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'Tis no hard matter to divine
How I, who love a wench and wine,
That Lamb or Locket can devise,
With foot on chair in velvet shoe.
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
Indeed I'm apt to think in you
Th' hypothesis is very true :
So ori and dori full,
That, hunting things through common-places,
Y' are lost in entelechian mazęs:
And as when to an house we come
To know if any one 's at home,
We knock; so one must kick your shin,
Your brains (if any) sure would work well
MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.
BY MR. MATTHEW GREEN,
of the Custom-House.
THIS motley piece to you I send,
The want of method pray excuse,
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,
School-helps I want, to climb on high,
Who only with the moderns deal?
Whose stamp of genius marks their ware,
From More so lash'd, example fit,
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
Reason, some quiet to restore,
Shew'd part was substance, shadow more ;
I always choose the plainest food
Thy help love's confessors implore,
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;