Reafon, adieu! there's no more room to think;
For all the day behind is noife and drink.
Thus life rolls on, but not without regret ;
Whene'er at morning, in fome cool retreat,
I walk alone:-'tis then in thought I view
Some fage of old; 'tis then I think of you:
Whose breast no tyrant paffions ever seize,
No pulfe 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 fhun,
You taste all pleasures, but indulge in none.
Fir'd by this image, I refolve anew:

'Tis reafon calls, and peace and joy's in view.
How blefs'd a change! a long adieu to sense:
O fhield 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 glafs I fly;

'Till fome fly fot,-" Not drink the family
This gratitude is made to plead for fin;

My trait'rous breast a party forms within :
And inclination brib'd, we never want
Excufe-" "Tis hot, and walking makes one faint."
Now fenfe gets ftrength; my bright refolves decay,
Like stars that melt at the approach of day:
Thought dies, and ev'n, at laft, your image fades away.

My

My head grows warm; all reason I despise:

To-day be happy, and to-morrow wife !"?
Betray'd fo oft, I'm half perfuaded now,
Surely to fail, the first step is to vow.

The country lately, 'twas my wifh: oh there!
Gardens, diverfions, friends, relations, air:
For London now, dear London, how I burn!
I must be happy, fure, when I return.
Whoever hopes true happiness to fee,
Hopes for what never was, nor e'er will be:
The nearest ease, since we must suffer ftill,
Are they, who dare be patient under ill.

Whilom a fool faw where a fiddle lay;
And after poring round it, ftrove to play :
Above, below, acrofs, all ways he tries;
He tries in vain, 'tis difcord all, and noise:
Fretting he threw it by: then thus the lout;
'There's mufick in it, could I fetch it out."
If life does not its harmony impart,

We want not inftruments, but have not art.
'Tis endless to defer our hopes of ease,
Till croffes end, and difappointments cease.
The fage is happy, not that all goes right,
His cattle feel no rot, his corn no blight;
The mind for eafe is fitted to the wife,

Not fo the fool's ;--'tis here the difference lies:
Their prospect is the fame, but various are their eyes,

}

The

The Duty of Employing one's Self.

F

An EPISTLE.

NEW people know it, yet, dear fir, 'tis true,
Man fhould have fomewhat evermore to do.
Hard labour's tedious, every one must own;
But furely better fuch by far, than none.
The perfect drone, the quite impertinent,"
Whofe life at nothing aims, but--to be spent ;
Such heaven vifits for fome mighty ill :
'Tis fure the hardest labour, to fit ftill.
Hence that unhappy tribe who nought pursue:
Who fin, for want of fomething else to do.

Sir John is blefs'd with riches, honour, love;
And to be blefs'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, juft at twelve o'clock at night..
Thus for one fparkling hour alone he's bleft;
While spleen and head-ach feize on all the reft.

What

What numbers, floth with gloomy humours fills!
Räcking 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, fure, the last day must be near !”
Tavoid fuch wild, imaginary pains,

The fad creation of diftemper'd brains,

Dispatch, dear friend! move, labour, fweat, run, fly!
Do aught-but think the day of judgment nigh.

There are, who've loft all relish for delight:
With them no earthly thing is ever right.
T'expect to alter to their tafle, were vain ;
For who can mend fo faft; as they complain?
Whate'er you do, fhall be a crime with fuch;
One while you've loft your tongue, then talk too much :
Thus fhall you meet their waspish censure still;
As hedge-hogs prick you, go which fide you will.
Oh! pity these whene'er you see them swell!
Folks call 'em cross-poor men! they are not well.
How many fuch, in indolence grown old,
With vigour ne'er do any thing, but scold?
Who fpirits only from ill-humour get;
Like wines that die, unless upon the fret.

Weary'd of flouncing to himself alone,
Acerbus keeps a man to fret upon.
'The fellow's nothing in the earth to do,
But to fit quiet and be scolded to.

VOL. III.

E

Pishes

Pishes and oaths, whene'er the mafter's four'd,
All largely on the fcape-goat flave are pour'd.
This drains his rage; and tho' to John fo rough,
Abroad you'd think him complaifant enough.

As for myself, whom poverty prevents
From being angry at fo great expence ;
Who, fhould I ever be inclin'd to rage,
For want of flaves, war with myself must wage;
Muft rail, and hear; chaftifing, be chaftis'd:
Be both the tyrant, and the tyranniz'd;

I chufe to labour, rather than to fret:

What's rage in fome, in me goes off in sweat.
If times are ill, and things feem never worse;
Men, manners to reclaim,—I take my horse.
One mile reforms 'em, or if aught remain
Unpurg'd,'tis but to ride as far again.
Thus on myself in toils I spend my rage:

I

pay the fine; and that abfolves the age.

Sometimes, ftill more to interrupt my ease,

I take my pen, and write--fuch things as these :
Which tho' all other merit be deny'd,
Shew my devotion ftill to be employ'd.
Add too, tho' writing be itfelf a curfe,
Yet fome diftempers are a curfe for worse :
And fince 'midst indolence, fpleen will prevail,
Since who do nothing else, are fure to rail;
Man fhould be fuffer'd thus to play the fool,
To keep from hurt, as children go to school.

You