If Oaths can do a Man no Good
In his own Bus'nefs, why they should
In other Matters do him Hurt,
I think there's little Reafon for't.
He that impofes an Oath, makes it,
Not he that for Convenience takes it:
Then how can any Man be faid,
To break an Oath he never made.
OBSTINATE.
So fullenly addicted ftill
To's only Principle, his Will;
That whatfoe'er it chanc'd to prove,
No Force of Argument could move:
Nor Law, nor Cavalcade of Holborn,
Could render half a Grain less stubborn:
For he at any time would hang,
For th Opportunity t'harangue;
And rather on a Gibbet dangle,
Than mifs his dear Delight, to wrangle:
In which his Parts were fo accomplish'd,
That right or wrong, he ne'er was non-plus'd:
But ftill his Tongue ran on, the lefs
Of Weight it bore, with greater Ease;
And with its everlasting Clack,
Set all Mens Ears upon the Rack :
No fooner could a Hint appear,
But up he started to pickeer;
And made the ftouteft yield to Mercy,
When he engag'd in Controverfy:
Not by the Force of Carnal Reafon,
But indefatigable Teazing;
With Volleys of eternal Babble,
And Clamour more unanswerable:
For tho' his Topicks, frail and weak,
Could ne'er amount above a Freak,
He still maintain'd 'em, like his Faults,
Against the defperat'ft Affaults;
And back'd their feeble want of Senfe
With greater Heat and Confidence:
As Bones of He&tors, when they differ,
The more they're cudgel'd, grow the stiffer.
He still refolv'd, to merd the Matter,
T'adhere and cleave the obftinater:
And ftill the skittisher and loofer
His Freaks appear'd, to fit the closer.
For Fools are ftubborn in their Way,
As Coins are harden'd by th'Allay :
And Obftinacy's ne'er fo stiff,
As when 'tis in a wrong Belief.
OEDIPUS tearing out his Eyes.
Thrice he ftruck
With all his Force his hollow groaning Breaft,
And thus with Outcries to himself complain'd;
But thou canst weep then? and thou think'ft 'tis well!
Thefe Bubbles of the fhallow'ft emptieft Sorrow,
Which Children vent for Toys, and Women rain
For any Trifle their fond Hearts are fet on:
Yet thefe, thou think'ft, are ample Satisfaction
For bloodieft Murther and for burning Luft!
No Parricide! if thou muft weep, weep Blood,
Weep Eyes inftead of Tears! O, by the Gods!
'Tis greatly thought, he cries, and fits my Woes:
With that he fmil'd revengefully, and leap'd
Upon the Floor; thence gazing on the Skies,
His Eye-balls fiery red, and glowing Vengeance;
Gods! I accufe you not, tho' I no more
Will view your Heav'n, till with more durable Glaffes,
The mighty Soul's immortal Perspectives,
I find your dazling Beings. Take, he cry'd,
Take, Eyes, your laft, your fatal farewell View:
Then with a Groan that feem'd the Call of Death,
With horrid Force lifting his impious Hands,
He fnatch'd, he tore from out their bloody Orbs
The Balls of Sight, and dash'd 'em on the Ground.
OLD AGE. See Death, Dying of Old Age, Youth. Some few, by Temp'rance taught, approaching flow
To diftant Fate, by eafy Journeys go.
Gently they lay them down, as Ev'ning Sheep
On their own woolly Fleeces foftly fleep.
So noifeless would I live, fuch Death to find;
Like timely Fruit, not fhaken by the Wind,
But ripely dropping from the fapless Bough,
And dying, nothing to my felf would owe.
Thus daily changing, with a duller Tafte
Of lefs'ning Joys, I by Degrees would waste.
Still quitting Ground by unperceiv'd Decay,
And teal my felf from Life, and melt away. Dryd. State of Inn,
How happy is the ev'ning Tide of Life!
When Phlegm has quench'd our Paffions; trifling out
The feeble Remnant of our filly Days
In Follies, fuch as Dotage best is pleas'd with :
Free from the wounding and tormenting Cares
That tofs the thoughtful, active, bufy Mind!
The Soul, with nobler Refolutions deck'd,
The Body ftooping, does her felf ere&t.
Clouds of Affections from our younger Eyes,
Conceal that Happiness which Age defcries.
The Soul's dark Cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new Light thro' Chinks that Time has made.
Stronger by Weaknefs, wifer Men become,
As they draw near to their eternal Home.
Leaving the old, both Worlds at once they view,
That ftand upon the Threshold of the new.
We yet may fee the old Man in a Morning,
Lufty as Health, come ruddy to the Field,
And there purfue the Chace, as if he meant
To o'ertake Time, and bring back Youth again:
As in a green old Age his Hair juft griefled.
