That never shall be Daphne's choice:
Syphacio had an admirable voice.
Of every herb I tell the mystic power ;
To certain health the patient I restore ;
Ours is a wholesome air;
You'd better go to town, and practise there :
For me, I've no obstructions to remove :
I'm pretty well; I thank your father Jove:
And physic is a weak ally to love.
For learning fam'd, fine verses I compose.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux.
Memorials only, and reviews, write prose.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.-
Then, leaving me, whom sure you would not kill! In yonder thicket exercise your skill:
Shoot there at beasts; but for the human heart, Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.
Yet turn, O beauteous maid! yet deign to hear
A love-sick deity's impetuous prayer;
O let me woo thee as thou wouldst be woo'd!
First, therefore, be not so extremely rude.
Tear not the hedges down, nor tread the clover,
Like an hobgoblin, rather than a lover.
Next to my father's grotto sometimes come;
At ebbing-tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother rivers, Rhine or Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes,
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell,
That you respect me; that, you know, looks well.
Then, if you are, as you pretend, the god
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa:
Some little rarity, some bird, or beast;
And now and then a jewel from the east;
A lacquer'd cabinet, some china ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin fair!
Next, nota bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of my life, [wife.
Make me your (Lord! what startles you?) your
I'm now (they say) sixteen, or something more;
We mortals seldom live above fourscore:
Fourscore; you're good at numbers, let us see,
Seventeen suppose, remaining sixty-three;
Ay, in that span of time you'll bury me.
Mean time, if you have tumult, noise, and strife,
(Things not abhorrent to a married life!)`
They'll quickly end, you'll see; what signify
A few odd years to you that never die?
And, after all, you're half your time away,
You know your business takes you up all day;
And, coming late to bed, you need not fear,
Whatever noise I make, you'll sleep, my dear!
Or, if a winter-evening should be long,
E'en read your physic-book, or make a song.
Your steeds, your wife, diachalon, and rhyme,
May take up any honest godhead's time.
Thus, as you like it, you may love again,
And let another Daphne have her reign.
Now love, or leave, my dear; retreat, or follow:
I Daphne (this premis'd) take thee Apollo.
And may I split into ten thousand trees,
If I give up on other terms than these!
She said; but what the amorous god replied
(So fate ordain'd) is to our search denied ;
By rats, alas! the manuscript is eat,
O cruel banquet! which we all regret.
Bavius, thy labours must this work restore;
May thy good-will be equal to thy power!
TO MR. ADRIAN DRIFT. MDCCVIII.
Two mice, dear boy, of genteel fashion,
And (what is more) good education,
Equally shar'd their parents' cares.
The sire of these two babes (poor creature!)
Paid his last debt to human nature;
A wealthy widow left behind,
Four babes, three males, one female kind.
The sire being under ground and buried,
'Twas thought his spouse would soon have married;
Matches propos'd, and numerous suitors,
Most tender husbands, careful tutors,
She modestly refus'd, and shew'd
She'd be a mother to her brood.
Mother! dear mother! that endearing thought Has thousand and ten thousand fancies brought. Tell me, oh! tell me, (thou art now above) How to describe thy true maternal love, Thy early pangs, thy growing anxious cares, Thy flattering hopes, thy fervent pious prayers, Thy doleful days and melancholy nights, Cloister'd from common joys and just delights: How thou didst constantly in private mourn,
And wash with daily tears thy spouse's urn;
How it employ'd your thoughts and lucid time,
That your young offspring might to honour climb;
How your first care, by numerous griefs opprest,
Under the burden sunk, and went to rest;
How your dear darling, by consumption's waste,
Breath'd her last piety into your breast;
How you, alas! tir'd with your pilgrimage,
Bow'd down your head, and died in good old age.
Though not inspir'd, oh! may I never be
Forgetful of my pedigree, or thee!
Ungrateful howsoe'er, mayn't I forget
To pay this small, yet tributary debt!
And when we meet at God's tribunal throne,
Own me, I pray thee, for a pious son.
But why all this? is this your fable ?
Believe me, Mat, it seems a babble:
If you
will let me know th' intent on't.
Go to your Mice, and make an end on't.
Well then, dear brother
As sure as Hudi's * sword could swaddle,
Two Mice were brought up in one cradle;
Well bred, I think, of equal port,
One for the gown, one for the court:
They parted (did they so, an't please you ?)
Yes, that they did (dear sir) to ease you.
One went to Holland, where they huff folk,
T'other to vend his wares in Suffolk.
|