From ev'ry quarter hither made resort;
Where, from gross mortal care and business free,
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury.
Or should they a vain show of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?

To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom;
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom.

LXXII.

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it was, and weary woe.
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme;
Then rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow.
This soon too rude an exercise they find;

Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw, Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclined, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind.

LXXIII.

One nymph there was, methought, in bloom of May, On whom the idle fiend glanced many a look, In hopes to lead her down the slippery way, To taste of Pleasure's deep, deceitful brook. No virtues yet her gentle mind forsook; No idle whims, no vapours fill'd her brain; But Prudence for her youthful guide she took, And Goodness, which no earthly vice could stain, Dwelt in her mind: she was ne proud, I ween, or vain.

LXXIV.

Now must I mark the villany we found,
But, ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown.
A place here was, deep, dreary, under-ground;
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown,
Diseased and loathsome, privily were thrown.
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there,
Unpitied, uttering many a bitter groan:

For of these wretches taken was no care;
Fierce fiends and hags of hell their only nurses were.

LXXV.

Alas the change! from scenes of joy and rest,
To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway!
Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress'd,

Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay,
Heaving his sides, and snored night and day.
To stir him from his traunce it was not eath,
And his half-open'd eye he shut straightway.
He led, I wot, the softest way to death,

And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath.

LXXVI.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft-swoln, and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;

And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.
LXXVII.

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,

Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low;
She felt, or fancied in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spitals know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry,
Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.

LXXVIII.

Fast by her side a listless maiden pined,

With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings: The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks; A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings: Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. -Castle of Indolence, Canto I.

II.

IS THERE no patron to protect the Muse,
And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil?
To every labour its reward accrues,

And they are sure of bread who swink and moil;

But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive despoil,
As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee:
Thus, while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the Muses other meed decree,

They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.

III.

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream at eve. Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

XXIX.

But in prime vigour what can last for aye?
That soul-enfeebling wizard, Indolence,
I whilom sung, wrought in his works decay.
Spread far and wide was his cursed influence:
Of public virtue much he dull'd the sense,
Even much of private; eat our spirit out,
And fed our rank luxurious vices: whence
The land was overlaid with many a lout;

Not, as old Fame reports, wise, generous, bold, and stout.

XXX.

A rage of pleasure madden'd every breast;
Down to the lowest lees the ferment ran :
To his licentious wish each must be blest,
With joy be fever'd; snatch it as he can.

*

XXXVI.

They talk'd of virtue and of human bliss: What else so fit for man to settle well? And still their long researches met in this, This truth of truths, which nothing can repel: "From Virtue's fount the purest joys out-well, Sweet rills of thought that cheer the conscious soul; While Vice pours forth the troubled streams of hell, To which, howe'er disguis'd, at last with dole

Will through the tortured breast their fiery torrent roll."

XLIII.

As in throng'd amphitheatre, of old,
The wary Retiarius trapp'd his foe;
Even so the Knight, returning on him bold,
At once involved him in the net of woe,
Whereof I mention made not long ago.
Enraged, at first, he scorn'd so weak a jail,
And leap'd, and flew, and flounced to and fro;
But when he found that nothing could avail,
He sat him felly down, and gnaw'd his bitter nail.

XLIV.

Alarm'd, the inferior demons of the place
Raised rueful shrieks and hideous yells around;
Black stormy clouds deform'd the welkin's face,
And from beneath was heard a wailing sound,
As of infernal sprights in cavern bound.

A solemn sadness every creature strook;

And lightnings flash'd, and horror rock'd the ground: Huge crowds on crowds out-pour'd with blemish'd look, As if on time's last verge this frame of things had shook.

XLV.

Soon as the short-lived tempest was yspent,
Steam'd from the jaws of vex'd Avernus hole,
And hush'd the hubbub of the rabblement,
Sir Industry the first calm moment stole.
"There must," he cried, "amid so vast a shoal,
Be some who are not tainted at the heart,
Not poison'd quite by this same villain's bowl.
Come then, my bard, thy heavenly fire impart ;
Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start."

XLVI.

The bard obey'd; and, taking from his side,
Where it in seemly sort depending hung,
His British harp, its speaking strings he tried;
The which with skilful touch he deftly strung,
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung.
Then, as he felt the Muses come along,
Light o'er the chords his raptur'd hand he flung,

And play'd a prelude to his rising song;

The whilst like midnight mute, ten thousands round him throng.

XLVII.

Thus ardent burst his strain: "Ye hapless race,
Dire-labouring here to smother reason's ray,
That lights our Maker's image in our face,
And gives us wide o'er earth unquestion'd sway;
What is th' ador'd Supreme Perfection ?-say!
What, but eternal never-resting Soul,

Almighty Power, and all-directing Day;
By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll;
Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole ?

XLVIII.

ແ Come, to the beaming God your hearts unfold!
Draw from its fountain life! 'Tis thence alone
We can excel. Up from unfeeling mould
To seraphs burning round th' Almighty's throne,
Life rising still on life, in higher tone,
Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss.
In universal Nature this clear shown

Not needeth proof: to prove it were, I wis,
To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss.

XLIX.

"Is not the field, with lively culture green, A sight more joyous than the dead morass ? Do not the skies, with active ether clean, And fann'd by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass The foul November fogs and slumb'rous mass With which sad Nature veils her drooping face? Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass, Gay dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace? The same in all holds true, but chief in human race.

L.

"It was not by vile loitering in ease,

That Greece obtain'd the brighter palm of art;
That soft yet ardent Athens learn'd to please,
To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart,
In all supreme, complete in every part!
It was not thence majestic Rome arose,

And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart:
For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows;

Renown is not the child of indolent repose.