A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems, Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, On virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes, Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain: The world forsaking with a calm disdain, Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat: Here quaff'd, encircled with the joyous train, Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet

He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.

Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy; A little, round, fat, oily man of God, Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry: He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, If a tight damsel chanc'd to trippen by; Which, when observ'd, he shrunk into his mew, And straight would recollect his piety anew.

Nor be forgot a tribe who minded naught (Old inmates of the place) but state-affairs; They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought, And on their brow sat every nation's cares. The world by them is parcell'd out in shares, When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold, And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears Has clear'd their inward eye: then, smoke-enroll'd, Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old.

Here languid Beauty kept her pale-fac'd court: Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,

From every quarter hither made resort,
Where, from gross mortal care and business free,
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury :
Or should they a vain shew of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?

To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom,
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and

loom.

Their only labour was to kill the time,
And labour dire it is, and weary woe:

They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme,
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow:
This soon too rude an exercise they find;

Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw,
Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclin'd,
And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the
wind.

Now must I mark the villainy we found; But, ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shewn. A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground, Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, Diseas'd, and loathsome, privily were thrown. Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there, Unpity'd, uttering many a bitter groan,

For of these wretches taken was no care;

Fierce fiends and hags of hell their only nurses were.

Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, To this dark den, where Sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce, it was not eath, And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway; He led, I wot, the softest way to death,

And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy mau; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit,

And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear, her pride made crouchen low
She felt, or fancy'd, in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the Spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leaches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry,
Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.

Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd, With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings: Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.

CANTO II.

The Knight of Arts and Industry,
And his achievements fair,

That by his Castle's overthrow
Secur'd and crowned were.

ESCAP'D the Castle of the sire of Sin,
Ah! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find?
For all around, without, and all within,
Nothing save what delightful was and kind,
Of goodness savouring and a tender mind,
E'er rose to view: but now another strain,
Of doleful note, alas! remains behind:
I now must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain,
And of the false enchanter Indolence complain.

Is there no patron to protect the Muse, And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil? To every labour its reward accrues,

And they are sure of bread who swink and moil;
But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive despoil,

As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee:
Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the Muses other meed decree,

They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.