While yet few Furrows on my Face are feen,
While I walk upright, and old Age is green,
And Lachefis has fomewhat left to fpin.
Inconveniencies of Old Age.
Jove! grant me Length of Life, and Years good Store Heap on my bending Back, I ask no more:
Both Sick and Healthful, Old and Young, confpire
In this one filly mifchievous Defire.
Miftaken Bleffing, which Old Age they call!
'Tis a long, nafty, darkfom Hofpital!
A ropy Chain of Rheums! a Vifage rough,
Deform'd, unfeatur'd, and a Skin of Buff.
A ftitch-fall'n Cheek that hangs below the Jaw,
Such Wrinkles as a skilful Hand would draw
For an old grandame Ape, when with a Grace
She fits at fquat, and fcrubs her leathern Face.
In Youth Diftinctions infinite abound:
No Shape, no Feature juft alike is found:
The Fair, the Black, the Feeble, and the Strong.
But the fame Foulnefs does to Age belong;
The felf-fame Palfy both in Limbs and Tongue.
The Skull and Forehead an old barren Plain,
And Gums unarm'd to mumble Meat in vain.
These are th'Effe&ts of doating Age,
Vain Doubts, and idle Cares, and Over-caution
The fecond Nonage of a Soul more wife,
But now decay'd, and funk into the Socket,
Peeping by Fits, and giving feeble Light.
Now my chill'd Blood is curdl'd in my Veins,
And scarce the Shadow of a Man remains.
I am left behind,
To drink the Dregs of Life, by Fate affign'd:
Beyond the Goal of Nature I have
Dodder'd with Age, the Winter of Man's Life!
The gloomy Eve of endless Night.
Prop'd on a Staff, fhe takes a trembling Mien,
Her Face is furrow'd, and her Front obfcene:
Deep dinted Wrinkles on her Cheeks the draws,
Sunk are her Eyes, and toothlefs are her Jaws;
Hoary her Hair.
Time has plow'd that Face with many Furrows.
His Blear-eyes ran in Gutters to his Chin,
His Beard was ftubble, and his Cheeks were thin.
Decrepid Bodies, worn to Ruin,
Juft ready of themfelves to fall afunder,
And to let drop the Soul.
This languifh'd Frame when better Spirits fed,
E'er Age unftrung, my Nerves, or Time o'er-fnow'd my Head:
Oft am I by the Women told,
Poor Anacreon! thou grow'ft old :
Look how thy Hairs are falling all!
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th'Effects I do not know:
This I know without being told,
'Tis time to live if I grow old:
'Tis time fhort Pleafures now to take;
Of little Life the best to make,
And manage wifely the laft Stake.
OPPRESSION.
It is not hard for one that feels no Wrong,
Oppreffion makes Men mad, and from their Breafts
For patient Duty to imploy his Tongue.
All Reafon, and all Senfe of Duty wrefts.
The Gods are fafe when under Wrongs we groan,
Only because we cannot reach their Throne.
Shall Princes then, who are but Gods of Clay,
Think they may fafely with our Honour play?
Your Talons from the Wretched and the Bold:
Tempt not the Brave and Needy to Defpair;
For tho' your Violence should leave them bare
Of Gold and Silver, Swords and Darts remain,
And will revenge the Wrongs which they fuftain.
The Plunder'd ftill have Arms.
ORPHEUS. See Mufick.
OWL.
The boding Bird,
Which haunts the ruin'd Piles and hallow'd Urns,
And beats about the Tombs with nightly Wings,
Where Songs obfcene on Sepulchres the fings.
The folitary Sereech-Owl ftrains her Throat;
Or on a Chimney's Top, or Turret's Height,
With Songs obfcene difturbs the Silence of the Night.
As an Owl that in a Barn
Sees a Mouse creeping in the Corn,
Sits ftill, and fhuts his round blue Eyes
As if he flept, until he spies
The little Beaft within his Reach,
Then ftarts, and feizes on the Wretch.
Valour or Strength, tho' matchlefs, quell'd with Pain,
Which all fubdues, and makes remifs the Hands
Of mightiest Men? Senfe of Pleafure we may well
Spare out of Life perhaps, and not repine,
But live content, which is the calmeft Life :
But Pain is perfect Mifery. the worst
Of Evils; and exceffive, overturns
PAINTER and PAINTING.
Rare Artifan! whofe Pencil moves
Not our Delights alone, but Loves:
From thy Shop of Beauty we
Slaves return that enter'd free.
Strange that thy Hand fhould not inspire
The Beauty only, but the Fire;
Not the Form alone and Grace,
But A&t and Power of a Face.
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