Can mis'ry raise the grateful heart,
Or tuneful songs of praise impart ?
The great Creator's work we view, And trace it out by Wisdom's clue; Nothing is good but what is true. With cautious and with thankful eye We scan the great variety: Each good within our reach we taste, And call our neighbour to the feast. Our souls do generously disown All pleasure that's confin'd to one; The only rational employment Is, to receive and give enjoyment: To every pleasure we attend, Not to enjoy is to offend.
But still, amidst the various crowd Of goods, that call with voices loud Our nat❜ral genius, education, Parents, companions, or our station, Direct us to some single choice, In which we chiefly must rejoice.
Pleasures are ladies-some we court To pass away an hour in sport: We like them all for this or that, For silence some, and some for chat; For every one, as Cowley sings, Or arrows yields, or bows, or strings,
But, after all this rambling life,
Each man must have his proper wife.
You know my meaning-some one good,
Felt, heard, or seen, or understood,
Will captivate the heart's affection,
And bring the rest into subjection.
Pray mind the tenor of my song;
It holds together, though 'tis long.
You've made an early choice, and wise one;
The best I know within th' horizon.
My lady Law is rich and handsome :
May she be worth you a king's ransom!
But I must tell you, (you'll excuse
My friendly, though plain-dealing Muse)
In her own hands is all her dower;
'There's not a groat within your power;
And yet you're whoring with the Nine;
With them you breakfast, and dine,
sup,
With them you spend your days and night-
Is't fitting she should bear such slights?
Beggarly, ballad-singing carrions,
Can they advance you to the barons ?
You've made me too an old Tom Dingle,
And I, forsooth, must try to jingle.
Your lady would not do you wrong;
She owns you're tender yet, and young-
She'd wink at now and then a song:
But still expects to share the time,
Which now is all bestow'd on rhyme.
Read in the morning Hobbes de Homine,
At noon, e'en sport with your Melpomene.
Youngster, I've something more to say, To wean you from this itch of play. In his Officiis old Marc Tully, 'Mongst certain points he handles fully (A book I ever must delight in Far beyond all that since is written!)— He tells us there, our parents' praise Their childrens' virtue ought to raise : Their worth and praise should prick us on To labor after like renown.
Who but thy father hath been able,
Since Hercules, to cleanse a stable?
About his ears how strange a rattle!
Who ever stood so tough a battle?
H' has tam'd the most unruly cattle.-
Just two such jobs as yet remain
To be dispatch'd by You and BEN.
Your father with Herculean club
The tyrants of our souls did drub;
BEN for our bodies, you our chattels,
Must undertake the self-same battles.
The world on you have fix'd their eyes,
'Tis you must quell these tyrannies:
So shall some title, now unknown,
Bangorian-like your labors crown.
Ravish'd, methinks, in thought I see
The universal liberty.
But after all, I know what's in you You'll do't a thousand to one guinea. Time flies-the work and pleasure's great: Begin, before it grows too late. Where the plays stand, the statutes lodge; And dance not, 'till you dance a judge; Then, though you are not half so taper, My Lord, you'll cut a higher caper.
TO THE
REV. MR. J. STRAIGHT.
SIR,
PROMISES are different cases
At various times, in various places.
In crowded street of Arlington,
Where slaves of hope to levées run,
A promise signifies no more,
Than in the chamber of a whore.
And when the good deceiv'd Sir Francis
With Madam up from Yorkshire dances,
To claim the great man's promise given
Some six years since, or (some say) seven;
No one can blame that curious writer,
That says, they'll both return the lighter.
But can we hence affirm that no miss
Of all the sex can keep a promise ?
Or say, from what our courtier speaks,
That all men's faiths are paper-cakes ?
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