all the burdens man muft bear,
Time feems most galling and fevere;
Beneath this grievous load opprefs'd.
We daily meet fome friend diftrefs'd.
"What can one do? I rofe at nine?
Tis full fix hours before we dine;
Six hours! no earthly thing to do!
Would I had doz'd'in bed till two!"

A pamphlet is before him spread,
And almoft half a page is read;
Tir'd with the ftudy of the day,
The fluttering fheets are tofs'd away.
He opes his fauff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns, and ftretches in his chair.
"Not twenty, by the minute-hand!
Good Gods, fays he, my watch must stand!
How muddling, is on books to pore!
I thought I 'ad read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can't contrive to rife too late."

To make the minutes fafter run,
Then, too, his tirefome felf to fhun,
To the next coffee-house he fpeeds,
Takes up the news, fome fcraps he reads.
Sauntering, from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He fpies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they fhare,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.

Says Tom, "Since all men must confefs,
That time lies heavy, more or lefs,
Why fhould it be fo hard to get,
Till two, a party at Piquet?
Play might relieve the lagging mòrn :
By cards long wintery nights are borne,
Does not Quadrille amufe the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and fpleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away."

"My cafe, fays Will, then must be hard, By want of fkill from play debarr'd, Courtiers kill time by various ways; Dependence wears out half their days. How happy thefe, whofe time ne'er fands! Attendance takes it off their hands. Were it not for this curfed fhower, The Park had wil'd away an hour. At court, without or place or view,

I daily lofe an hour or two:

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It fully anfwers my defign,
When I have pick'd up friends to dine;
The tavern makes our burden light;
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At fix (hard cafe!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From fix till ten! unlefs in fleep.
One cannot spend the hours fo cheap.
The comedy's no fhoner done,
But fome affembly is begun ;
Loitering from room to room I ftray,
Converfe, but nothing hear or fay:
Quite tir'd, from fair to fair I roam.
So foon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken flow-pac'd night,
Again my tavern-friends invite":
Here, too, our early mornings pafs,
Till drowfy fleep retard the glafs,"

Thus they their wretched life bemoan, And make each other's cafe their own. Confider, friends, no hour rolls on But fomething of your grief is gone. Were you to fchemes of business bred,

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Did you the paths of learning tread,

Your hours, your days, would fly toò faft; You'd then regret the minute past.

Time's fugitive and light as wind :

'Tis indolence that clogs your mind:

That load from off your fpirits fhake,

You'll own, and grieve for, your mistake.
A while your thoughtlefs fpleen suspend,
Then read, and (if you can) attend.

As Plutus, to divert his care,
Walk'd forth one morn to take the air,
Cupid o'ertook his ftrutting pace.
Each far'd upon the ftranger's face,
Till recollection fet them right,

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For each knew th' other but by fight.

25 After fome complimental talk,

Time met them, bow'd, and join'd their walk. Their chat on various fubjects ran,

But moft, what each had done for man. Plutus affumes a haughty air,

30 Juft like our purfe-proud fellows here.

"Let kings, fays he, let coblers tell, Whofe gifts among mankind excel, Confider courts; what draws their train? Think you 'tis loyalty or gain?

35 That fatefman hath the ftrongest hold,
Whofe tool of politics is gold;

By that, in former reigns, 'tis faid,
The knave in power hath fenates led;
By that alone he fway'd debates,

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Enrich'd himfelf, and beggar'd ftates.

Forego your boaft. You must conclude,

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That's most efteem'd that's most purfued.

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Think, too, in what a woeful plight

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That wretch muft live whofe pocket's light.
Are not his hours by want depreft?
Penurious care corrodes his breaft.
Without refpect, or love, or friends,
His folitary day defcends."

"You might, fays Cupid, doubt my parts,

50 My knowledge, too, in human hearts,

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Th' examples of our days regard ; Where 's virtue feen without reward? Diftinguish'd and in place you find Defert and worth of every kind. Survey the reverend bench, and fee Religion, learning, piety: The patron, ere he recommends, Sees his own image in his friend's. Is honefty difgrac'd and poor? What is 't to us what was before?

We all of times corrupt have heard,
When paltry minions were preferr'd ;
When all great offices, by dozens,
Were fill'd by brothers, fons, and coufins.
What matter ignorance and pride?
The man was happily ally'd.
Provided that his clerk was good,
What though he nothing understood?
In church and ftate the forry race
Grew more confpicuous fools in place.
Such heads, as then a treaty made,
Had bungled in the cobbler's trade.

