On points which God has left at large, To prove at last my main intent No cutting and contriving- Sometimes the fault is all our own, Then judge yourself, and prove your man As circumspectly as you can, And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection. That secrets are a sacred trust, Are observations on the case, But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, To finish a fine building, If he could possibly forget The carving and the gilding. The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back How he esteems your merit, Is such a friend, that one had need As similarity of mind, Or something not to be defined, Some act upon this prudent plan, So barren sands imbibe the shower, The man I trust, if shy to me, These samples-for, alas! at last May prove the task a task indeed, Pursue the search, and you will find A principal ingredient. The noblest Friendship ever shown And, whether being crazed or blind, Have not, it seems, discern'd it. O Friendship! if my soul forego May I myself at last appear THE 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. [Addressed to Mr Unwin, and written December, 1779. See Letter 39.] COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, This priest he merry is and blithe But oh! it cuts him like a scythe, He then is full of fright 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 When he that takes and he that pays 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 grieve, Holds up the cloth before. The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever; Like barrels with their bellies full, At length the busy time begins, "Come, neighbours, we must wag"The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag. One talks of mildew and of frost, Quoth one, "A rarer man than you But yet, methinks, to tell you true, Oh, why are farmers made so coarse, A kick, that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; TO THE REV. MR NEWTON. [Written in October, 1780, on his return from Ramsgate.] THAT Ocean you have late survey'd, Those rocks I too have seen; But I, afflicted and dismay'd, You from the flood-controlling steep To me, the waves that ceaseless broke Your sea of troubles you have past, Come home to port no more. |