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II.

All thofe difmal looks and fretting
Cannot Damon's life restore;

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,
And no fpring your charms renew.

IV.

I, like you, was born a woman,
Well I know what vapours mean :
The disease, alas! is common;
Single, we have all the spleen.

མ.

All the morals that they tell us,
Never cur'd the forrow yet:
Chuse, among the pretty fellows,
One of honour, youth, and wit.
VI.

Prithee hear him every morning,

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

I believe the dofe will do,

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***** ******* ***********

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,
Can best explain the author's fense;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I fing, fo often feel.

The want of method pray excufe,
Allowing for a vapour'd Mufe;
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 tranfmitted face.
Nothing is ftol'n: my Mufe, though mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within ;

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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
Raiment from naked bodies won:
They fafely fing before a thief,
They cannot give who want relief;
Some few excepted, names well known,
And justly laurel'd with renown,

Whose stamp of genius marks their ware,
And theft detects of theft beware;

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
Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse.
If I am right, your question lay,
What course I take to drive away

The

The day-mare Spleen, by whofe falfe pleas

Men prove mere fuicides in ease;
And how I do myself demean

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;
With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown,
In life's rough tide I fink not down,
But fwam, 'till Fortune threw a rope,
Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.
I always choose the plainest food
To mend vifcidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,

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,
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 ftir the blood;
But after no field-honours itch,
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,

And prove

herself of Titan's race,

And, mounting in loose robes the skies,

Shed light and fragrance as fhe flies.
Then horse and hound fierce joy display,
Exulting at the Hark-away,

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;

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