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All those dismal looks and fretting

Cannot Damon's life restore;
Long ago the worms have eat him,
You can never see him more,

III.
Once again confult your toilette,

In the glass your face review :
So much weeping soon will spoil it,
And no spring 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.

V.
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 dose will do,

The

The S P L E E N.
An E PISTLE to Mr. C--3--.

S

By Mr. MATTHEW Green of the Custom-house.

T HIS motly piece to you I send,

1 Who always were a faithful friend; ..
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense ;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I sing, so often feel.

The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapour’d Muse ;
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 transmitted face.
Nothing is ftol'n: my Muse, though mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within ;
I 4

Nor

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 safely sing before a thief,
They cannot give who want relief;
Some few excepted, names well known,
And justly laureld 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 convulse ;
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 whose false pleas
Men prove mere suicides in ease;
And how I do myself demean
In stormy world to live serene.

When by its magic lantern Spleen
With frightful figures spreads life's scene,
And threat’ning prospects urg'd my fears,
A stranger to the luck of heirs ;
Reason, some quiet to restore,
Shew'd part was substance, shadow more; .
With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown,
In life's rough tide I sink not down,
But swam, 'till Fortune threw a rope,
Buòyant on bladders fill’d with hope.

I always choose the plainest food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor;
Thy help love's conféffors implore, I
And doctors secretly adore ;
To thee I Ay, by thee dilute -
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot,
And by swift 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 spirits, which I want.

Hunting I reckon very good To brace the nerves, and stir the blood; But after no field-honours itch, Atchiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch. While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed, Or o'er coal fires inclines the head, Hygeia's sons 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 she 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 resound. Then, as St. George the dragon New, Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and, dying view;

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