If he regard not, though divine the theme. 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation-prosper even mine. AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. DEAR Joseph-five and twenty years ago— Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. Go, fellow!-whither?-turning short about- I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, Perhaps, his confidence just then betray'd, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth, Oh, happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else, could a law like that which I relate Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few, that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold; While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. |