WE KNOW NOT HOW TO USE IT.
WHAT? sir,-a month, and not one line afford! 'Tis well-how finely some folk keep their word! I own my promise-But to steal an hour, 'Midst all this hurry-'tis not in my pow'r, Where life each day does one fix'd order keep, Successive journies, weariness and sleep.
Or if our scheme some interval allows,
Some hours design'd for thought and for repose;
Soon as the scatter'd images begin
In the mind to rally-company comes in :
Reason, adieu! there's no more room to think;
For all the day behind is noise and drink.
Thus life rolls on, but not without regret;
Whene'er at morning, in some cool retreat
I walk alone :-'tis then in thought I view
Some sage of old; 'tis then I think of you;
Whose breast no tyrant passions ever seize,
No pulse that riots, blood that disobeys;
Who follow but where judgment points the way,
And whom too busy sense ne'er led astray.
Not that you joys with moderation shun;
You taste all pleasures, but indulge in none.
Fir'd by this image, I resolve anew:
'Tis reason calls, and peace and joy's in view.
How bless'd a change! a long adieu to sense:
O shield me, sapience! virtue's reign commence!
Alas! how short a reign !—the walk is o'er,
The dinner waits, and friends some half a score:
At first to virtue firm, the glass I fly;
'Till some sly sot,—“ Not drink the family !”
Thus gratitude is made to plead for sin;
My trait'rous breast a party forms within;
And inclination brib'd, we never want
Excuse-"'Tis hot, and walking makes one faint."
Now sense gets strength; my bright resolves decay,
Like stars that melt at the approach of day:
Thought dies; and ev'n, at last, your image fades
My head grows warm; all reason I despise :
"To-day be happy, and to-morrow wise!”
Betray'd so oft, I'm half persuaded now,
Surely to fail, the first step is to vow.
The country lately, 'twas my wish: oh there!
Gardens, diversions, friends, relations, air:
For London now, dear London, how I burn!
I must be happy, sure, when I return.
Whoever hopes true happiness to see,
Hopes for what never was, nor e'er will be:
The nearest ease, since we must suffer still,
Are they who dare be patient under ill.
Whilom a fool saw where a fiddle lay;
And after poring round it, strove to play:
Above, below, across, all ways he tries;
He tries in vain, 'tis discord all and noise:
Fretting he threw it by: then thus the lout;
"There's music in it, could I fetch it out."
If life does not its harmony impart,
We want not instruments, but have not art.
'Tis endless to defer our hopes of ease,
Till crosses end, and disappointments cease.
The sage is happy, not that all goes right,
His cattle feel no rot, his corn no blight ;
The mind for ease is fitted to the wise,
Not so the fool's 'tis here the difference lies;
Their prospect is the same, but various are their
DUTY OF EMPLOYING ONE'S SELF.
Few people know it, yet, dear sir, 'tis true,
Man should have somewhat evermore to do.
Hard labor's tedious, every one must own;
But surely better such by far, than none;
The perfect drone, the quite impertinent,
Whose life at nothing aims, but-to be spent ;
Such Heaven visits for some mighty ill:
'Tis sure the hardest labour, to sit still.
Hence that unhappy tribe who nought pursue :
Who sin, for want of something else to do.
Sir John is bless'd with riches, honor, love;
And to be bless'd indeed, needs only move.
For want of this, with pain he lives away,
A lump of hardly-animated clay :
Dull 'till his double bottle does him right;
He's easy just at twelve o'clock at night.
Thus for one sparkling hour alone he 's blest ;
While spleen and head-ach seize on all the rest.
What numbers, sloth with gloomy humors fills!
Racking their brains with visionary ills.
Hence what loud outcries, and well-meaning rage,
What endless quarrels at the present age!
How many blame! how often may we hear,
"Such vice!—well, sure, the last day must be near!" T' avoid such wild, imaginary pains,
The sad creation of distemper'd brains,
Dispatch, dear friend! move, labour, sweat, run, fly! Do aught-but think the day of judgment nigh.
There are, who've lost all relish for delight :
With them no earthly thing is ever right.
T'expect to alter to their taste, were vain;
For who can mend so fast, as they complain?
Whate'er you do, shall be a crime with such;
One while you've lost your tongue, then talk too
much :
Thus shall you meet their waspish censure still;
As hedge-hogs prick you, go which side you will.
Oh! pity these whene'er you see them swell!
Folks call 'em cross-poor men! they are not well.
How many such, in indolence grown old,
With vigor ne'er do any thing, but scold?
Who spirits only from ill-humor get;
Like wines that die, unless upon the fret.
Weary of flouncing to himself alone,
Acerbus keeps a man to fret upon.
The fellow 's nothing on the earth to do,
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