"Twas hard to hit her humour high or low, For sometimes she would laugh and sometimes cry, Sometimes would waxen wroth; and all she knew not why. 4 Fast by her side a listless virgin pined, With aching head and squeamish heart-burnings: Pale, bloated, cold, she seemed to hate mankind, But loved in secret all forbidden things. And here the Tertian shook his chilling wings; And here the Gout, half tiger, half a snake, Raged with an hundred teeth, an hundred stings: These and a thousand furies more did shake Those weary realms, and kept ease-loving men awake. A DAY: AN EPISTLE TO JOHN WILKES, OF AYLESBURY, ESQ. A land that, e'en amid contending arms, What news to-day?—I ask you not what rogue, 10 What stuff for winter the two Booths have mix'd; 15 News, none have I: you know I never had; You found it soon at length in the gazette. 20 Now for the weather-This is England still, For aught I find, as good, and quite as ill. Even now the ponderous rain perpetual falls, Drowns every camp, and crowds our hospitals. This soaking deluge all unstrings my frame, Dilutes my sense, and suffocates my flame"Tis that which makes these present lines so tame. The parching east wind still pursues me too— Is there no climate where this fiend ne'er flew? By Heaven, it slays Japan, perhaps Peru! It blasts all Earth with its envenomed breath, That scatters discord, rage, diseases, death. 'Twas the first plague that burst Pandora's chest, And with a livid smile sowed all around the rest. 40 Heaven guard my friend from every plague that flies; Still grant him health, whence all the pleasures rise. But oft diseases from slow causes creep, And in this doctrine as (thank Heaven) I'm deep, Meantime excuse me that I slily snatch match. You study early: some indulge at night, ་ 50 60 The task of breakfast o'er; that peevish, pale, That lounging, yawning, most ungenial meal; Rush out, before these fools rush in to worry ye, Whose business is to be idle in a hurry, Who kill your time as frankly as their own, And feel no civil hints e'er to be gone. These flies all fairly flung, whene'er the house, Your country's business, or your friend's, allows, Rush out, enjoy the fields and the fresh air; Ride, walk, or drive, the weather foul or fair. Yet in the torrid months I would reverse This method, leave behind both prose and verse; With the gray dawn the hills and forest roam, And wait the sultry noon embower'd at home, While every rural sound improves the breeze, The railing stream, the busy rooks, and murmur of the bees. 70 You'll hardly choose these cheerful jaunts alone— Except when some deep scheme is carrying on. With you at Chelsea oft may I behold The hopeful bud of sense her bloom unfold, * * To rich, insipid Hackney, if you will: * With you no matter where; while we're together, When dinner comes, amid the various feast, And none e'er sighed for the mind's elbow-room; Beef, in a fever, if your stomach crave it, 76 'Tis strange how blindly we from Nature stray! The only creatures we that miss their way! To err is human,' man's prerogative, Who's too much sense by Nature's laws to live: 108 120 Enough to fatten fools, or drive the dray, No corner else, 'tis not to be denied, Of all our isle so rankly is supplied With gross productions, and adulterate fare, As our renowned abode, whose name I spare. They cram all poultry, that the hungry fox Would loathe to touch them; e'en their boasted ox Sometimes is glutted so with unctuous spoil, That what seems beef is rather rape-seed oil. D'ye know what brawn is?-O th' unhappy beast! He stands eternal, and is doomed to feast Till-but the nauseous process I forbear— 130 1 Vide Chatsworth, 1753.- Cordelliers: Les Cordellieras des Andes are a chain of hills which run through South America. |