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On trifles some are earnestly absurd,
You'll think the world depends on ev'ry word.
What, is not every mortal free to speak ?
I'll give my reasons, tho' I break my neck.
And what's the question ?--if it shines or rains,
Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen miles to Staines.
The wretch reduc'd to rags by every vice,
Pride, projects, races, mistresses, and dice,
The rich rogue Thuns, though full as bad as he,
And knows a quarrel is good husbandry.
"Tis strange, cries Peter, you are out of pelf,
I'ın sure I thought you wiser than myself;
Yet gives him nothing—but advice too late,
Retrench, or rather mortgage your estate,
I can advance the sum,-- tis best for both ;
But henceforth cur your coat to match your cloth.
A minister, in mere revenge and sport,
Shall give his foe a paltry place at court.
The dupe for every royal birth-day buys
New horfes, coaches, cloaths, and liveries;
Plies at the levee, and distinguish'd there
Lives on the royal whisper for a year;
His wenches shine in Brussels and Brocade!
And now the wretch, ridiculously mad,
Draws on his banker, mortgages and fails,
Then to the country runs away from jails :
There ruin'd by the court he felis a vote
To the next burgers, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the steeds which once his chariot bore,
Or sweeps the town, which once he serv'd before.
But, by this roving meteor led, I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend.
Then take advice; I preach not out of time,
When good lord Middlesex is bent on rhyme.
Their humour check’d, or inclination cross’d,
Sometimes the friendship of the great is loft.
Unless call'd out to wench, be sure comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:
For your reward you gain his love, and dine
On the best venison and the best French wine,
Nor to lord ****** make the observation,
How the twelve peers have answer’d their creation,
Nor in your wine or wrath betray your trust,
Be filent still, and obstinately just :
Explore no secrets, draw no characters,
For echo will repeat, and walls have cars :
Nor let a busy fool a secret know,
A secret gripes him till he lets it go :
Words are like bullets, and we wish in vain,
When once discharg’d, to call them back again.
Derend, dear Spence, the honest and the civil,
But to cry up a rascal--that's the devil.
Who guards a good man's character, 'tis known,
At the same time protects and guards his own.
For as with houses ’tis with people's names,
A shed may set a palace all on fiames;
The fire neglected on the cottage preys,
But mounts at lait into a general blaze.
'Tis a fine thing, some think, a lord to know
I wish his tradesmen could but think so too,
He gives his word--then all your hopes are gone :
Ile gives his honour-then you're quite undone.
His and some women's love the same are found;
You rafhly board a fireship, and are drown’d.
Most folks fo partial to themselves are grown,
They hate a temper differing from their own.
The grave abhor the
And formalists pronounce the witty mad:
The sot, who drinks fix bottles in a place,
Swears at the flinchers who refuse their glass,
Would you not pass for an ill-natur'd man,
Comply with every humour that you can.
Pope will inftruct you how to pass away
Your time like him, and never lose a day;
From hopes or fears your quiet to defend,
To all mankind as to yourself a friend,
And, sacred from the world, retir’d, unknown,
To lead a life with mortals like his own.
When to delicious Pimperne I retire,
What greater bliss, my Spence, can I desire ?
Contented there my easy hours I spend
With maps, globes, books, my bottle, and a friend.
There can I live upon my income still,
E’en though the house should pass the Quakers bill :
Yet to my share should some good prebend fall,
I think myself of size to fill a stall.
For life or wealth let Heaven my lot affign,
A firm and even soul shall still be mine.
SPECIMEN of a Translation of the ODYSSEY
HE nurse all wild with transport seein'd to swim, !
Joy wing’d her feet and lighten'd ev'ry limb;
Then to the room with speed impatient borne
Flew with the tidings of her lord's return.
There bending o’er the deeping queen, he cries,
Rife, my Penelope, my daughter, rise
To fee Ulyfies thy long ablent ipoule,
Thy soul's defire and lord of all thy vows : ,,
Though late, he comes, and in his rage has lain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty suitor train.
Ah, Euryclea, she replies, you rave;
The gods resume that reason which they gave ;
For Heaven deep wisdom to the fool supplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wife.
And wisdom once was thine! but now I find
The gods have ruin'd thy distemper'd mind.
How could you hope your fiction to impose ?
Was it to flatter or deride my woes ?
How could you break a sleep with talk so vain,
forrows in so soft a chain ?
A deep so sweet I never could enjoy
Since iny dear lord left Ithaca for Troy:
Curst Troy-oh! why did I thy name disclose ?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes :
But fly--some other had provok'd my rage,
And you but owe your pardon to your age.
No artful tales, no studied lies, I frame,
Ulysses lives (rejoins the reverend dame)
In that dishonour'd stranger's close disguise;
Long has he pass'd all unsuspecting eyes,
All but thy son's--and long has he supprest
The well-concerted secret in his breast;
Till his brave father should his foes defeat,
And the close scheme of his revenge compleat.
Swift as the word the queen transported sprung,
And round the dame in strict embraces hung;
Then as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her soul.
If my victorious hero safe arrives,
If my dear lord, Ulysses, ftill survives,
Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were such multitudes destroy'd by one ?
Nought I beheld, but heard their cries, she said,
When death flew raging, and the suitors bled :
Immur'd we listen'd, as we fat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing sound.
Call'd by thy fon to view the scene I fled,
And saw Ulysses striding o’er the dead !
Amidit the rising heaps the hero stood
All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood.