II. All thofe difmal looks and fretting Long ago the worms have eat him, You can never fee him more. III. toilette, Once again confult your In the glass your face review: So much weeping foon will spoil it, IV. I, like you, was born a woman, མ. All the morals that they tell us, Prithee hear him every morning, At the least an hour or two; Once again at night returning I believe the dofe will do, ***** ******* *********** The SPLEEN. An EPISTLE to Mr. C—— J—~. By Mr. MATTHEW GREEN of the Custom-house. THIS motly piece to you I send, Who always were a faithful friend; Who, if difputes should happen hence, The want of method pray excufe, The child is genuine, you may trace Nor vainly buys what Gildon fells, Poetic 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 Whose stamp of genius marks their ware, From Moore fo lafh'd, example fit, Shun petty larceny in wit, First know, my friend, I do not mean To write a treatise on the Spleen; Nor to prescribe when nerves convulfe The The day-mare Spleen, by whofe falfe pleas Men prove mere fuicides in ease; In ftormy world to live ferene. When by its magic lantern Spleen With frightful figures fpreads 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 fubftance, fhadow more; Of easy access to the poor; Thy help love's confeffors implore, And doctors fecretly adore; To thee I fly, by thee dilute Through veins my blood doth quicker fhoot, And by fwift current throws off clean Prolific particles of Spleen. I never I never fick by drinking grow, To brace the nerves, and ftir the blood; And prove herself of Titan's race, And, mounting in loose robes the skies, Shed light and fragrance as fhe flies. 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; |