Should I, my friend, at large, repeat Her borrow'd fenfe, her fond conceit; The bede-roll of her vicious tricks ; My poem will be too prolix..
For could I my remarks fuftain, Like Socrates, or Miles Montaigne, Who in these times would read my books, But Tom o' Stiles, or John o' Nokes? As Brentford kings, difcreet and wife, After long thought and grave advice, Into Lardella's coffin peeping,
Saw nought to cause their mirth or weeping: So Alma now, to joy or grief Superior, finds her late relief: Weary'd of being high, or great,
And nodding in her chair of state; Stunn'd and worn out with endless chat, Of Will did this, and Nan said that; She finds, poor thing, fome little crack, Which nature, forc'd by time, must make; Thro' which the wings her deftin'd way : Upward the foars, and down drops clay : While some surviving friend supplies Hic jacet, and a hundred lies.
O Richard, till that day appears, Which must decide our hopes and fears, Would Fortune calm her prefent rage, And give us play-things for our age: Would Clotho wash her hands in milk, And twist our thread with gold and filk ;
Would the in friendship, peace and plenty, Spin out our years to four times twenty: And fhould we both, in this condition, Have conquer'd love, and worfe ambition; (Elfe thofe two paffions, by the way, May chance to fhow us fcurvy play ;) Then, Richard, then fhould we fit down, Far from the tumult of the town: I, fond of my well-chofen feat, My pictures, medals, books compleat: Or fhould we mix our friendly talk, O'er-shaded in that fav'rite walk,
Which thy own hand had whilom planted, Both pleas'd with all we thought we wanted: Yet then, ev'n then, one cross reflection Would spoil thy grove, and my collection; Thy fon, and his, e'er that, may die, And time fome uncouth heir fupply; Who fhall for nothing else be known, But fpoiling all, that thou hast done. Who fet the twigs, fhall he remember, That is in hafte to fell the timber? And what shall of thy woods remain, Except the box that threw the main ? Nay, may not time and death remove The near relations whom I love?
And my coz. Tom, or his coz Mary (Who hold the plough, or skim the dairy) My fav'rite books and pictures fell
To Smart, or Doiley, by the ell;
Kindly throw in a little figure, And fet the price upon the bigger?
Those who could never read the Grammar, When my dear volumes touch the hammer, May think books beft as richest bound: My copper medals by the pound May be with learned justice weigh'd; To turn the balance, Otho's head May be thrown in; and for the metal, The coin may mend a tinker's kettle- Tir'd with these thoughts-lefs tir'd than I, Quoth Dick, with your philosophy- That people live and die, I knew An hour ago, as well as you. And if fate fpins us longer years, Or is in hafte to take the fhears; I know, we must both Fortunes try, And bear our evils wet or dry.
Yet let the goddess fmile, or frown; Bread we shall eat, or white, or brown: And in a cottage, or a court,
Drink fine Champagne, or muddled Port. What need of books thefe truths to tell, Which folks perceive who cannot spell? And must we spectacles apply,
To view what hurts our naked eye? Sir, if it be your wisdom's aim,
To make me merrier than I am; I'll be all night at your devotion-
Come on, friend; broach the pleasing notion ;
But if you would deprefs my thought, Your fyftem is not worth a groat-
For Plato's fancies what care I? I hope you would not have me die, Like fimple Cato, in the play, For any thing that he can fay? E'en let him of ideas speak
To heathens in his native Greek. If to be fad is to be wise,
I do most heartily defpife Whatever Socrates has faid,
Or Tully writ, or Wanley read.
Dear Drift, to fet our matters right, Remove thefe papers from my fight: Burn Mat's Des-cart, and Ariftottle : Here, Jonathan, your mafter's bottle.
To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr.
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