THE BACHELOR. T. QUINCE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MATTHEW PRINGLE. You wonder that your ancient friend O'er Sorrow's slough, and Labor's hill, The toilsome way with constant smile, To guide, to comfort, to sustain, And cheer the last, long, weary stage, That leads to Death, through gloomy Age! And speak like reasonable folks, It seems you wonder, Mr. Pringle, That old Tom Quince is living single. Since my old crony and myself Sir, I'm a Bachelor, and mean, Or be it right, or be it wrong, To play the part I've played so long, Nor be the rat that others are, Caught by a ribbon or a star. "As years increase," your worship cries, "All troubles and anxieties Come swiftly on: you feel vexation Her soothing voice might give you ease, And when the twinge comes shooting through you, Her care might be of service to you." Sir, I'm not dying, though I know Not dying yet, though you, and others, Take pains to prophesy events Which lie some twenty winters hence. Some twenty?-look! you shake your head, As if I were insane or dead, And tell your children and your wife,— And when I talk about my health, "Hark! how the dotard chatters still!* He'll not believe he's old or ill! He goes on forming great designs,- *I must confess that Dr. Swift Has lent me here a little lift: This is my plan; I name no name, But wish all others did the same. You-who are clever to foretell Where ignorance might be as well, Would marvel how my health has stood : And drink my pint of wine a day; Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls, You say, that, when you saw me last, My appetite was going fast, My eye was dim, my cheek was pale, My bread-and stories—both were stale, My wine and wit were growing worse, And all things else,-except my purse; In short, the very blind might see I was not what I used to be. My glass (which I believe before ye,) My hair is still as black as jet My legs are full-my cheeks are ruddyMy eyes, though somewhat sunk by study. Retain a most vivacious ray, And then my waist, -unvex'd, unstay'd I'm most unfashionably well. And yet you think I'm growing thinner! You'd stare to see me eat my dinner! You know that I was held by all The greatest epicure in Hall, And that the voice of Granta's sons Styled me the Gourmand of St. John's; I have not yet been found unable And then we talk of other times, And when unwillingly I rise, With newly-waken'd sympathies, |