Confider, Patrons, that fuch elves
Expofe your folly with themfelves.
'Tis yours, as 'tis the parent's care,
To fix each genius in its fphere.
Your partial hand can wealth difpenfe,
But never give a blockhead sense.

An owl of magifterial air,
Of folemn voice, of brow auftere,
Affum'd the pride of human race,
And bore his wifdom in his face;
Not to depreciate learned eyes,
I've feen a pedant look as wife.

He fcorn'd the world, himfelf admir'd;

Within a barn, from noife retir'd,

And, like an ancient fage, conceal'd The follies public life reveal'd.

"Blockhead, says he, by what you've done, 135
One would have thought them each your fon;
For parents, to their offspring blind,
Confuit nor parts nor turn of mind,

75 But ev'n in infancy decree

What this, what th' other fon shall be.
Had you with Judgment weigh'd the cafe,
Their genius thus had fix'd their place :
The Swan had learnt the failor's art;

80 The Cock had play'd the foldier's part
The Spider in the weaver's trade
With credit had a fortune made;
But for the foal, in every clafs,

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Philofophers of old, he read, Their country's youth to fcience bred, Their manners form'd for every station, And deftin'd each his occupation. When Xenophon, by numbers brav'd, Retreated, and a people fav'd, That laurel was not all his own;

The plant by Socrates was fown.

To Ariftotle's greater name

The Macedonian ow'd his fame.

Th' Athenian bird, with pride replete, Their talents equal'd in conceit. And, copying the Socratic rule, Set up for matter of a fchool. Dogmatic jargon learnt by heart, Trite fentences, hard terms of art, To vulgar ears feem'd fo profound. They fancy 'd learning in the found.

The fchool had fame; the crowded place

With pupils warm'd of every race.
With thefe the fwan's maternal care
Had fent her fearce-fledg'd cygnet heir.

The Hen (though fond and loath to part)
Here lodg'd the darling of her heart:
The Spider, of mechanic kind,

Afpir'd to fcience more refin'd:

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THE COOK-MAID, THE TURNSPIT, AND THE OX.

To a poor Man.

CONSIDER man in every fr here,

Then tell me, is your lot fevere?

'Tis murmur, difcontent, distrust,
That makes you wretched. God is just.

I grant, the hungry must be fed,

That toil, too, earns thy daily bread.

What then? Thy wants are feen and known;
But every mortal feels his own

We 're born a reftlefs, needy crew:
Shew me the happier man than you.
Adam, though bleft above his Aind,
For want of focial woman pin'd.
Eve's wants the fubtle ferpent saw,
Her fickle tafte tranfgrefs'd the law:
Thus fell our fre; and their disgrace
The curfe entail'd on human race,

When Philip's fon, by glory led,
Had o'er the globe, his empire fpread;
When altars to his name were drefs'd;
That he was man, his tears confefs'd.

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The hopes of avarice are check'd :
The proud man always wants respect,
What various wants on power attend!
Ambition never gains its end,
Who hath not heard the rich complain
Of furfeits and corporeal pain?
He, barr'd from every use of wealth,
Envies the ploughman's ftrength and health.
Another, in a beauteous wife:
Finds all the iniferies of life

Domestic jars and jealous fear,
Imbitter all his days with care.
This wants an heir; the line is loft:
Why was that vain entail engroft ?
Canft thou difcern another's mind?
What is't you envy? Envy's blind.
Tell Envy, when the would annoy,
That thoufands want what you enjoy.

"The dinner must be difh'd at one.
Where's this vexatious Turnfpit gone?
Unless the skulking Cur is caught,
The furloin's fpoilt, and I'm in fault."
Thus faid, (for fure you'll think it fit
That I the Cook-maid's oaths omit)
With all the fury of a cook,

Her cooler kitchen Nan forfook:

The broom-ftick o'er her head she waves;

"Was ever Cur fo curs'd! (he cry'd)
What ftar did at my birth prefide!
Am I for life by compact bound
To tread the wheel's eternal round?
Inglorious tafk! of all our race
No flave is half fo mean and bafe.
Had Fate a kinder lot affign'd,
And form'd me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employ'd,
Had indolence and ease enjoy'd;
And, like a gentleman, careft,
Had been the lady's favourite guest.
Or were I fprung from fpaniel line,
Was his fagacious noftril mine,
By me, their never-erring guide,
From wood and plain their feafts fupply'd,
Knights, 'fquires, attendant on my pace,
Had thar'd the pleafures of the chace.
Endued with native strength and fire,
Why call'd I not the lion fire?

A lion! fuch mean views I fcorn:
Why was I not of woman born?

