Forfook his poft, to love inclin❜d;
A fav'rite bitch was in the wind;
By her feduc'd, in am'rous play,
They frifk'd the joyous hours away.
Thus by untimely love purfufng,
Like Antony, he fought his ruin.
For now the Squire, unvex'd with noise,
An honeft neighbour's chat enjoys.
Be free, fays he, your mind impart :
I love a friendly open heart.

Methinks my tenants fhun my gate:
Why fuch a stranger grown of late?
Pray tell me what offence they find?
'Tis plain, they're not fo well inclin❜d.
Turn off your Cur, the farmer cries,
Who feeds your ear with daily lies:
His fnarling infolence offends;

"Tis he that keeps you from your friends.
Were but that faucy puppy check'd,
You'd find again the fame respect.
Hear only him, he'll fwear it too,
That all our hatred is to you:
But learn from us your true estate;
'Tis that curft Cur alone we hate.

The Squire heard truth. Now Yap rufh'd in,
The wide hall echoed with his din:

Yet truth prevail'd; and, with difgrace,

The Dog was cudgell'd out of place.

LVIII. The COUNTRYMAN and JUPITER.

H

To MYSELF.

AVE you a friend, look round and spy,
So fond, fo prepoffefs'd, as I?

Your faults, fo obvious to mankind,
My partial eyes could never find.

When

When, by the breath of Fortune blown,
Your airy caftles were o'erthrown,
Have I been over prone to blame,
Or mortify'd your hours with fhame?
Was I e'er known to damp your fpirit,
Or twift you with the want of merit?
'Tis not fo ftrange that Fortune's frown
Still perfeveres to keep you down.
Look round, and fee what others do.
Would you be rich and honest too?
Have you, like thofe fhe rais'd to place,
Been opportunely mean and base?
. Have you, as times requir'd, refign'd
Truth, honour, virtue, peace of mind?
If these are fcruples, give her o'er;
Write, practife morals, and be poor.
The gifts of Fortune truly rate?
Then tell me what would mend your ftate.
If happiness on wealth were built,.
Rich rogues might comfort find in guilt.
As grows the mifer's hoarded store,
His fears, his wants increase the more.
Think, Gay, what ne'er may be the cafe,
Should Fortune take you into grace,
Would that your happiness augment?
What can fhe give above content?
Suppose yourself a wealthy heir,
With a vaft annual income clear;
In all the affluence you poffefs,
You might not feel one care the lefs:
Might you not then, like others find,
With change of fortune, change of mind?
Perhaps, profufe beyond all rule,

You might ftart out a glaring fool;
Your luxury might break all bounds;
Plate, table, horfes, ftewards, hounds,
Might fwell your debts; then, luft of play
No regal income can defray:

Sunk

Sunk is all credit, writs affail,
And doom your future life to jail.
Or were you dignify'd with pow'r,
Would that avert one penfive hour!
You might give avarice its fwing,
Defraud a nation, blind a king:
Then, from the hirelings in your caufe,
Though daily fed with falfe applause,
Could it a real joy impart?

Great guilt knew never joy at heart.
Is happinefs your point in view?
(I mean the intrinfic and the true)
She nor in camps nor courts refides,
Nor in the humble cottage hides;
Yet found alike in ev'ry fphere;
Who finds Content, will find her there.
O'erfpent with toil, beneath the fhade,
A Peafant refted on a fpade.

Good Gods, he cries, 'tis hard to bear.
This load of life from year to year!
Soon as the morning ftreaks the fkics,
Induftrious labour bids me rife;
With fweat I earn my homely fare,
And ev'ry day renews my care.

Jove heard the difcontented ftrain,
And thus rebuk'd the murm❜ring fwain:
Speak out your wants then, honeft friend;
Unjuft complaints the Gods offend.

If you repine at partial fate,

Inftruct me what could mend your ftate.
Mankind in ev'ry nation fee.

What wish you? tell me what you'd be.
So faid, upborne upon a cloud,
The clown furvey'd the anxious crowd.
Yon face of care, fays Jove, behold,
His bulky bags are fill'd with gold;
See with what joy he counts it o'er!
That fum to-day hath fwell'd his store.

Were

Were I that man, the Peafant cry'd,
What bleffing could I ask beside ?

Hold, fays the God; firft learn to know
True happinefs from outward show.
This optic glafs of intuition

Here, take it, view his true condition.

He look'd, and faw the mifer's breaft
A troubled ocean, ne'er at reft;
Want ever ftares him in the face,
And fear anticipates difgrace :

With confcious guilt he faw him start,
Extortion knaws his throbbing heart;
And never, or in thought or dream,
His breast admits one happy gleam.

May Jove, he cries, reject my prayer,
And guard my life from guilt and care;
My foul abhors that wretch's fate,
O keep me in my humble ftate!
But fee, amidst a gaudy crowd,
Yon minister fo gay and proud;
On him what happiness attends,
Who thus rewards his grateful friends!
First take the glafs, the God replies,
Man views the world with partial eyes.
Good Gods! exclaims the ftartled Wight,
Defend me from this hideous fight!
Corruption, with corrofive fmart,
Lies cank'ring on his guilty heart;
I fee him, with polluted hand,
Spread the contagion o'er the land;
Now avarice, with infatiate jaws,
Now rapine, with her harpy claws,
His bofom tears. His confcious breast
Groans with a load of crimes oppreft.
See him, mad and drunk with power,]
Stand tott'ring on Ambition's tower:
Sometimes, in fpeeches vain and proud,
His boafts infult the nether crowd;
S

Now,

Now, feiz'd with giddinefs and fear,
He trembles left his fall is near.
Was ever wretch like this? he cries,
Such mifery in fuch disguise!
The change, O Jove, I difavow;
Still be my lot the fpade and plough.
He next, confirm'd by fpeculation,
Rejects the lawyer's occupation :
For he the ftatefman feem'd in part,
And bore fimilitude of heart.

Nor did the foldier's trade inflame
His hopes with thirft of spoil and fame:
The miseries of war he mourn'd,
Whole nations into defarts turn'd.

By thefe have laws and rights been brav'd;
By thefe was free-born man enflav'd:
When battles and invafion cease,

Why fwarm they in the lands of peace?
Such change, fays he, may I decline;
The fcythe and civil arms be mine!

Thus, weighing life in each condition,
The Clown withdrew his rafh petition.
When thus the God: How mortals err !
If you true happiness prefer,

'Tis to no rank of life confin'd,
But dwells in every honeft mind.
Be justice then your fole purfuit,
Plant virtue, and content's the fruit.
So Jove, to gratify the Clown,

Where firft he found him fet him down.

LIX. The MAN, the CAT, the DOG, and the FLY.

To my Native Country.

AIL, happy land, whofe fertile grounds.
The liquid fence of Neptune bounds;

By