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And yet, perhaps, some venturous spark
May bring it, now the nights are dark.
Punch I have store, and beer beside,
And port that's good, though frenchified.
Then, if you come, I'm sure to get
From Eastbery-a desert-of wit.
One line, good Sir, to name the day, And your petitioner will pray, &c.
REVEREND CHRISTOPHER PITT,
ON HIS HAVING A FIT OF THE GOUT.
AMONG the well-bred natives of our isle,
"I kiss your hand, Sir," is the modish style;
In humbler manner, as my fate is low,
I beg to kiss your venerable toe,
Not Old Infallibility's can have
Profounder reverence from its meanest slave.
What dignity attends the solemn Gout!
What conscious greatness if the heart be stout!
Methinks I see you o'er the house preside,
In painful majesty and decent pride,
With leg tost high, on stately sofa sit,
More like a sultan than a modern wit;
Quick at your call the trembling slaves appear,
Advance with caution, and retire with fear;
Ev'n Peggy trembles, though (or authors fail)
At times the anti-salic laws prevail.
Now, Lord have mercy on poor Dick! say I, "Where's the lac'd shoe-who laid the flannel by?" Within, 'tis hurry, the house seems possest ; Without, the horses wonder at their rest. What terrible dismay, what scenes of care! Why is the sooty Mintrem's hopeful heir Before the morning-dawn compell❜d to rise, And give attendance with his half-shut eyes? What makes that girl with hideous visage stare? What fiends prevent Ead's journey to the fair? Why all this noise, this bustle and this rout? "Oh, nothing-but poor master has the gout."
Meantime, superior to the pains below,
Your thoughts in soaring meditations flow,
In rapturous trance on Virgil's genius dwell,
To us, poor mortals, his strong beauties tell,
And, like Aeneas, from your couch of state,
In all the pomp of words display the Trojan fate.
Can nothing your aspiring thoughts restrain?
Or does the Muse suspend the rage of pain?
Awhile give o'er your rage; in sickness prove
Like other mortals, if you'd pity move:
Think not your friends compassionate ĉan be,
When such the product of disease they see;
Your sharpest pangs but add to our delight,
We'll wish you still the Gout, if still you write.
you, dear Sir, will deign to pass a day
In the fair vale of Orpington and Cray,
And live for once as humble vicars do,
On Thursday I'll expect you here by two.
Expect no niceties with me to pick,
But Bansted mutton, and a barn-door chick.
My friends with generous liquors I regale,
Good port, old hock, or, if they like it, ale ;
But if of richer wine you choose a quart,
Why bring, and drink it here—with all my heart.
Plain is my furniture, as is my treat,
For 'tis my best ambition, to be neat.
Leave then all sordid views, and hopes of gain,
To mortals miserable, mad, or vain;
Put the last polish to th' historic page,
And cease awhile to moralize the age.
By your sweet converse chear'd the live-long day
Will pass unnotic'd, like the stream, away.
Why should kind Providence abundance give,
If we, like niggards, can't afford to live?
The wretched miser, poor 'midst heaps of pelf,
To cram his heir, most madly starves himself—
So will not I-give me good wine and ease,
And let all misers call me fool that please.
What cannot wine? it opens all the soul;
Faint hope grows brilliant o'er the sparkling bowl:
Wine's generous spirit makes the coward brave,
Gives ease to kings, and freedom to the slave:
Bemus'd in wine, the bard his duns forgets,
And drinks serene oblivion to his debts: '
Wine drives all cares and anguish from the heart,
And dubs us connoisseurs of every art.
Whom does not wine with eloquence inspire?
The bowzy beggar struts into a squire.
This you well know-to me belongs to mind
That neatness with frugality be join'd:
That no intruding blab, with itching ears,
Darken my doors, who tells whate'er he hears.
Two Duncombes, each a poet, with me dine,
Your friends, and decent Colman, a divine :
There's room for nore; so, to complete the band,
Your wife shall bring fair Innocence in hand,
Should Cave want copy, let the teaser wait,
While you steal secret through the garden gate.