Who dares with reafon's power contend?
On man we brutal faves depend:

To hin all creatures tribute pay,
And luxury employs his day."

An Ox by chance o'erheard his moan,
And thus rebuk'd the lazy drone.

"Dare you at Partial Fate repine? How kind's your lot compar'd with mine! Decreed to toil, the barbarous knife Hath fever'd me from focial life; VOL. VII.

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FABLE XVI,

THE RAVEN, THE SEXTON, AND THE EARTH

WORM.

To Laura.

LAURA, methinks you're over-nice.

True; flattery is a fhocking vicę :
Yet fure, whene'er the praife is juft.
One may commend without disgust.
Am I a privilege deny'd,

60 Indulg'd by every tongue be fide?
How fingular are all your ways!
A woman, and averse to praise!
If 'tis offence fuch truths to tell,
Why do your merits thus excel?

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Since then I dare not fpeak my mind,
A truth confpicuous to mankind;
Though in full luftre every grace
Diftinguish your celeftial face;
Though beauties of inferior ray

70 (Like ftars before the orb of day) Turn pale and fade; I check my lays, Admiring what I dare not praife.

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If you the tribute, due disdain,
The Mufe's mortifying strain
Shall, like a woman in mere ipite,
Set beauty in a moral light,

Though fuch revenge might fhock the ear
Of many a celebrated fair,

I mean that fuperficial race

80 Whofe thoughts ne'er reach beyond their face; What's that to you? I but difplease

Such ever-girlish ears as thefe.
Virtue can brook the thoughts of age,
That lafts the fame through every stage.
85 Though you by time muft fuffer more
Than ever woman loft before,

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To age is fuch indifference fhown,
As if your face were not your own.
Were you by Antoninus taught?
Or is it native ftrength of thought
That thus, without concern or fright,
You view yourself by Reason's light?
Thofe eyes of fo divine a ray,
What are they? Mouldering, mortal clay.
Thofe features, caft in heavenly mould,
Shall, like my coarfer earth, grow old;
Like common grafs, the fairest flower
Muft feel the hoary feafon's power.

How weak, how vain is human pride!
Dares man upon himfelf confide?
The wretch who glories in his gain,
Amaffes heaps on heaps in vain.
Why lose we life in anxious cares,
To lay-in hoards for future years?
Can thofe (when tortur'd by disease)
Cheer our fick heart, or purchase ease?
Can thofe prolong one gafp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?
What's beauty? Call ye that your own?
A flower that fades as foon as blown.
What's man in all his boaft of fway?
Perhaps the tyrant of a day.

Alike the laws of life take place Through every branch of human race. The monarch of long regaline Was rais'd from duft as frail as mine. Can he pour health into his veins, Cr cool the fever's reftlefs pains? Can he (worn down in Nature's courfe) New-brace his feeble nerves with force? Can he (how vain is mortal power!) Stretch life beyond the deftin'd hour?

Confider, Man; weigh well thy frame;
The king, the beggar, is the fame.
Duft form'd us all. Each breathes his day,
Then finks into his native clay.

Beneath a venerable yew,
That in the lonely church-yard grew,
Two Ravens fate. In folemn croak
Thus one his hungry friend bespoke.

"Methinks I fcent fome rich repaft;
The favour ftrengthens with the blaft ;
Snuff then, the promis'd feaft inhale;
I tafte the carcafe in the gale.
Near yonder trees, the farmer's fteed,
From toil and every drudgery freed,
Hath groan'd his laft. A dainty treat!
To birds of tafte, delicious meat!"

A Sexton, bufy at his trade,
To hear their chat fu pends his fpade:
Death ftruck him with no farther thought,
Than merely as the fees he brought.
"Was ever two fuch blundering fowls,
In brains and manners lefs than owls!
Blockheads, fays he, learn more respect :
Know ye on whom ye thus reflect?
In this fame grave (who does me right,
Mutt own the work is strong and tight)

This maw hath elegantly din'd; Provok'd by luxury or need,

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On beaft, or fowl, or man, I feed:

75 Such fmall diftinction's in the favour,
By turns I choose the fancy'd flavour:
Yet I must own (that human beast!)
A glutton is the ran keft feaft.
Man, ceafe this boaft; for human pride
Hath various tracts to range befide.
The prince who kept the world in awe,
The judge whofe dictates fix'd the law,
The rich, the poor, the great, the finall,
Are levell'd; death confounds them all.
85 Then think not that we reptiles fhare
Such cates, fuch elegance of fare;
The only true and real good

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Of man was never vermin's food: 'Tis feated in th' immortal mind-;

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