.
But when blue eyes, more foftly bright,
Diffuse benignly humid light,
We gaze, and fee the fmiling loves,
And Cytherea's gentle doves,
And raptur'd fix in fuch a face,
Love's mercy-feat, and throne of grace..
Shine but on age, you melt its snow;
Again fires long-extinguifh'd glow,
And, charm'd by witchery of eyes,
Blood long congealed liquifies :
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 leaft!
Hence I with care fuch lott'ries fhun,
Where, a priz'd mifs'd, I'm quite undone ;
And han't, by vent'ring on a wife,
Yet run the greatest risk in life.
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