I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude! 740 But grant me still a friend in my retreat, 715 750 Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding nands 755 760 Those humours tart as wine upon the fret, Which idleness and weariness beget These, and a thousand plagues, that haunt the breast, Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, Divine communion chases, as the day 765 Drives to their dens th' obedient beasts of prey. See Judah's promis'd king, bereft of all, Driv'n out an exile from the face of Saul; To distant caves the lonely wand'rer flies, To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies. 'Tis manly musick, such as martyrs make, 775 Suff ring with gladness for a Saviour's sake; And wilds, familiar with a lion's roar, 780 785 To give dissimilar, yet fruitful lands, The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands; And share the joys your bounty may create ; 790 To mark the matchless workings of the pow'r, In colour these, and those delight the smell, 795 800 Feebly and vainly at poetick fame,) Emplovs, shut out from more important views, Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse; Content if thus sequester'd I may raise 805 A monitor's though not a poet's praise, And while I teach an art too little known, To close life wisely, may not waste my own TIIE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX. Verses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. eco COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, To laugh it would be wrong, The priest he merry is and blithe, He then is full of frights and fears, For then the farmers come, jog, jog, Along the miry road, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good. In sooth, the sorrow of such days Is not to be express'd, When he that takes, and he that pays, Are both aliko distress'd. Now all unwelcome at his gates And well he may, for well he knows So in they come-each makes his leg, And not to quit a score. "And how does miss and madam do, "The little boy, and all?" "All tight and well. And how do you "Good Mr. What-d'ye-call ?" The dinner comes, and down they sit One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, Yet not to give offence or griovo, Holds up the cloth before. The punch goes round, and they aro dull And lumpish still as ever; Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier. At length the busy time begins, The money chinks, down drop their chins, One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, Quoth one, "A rarer man than you O why are farmers made so coarse A kick that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; |