'Tis no hard matter to divine
How I, who love a wench and wine,
And all the studied luxuries
That Lamb or Locket can devise,
Should have the gout, and penance do
With foot on chair in velvet shoe.
But how a man predicamental-
ly sober, and near transcendental;
That ne'er was known to be a glutton,
Beyond a penny chop of mutton,
And can't tell what sixth sense, or whore is,
And Goody is his only Chloris :
How such a one should have intestine
Saline, and acid so infesting,
Is strange to me, and as obscure
A riddle almost as the cure.

The learned Sydenham does not doubt
But profound thought will bring the gout,
And that with bum on couch we lie,
Because our reason's soar'd too high ;
As cannons, when they mount vast pitches,
Are tumbled back upon their breaches.

Indeed I 'm apt to think in you
Th’ hypothesis is very true :
For your investigating skull
So 'oti and dioti full,
That, hunting things through common-places,
Y' are lost in entelechian mazes :
And as when to an house we come
To know if any one 's at home,
We knock; so one must kick your shin,
Ere he can find your soul's within.
Your brains (if any) sure would work well
Upon the quadrature o' th' circle:
But, if you'll have your foot no more in
Flannel, you must leave off your poring,
Be blithę and merry still as a grig,
Mirth is the best Antipodagrig ;
The gout's enrag'd by care and sadness,
The best cure for 't is the oil of gladness,

EPISTLE XXXV.

THE SPLEEN.

то

MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.

BY MR. MATTHEW GREEN,

of the Custom-House.

This motley piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend;
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense ;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I sing, so often feel.

The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapor'd Muse;
Nor to a narrow path confin'd,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

The child is genuine, you may trace Throughout the sire's transmitted face. Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, though mean, Draws from the spring she finds within ;

Nor vainly buys what Gildon sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.

School-helps I want, to climb on high, Where all the ancient treasures lie, And there unseen commit a theft On wealth in Greek exchequers left, Then where? from whom? what can I steal, Who only with the moderns deal? This were attempting to put on Raiment from naked bodies won : They safely sing before a thief, They cannot give who want relief; Some few excepted, names well known, And justly laureld with renown, Whose stamp of genius marks their ware, And theft detects : of theft beware; From More so lash'd, example fit, Shun petty larceny in wit,

First know, my friend, I do not mean To write a treatise on the Spleen ; Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse; Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse. If I am right, your question lay, What course I take to drive away The day-mare Spleen, by whose false pleas Men prove meer suicides in ease; And how I do myself demean In stormy world to live serene.

When by its magic lantern Spleen With frightful figures spreads life's scene, And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears, A stranger to the luck of heirs ; Reason, some quiet to restore, Shew'd part was substance, shadow more; With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown, In life's rough tide I sunk not down, But swam, 'till Fortune threw a rope, Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.

I always choose the plainest food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor ;
Thy help love's confessors implore,
And doctors secretly adore;
To thee, I fly, by thee dilute-
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolific particles of Spleen,

I never sick by drinking grow, Nor keep myself a cup too low, And seldom Cloe's lodgings haunt, Thrifty of spirits, which I want.

Hunting I reckon very good
To brace the nerves, and stir the blood;
But after no field-honors itch,