To the next coffeehouse he speeds,
Takes up the news, some scraps he reads.
Saunt'ring from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they share,
And thus their dreadful hours compare :
Says Tom, Since all men must confess
That Time lies heavy, more or less,
Why should it be so hard to get,
Till two, a party at Piquet?
Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wintry nights are borne.
Does not Quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night throughout the year?
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away.
My case, says Will, then must be hard,
By want of skill from play debarr'd.
Courtiers kill Time by various ways;
Dependence wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose Time ne'er stands!
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed show'r,
The Park had whil'd away an hour.
At court, without or place or view,
I daily lose an hour or two.
It fully answers my design,
When I have pick'd up friends to dine;
The tavern makes our burden light;
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At six (hard case!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From six till ten! unless in sleep,
One cannot spend the hours so cheap.
The comedy's no sooner done,
But some assembly is begun ;
Loit'ring from room to room I stray,
Converse, but nothing hear or say:
Quite tir'd, from fair to fair I roam.
So soon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken slow-pac'd Night,
Again my tavern friends invite:
Here, too, our early mornings pass,
Till drowsy sleep retard the glass.
Thus they their wretched life bemoan,
And make each other's case their own.
Consider, Friends, no hour rolls on
But something of your grief is gone.
Were you to schemes of business bred,
Did you the paths of learning tread,
Your hours, your days, would fly too fast;
You'd then regret the minute past.
Time's fugitive and light as wind:
'Tis indolence that clogs your mind:
That load from off your spirits shake,
You'll own and grieve for your mistake.
Awhile your thoughtless spleen suspend,
Then read, and (if you can) attend.
As Plutus, to divert his care,
Walk'd forth one morn to take the air,
Cupid o'ertook his strutting pace.
Each star'd upon the stranger's face,
Till recollection set 'em right,
For each knew th' other but by sight,
After some complimental talk,
Time met 'em, bow'd, and join'd their walk.
Their chat on various subjects ran,
But most, what each had done for man.
Plutus assumes a haughty air,
Just like our purse proud fellows here.
Let kings, (says he) let cobblers tell,
Whose gifts among mankind excel.
Consider courts; what draws their train?
Think you 'tis loyalty or gain?
That statesman has the strongest hold
Whose tool of politics is gold;
By that, in former reigns, 'tis said
The knave in pow'r hath senates led:
By that alone he sway'd debates,
Enrich'd himself, and beggar'd states.
Forego your boast. You must conclude
That's most esteem'd that's most pursu’d.
Think, too, in what a woeful plight
That wretch must live whose pocket's light.
Are not his hours by want dep rest?
Penurious care corrodes his breast.
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His solitary day descends.
You might, says Cupid, doubt my parts,
My knowledge, too, in human hearts,
Should I the pow'r of gold dispute,
Which great examples might confute.
I know when nothing else prevails,
Persuasive money seldom fails;
That beauty, too, (like other wares)
Its price, as well as conscience, bears.
Then marriage (as of late profest)
Is but a money-job at best.
Consent, compliance may be sold;
But love's beyond the price of gold.
Smugglers there are who, by retail,
Expose what they call Love to sale;
Such bargains are an arrant cheat:
You purchase flatt'ry and deceit.
Those who true love have ever try'd,
(The common cares of life supply'd)
No wants endure, no wishes make,
But ev'ry real joy partake.
All comfort on themselves depends;
They want nor pow'r, nor wealth, nor friends.
Love then hath every bliss in store;
'Tis friendship, and 'tis something more. Each other ev'ry wish they give:
Not to know love is not to live.
Or love, or money, (Time reply'd)
Were men the question to decide,
Would bear the prize : on both intent,
My boon's neglected or mispent.
'Tis I who measure vital space,
And deal out years to human race.
Tho' little priz'd, and seldom sought,
Without me love and gold are nought.
How does the miser time employ?
Did I e'er see him life enjoy?
By me forsook, the hoards he won
Are scatter'd by his lavish son.
By me all useful arts are gain'd;
Wealth, learning, wisdom, is attain'd.
Who then would think (since such my pow'r)
That e'er I knew an idle hour?
So subtle and so swift I fly,
Love's not more fugitive than I,
Who hath not heard coquettes complain
Of days, months, years, mispent in vain?
For time misus'd they pine and waste,
And love's sweet pleasures never taste.
Tho e who direct their time aright,
If love or wealth their hopes excite,
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