Yet, to his guest though no ways sparing,
He ate himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But show'd his breeding and his wit;
He did his best to seem to eat,
And cried, "I vow, you're mighty neat.
"But Lord, my friend, this savage scene!
"For God's sake, come and live with men
"Consider, mice, like men, must die,
"Both small and great, both you and I;
"Then spend your life in joy and sport,
"(This doctrine, friend, I learnt at court)."
The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to strong temptation
Away they came, through thick and thin,
To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn:
('Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their Lordships had sat late).
Behold the place, where if a poet
Shined in description, he might show it;
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:
But let it, in a word, be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins white, the carpet red :
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice sat, tête-à-tête.
Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish ;
Tells all their names, lays down the law,
Que ça est bon! Ah goutez ça !
"That jelly's rich, this Malmsey's healing, Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in." Was ever such a happy swain?
He stuffs, and swills, and stuffs again.
"I'm quite asham'd-'tis mighty rude
"To eat so much-but all's so good.
"I have a thousand thanks to give-
'My Lord alone knows how to live."
No sooner said, than from the hall
Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all:
"A rat, a rat! clap to the door"-
The cat comes bouncing on the floor.
O for the heart of Homer's mice,
Or gods to save them in a trice!
"An't please your honour,” quoth the peasant, "This same dessert is not so pleasant:
"Give me again my hollow tree,
"A crust of bread, and liberty!"
THE DYING LOVER.
DEAR Love, let me this evening die,
O smile not to prevent it;
Dead with my rivals let me lie,
Or we shall both repent it.
Frown quickly then, and break my heart,
That so my way of dying
May, tho' my life was full of smart,
Be worth the world's envying.
Some, striving knowledge to refine,
Consume themselves with thinking;
And some, who friendship seal in wine,
Are kindly kill'd with drinking.
And some are wreck'd on the Indian coast,
Thither by gain invited;
Some are in smoke of battle lost,
Whom drums, not lutes, delighted.
Alas, how poorly these depart,
Their graves still unattended!
Who dies not of a broken heart
Is not of Death commended.
His memory is only sweet,
All praise and pity moving,
Who kindly at his mistress' feet
Does die with over-loving.
And now thou frown'st, and now I die,
My corpse by lovers followed;
Which straight shall by dead lovers lie
That ground is only hallow'd.
If priests are grieved I have a grave,
My death not well approving,
The poets my estate shall have,
To teach them the art of loving.
And now let lovers ring their bells
For me, poor youth departed,
Who kindly in his love excels,
By dying broken-hearted.
My grave with flowers let lovers strow,
Which, if thy tears fall near them,
May so transcend in scent and show,
As thou wilt shortly wear them.
Such flowers how much will florists prize,
On lover's grave that growing,
Are water'd by his mistress' eyes,
With pity overflowing.
A grave so deck'd will, tho' thou art
Yet fearful to come nigh me,
Provoke thee straight to break thy heart,
And lie down boldly by me.
Then everywhere all bells shall ring,
All light to darkness turning;
While every choir shall sadly sing,
And Nature's self wear mourning.
Yet we hereafter may be found,
By destiny's right placing,
Making, like flowers, love underground,.
Where roots are still embracing.
ON A HALFPENNY WHICH A YOUNG LADY
GAVE A BEGGAR, AND WHICH THE AUTHOR
REDEEMED FOR HALF-A-CROWN.
DEAR little, pretty, favourite ore,
That once increased Gloriana's store;
That lay within her bosom blest,
Gods might have envied thee thy rest!
I've read, imperial Jove of old
For love transform'd himself to gold:
And why for a more lovely lass
May he not now have lurk'd in brass?
O, rather than from her he'd part
He'd shut that charitable heart,
That heart whose goodness nothing less
Than his vast power could dispossess.
From Gloriana's gentle touch
Thy mighty value now is such,
That thou to me art worth alone
More than his medals are to Sloane.
I LATELY VOW'd, but 'twas in haste,
That I no more would court
The joys that seem when they are past
As dull as they are short.
I oft to hate my mistress swear,
But soon my weakness find;
I make my oaths when she's severe,
But break them when she's kind.
ON BEAU NASH'S PICTURE AT BATH, WHICH ONCE STOOD BETWEEN THE BUSTS OF NEWTON AND POPE.
THIS picture placed these busts between,
Gives satire its full strength;
Wisdom and wit are little seen,
But folly at full length.
ON THE ABOVE LINES.
IMMORTAL Newton never spoke
More truth than here you'll find;
Nor Pope himself ere penn'd a joke,
Severer on mankind.
Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield.
ADVICE TO A LADY IN AUTUMN.
ASSES' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before,
Then sleep for an hour or two, and no more.
At nine stretch your arms, and oh! think when alone
There's no pleasure in bed.-Mary, bring me my gown.
Slip on that ere you rise; let your caution be such;
Keep all cold from your breast, there's already too much;
Your pinners set right, your twitcher tied on,
Your prayers at an end, and your breakfast quite done,
Retire to some author improving and gay,
And with sense like your own, set your mind for the day,
At twelve you may walk, for at this time o' the year,
The sun, like your wit, is as mild as 'tis clear:
But mark in the meadows the ruin of time;
Take the hint, and let life be improved in its prime.
Return not in haste, nor of dressing take heed;
For beauty, like yours, no assistance can need.
With an appetite thus down to dinner you sit,
Where the chief of the feast is the flow of your wit:
Let this be indulged, and let laughter go round;
As it pleases your mind to your health 'twill redound.
After dinner two glasses at least, I approve;
Name the first to the King, and the last to your love:
Thus cheerful, with wisdom, with innocence, gay,
And calm with your joys, gently glide through the day.
The dews of the evening most carefully shun;
Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.
Then in chat, or at play, with a dance, or a song,
Let the night, like the day, pass with pleasure along.
All cares, but of love, banish far from your mind;
And those you may end, when you please to be kind.
Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield.
ON LORD ISLAY'S GARDEN AT WHITTON ON HOUNSLOW HEATH.
OLD ISLAY, to show his fine delicate taste,
In improving his garden purloin'd from the waste;
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