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 unfeen 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 treatife on the Spleen;
Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;
Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse,
If I am right, your question lay,
What courfe I take to drive away
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 substance, shadow 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 plaineft 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 shoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolific particles of Spleen.
I never fick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And feldom Cloe's lodgings haunt,
Thrifty of spirits, 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 fee her from the dusky plight,
Smear'd by th' embraces of the night,
With roral wash redeem her face,
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 robuft field-notes refound.
Then, as St. George the dragon flew,
Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view;
While all their spirits are on wing,
And woods, and hills, and vallies ring.
To cure the mind's wrong biafs, Spleen;
Some recommend the bowling-green;
Some, hilly walks; all, exercife;
Fling but a stone, the giant dies
Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been
Extreme good doctors for the Spleen;
And kitten, if the humour hit,
Has harlequin'd away the fit.
Since mirth is good in this behalf,
At, fome partic❜lars let us laugh.
Witlings, brifk fools, curs'd with half fenfe,
That ftimulates their impotence;
Who buz in rhyme, and, like blind flies,
Err with their wings for want of eyes.
Poor authors worshipping a calf,
Deep tragedies that make us laugh,
A ftrict diffenter faying grace,
A lect'rer preaching for a place,
Folks, things prophetic to dispense,
Making the past the future tense,
The popifh dubbing of a priest,
Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd,
Green-apron'd Pythoniffa's rage,
Great Æfculapius on his stage,
A miser starving to be rich,
The prior of Newgate's dying fpeech,
A jointur'd widow's ritual state,
Two Jews difputing tête à tête,
New almanacs compos'd by feers,
Experiments on felons ears,
Difdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
The superb muscle of the eye,
A coquet's April-weather face,
A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace,
And fops in military show,
Are fov'reign for the cafe in view.
If Spleen-fogs rife at close of day,
I'clear my ev'ning with a play,
Or to fome concert take my way.
The company, the fhine of lights,
The scenes of humour, mufic's flights,
Adjust and set the foul to rights.
Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays,
To others' griefs attention raise :
Here, while the tragic fictions glow,
We borrow joy by pitying woe;
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