Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of eafy 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 fick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And feldom Cloe's lodgings haunt,
Thrifty of fpirits, 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 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,

And

prove herself of Titan's race,
And, mounting in loose robes the skies,
Shed light and fragrance as fhe flies.
Then horfe and hound fierce joy difplay,
Exulting at the Hark-away,

And

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 bias, 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 mith is good in this behalf,

At fome partic'lars let us laugh.

Witlings, brik 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 lea'rer preaching for a place,
Folks, things prophetic to difpenfe,
Making the paft the future tenfe,
The popish dubbing of a priest,
Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd,

Green-apron'd Pythoniffa's rage,
Great Efculapius on his stage,
A mifer ftarving to be rich,

The prior of Newgate's dying fpeech,
A jointur'd widow's ritual ftate,
Two Jews difputing tête à tête,
New almanacs compos'd by feers,
Experiments on felons ears,

Difdainful prudes, who ceafelefs ply
The superb muscle of the eye,
A coquet's April-weather face,

A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace,
And fops in military shew,

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 shine of lights,
The scenes of humour, mufic's flights,
Adjuft and fet the foul to rights.

Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays,

To others' grief attention raife:

Here, while the tragic fictions glow,
We borrow joy by pitying woe;
There gaily comic fcenes delight,
And hold true mirrors to our fight.
Virtue, in charming drefs array'd,
Calling the paffions to her aid,

}

When

When moral scenes just actions join,
Takes shape, and fhews her face divine.
Mufic has charms, we all may find,
Ingratiate deeply with the mind.

When art does found's high pow'r advance,
To mufic's pipe the paffions dance;
Motions unwill'd its pow'rs have shewn,
Tarantulated by a tune.

Many have held the foul to be
Nearly ally'd to harmony.

Her have I known indulging grief,
And fhunning company's relief,
Unveil her face, and looking round,
Own, by neglecting forrow's wound,
The confanguinity of found.

In rainy days keep double guard,
Or Spleen will furely be too hard;
Which, like thofe fish by failors met,
Fly higheft, while their wings are wet.
In fuch dull weather, so unfit

To enterprize a work of wit,
When clouds one yard of azure sky,
That's fit for fimile, deny,

I dress my face with ftudious looks,
And shorten tedious hours with books.
But if dull fogs invade the head,
That mem'ry minds not what is read,

1 fit in window dry as ark,

And on the drowning world remark
Or to fome coffee-house I ftray

For news, the manna of a day,
And from the hipp'd difcourfes gather,
That politics go by the weather:
Then feek good-humour'd tavern chums,
And play at cards, but for small fums;
Or with the merry fellows quaff,

And laugh aloud with them that laugh;
Or drink a joco-ferious cup

With fouls who've took their freedom up,
And let my mind, beguil'd by talk,
In Epicurus' garden walk,

Who thought it heav n to be ferene;
Pain, hell, and purgatory, fpleen.
Sometimes I drefs, with women fit,
And chat away the gloomy fit;
Quit the ftiff garb of serious sense,
And wear a gay impertinence,
Nor think nor fpeak with any pains,
But lay on fancy's neck the reins;
Talk of unufual fwell of waist
In maid of honour loofely lac'd,
And beauty borr'wing Spanish red,
And loving pair with fep'rate bed,
And jewels pawn'd for lofs of game,
And then redeem'd by lofs of fame;

Of