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Till he, that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein,
Then all the world of waters sleeps again.
Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads,
Now in the floods, now panting in the meads,
Vot’ries of Pleasure still, where'er she dwells,
Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells,
O grant a poet leave to recommend
(A poet fond of Nature, and your friend)
Her slighted works to your admiring view;
Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you.
Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride,
With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side,
Condemn the prattler for his idle pains,
To waste unheard the music of his strains,
And, deaf to all th' impertinence of tongue,
That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong,
Mark well the finish'd plan without a fault,
The seas globose and huge, th' o'erarching vault,
Earth's millions daily fcd, a world employ'd
In gath'ring plenty yet to be enjoy'd,
Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise
Of God, beneficent in all his ways;
Grac'd with such wisdom, how would beauty shine!
Ye want but that to seem indeed divine.

Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, Force many a shining youth into the shade, Not to redeem his time, but his estate, And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. There, hid in loath'd obscurity, remov'd From pleasures left, but never more belov’d, He just endures, and with a sickly spleen Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme; Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime: The warblings of the blackbird, clear and strong, Are musical enough in Thomson's song; And Cobham's groves, and Windsor's green retreats, When Pope describes them, have a thousand sweets; He likes the country, but in truth must own, Most likes it, when he studies it in town.

Poor Jack-no matter who-for when I blame, I pity, and must therefore sink the name, Liy'd in his saddle, lov'd the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years, Was quickly distanc'd, match'd against a peer's. Jack vanish'd, was regretted and forgot; Tis wild good-nature's never failing lot.

At length, when all had long suppos'd him dead,
By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead,
My lord, alighting at his usual place,
The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face.
Jack knew his friend, but hop'd in that disguise
He might escape the most observing eyes,
And whistling, as if unconcern’d and gay,
Curried his nag, and look'd another way.
Convinc'd at last, upon a nearer view,
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew,
O’erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy,
He press'd him much to quit his base employ;
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand,
Influence and pow'r, were all at his command:
Peers are not always gen'rous as wellbred,
But Granby was, meant truly what he said.
Jack bow'd, and was oblig'd-confess'd’twas strange,.
That so retir'd he should not wish a change,
But knew no medium between guzzling beer,
And his old stint-three thousand pounds a year.

Thus some retire to nourish hopeless wo;
Some seeking happiness not found below;
Some to comply with humour, and a mind
To social scenes by nature disinclin'd;

Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust;
Some self-impov'rish'd, and because they must;
But few, that court Retirement, are aware
Of half the toils they must encounter there,

Lucrative offices are seldom lost
For want of pow'rs proportion’d to the post :
Give ev'n a dunce th' employment he desires,
And he soon finds the talents it requires;
A business with an income at it's heels
Furnishes always oil for it's own wheels.
But in his arduous enterprize to close
His active years with indolent repose,
He finds the labours of that state exceed.
His utmost faculties, severe indeed.
'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place,
But not to manage leisure with a grace;
Absence of occupation is not rest,
A mind quite vacant, is a mind distress’d.
The vet’ran steed, excus'd his task at length,
In kind compassion of his failing strength,
And turn'd into the park or mead to graze,
Exempt from future service all his days,
There feels a pleasure perfect in it's kind,
Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind:

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But when his lord would quit the busy road,
To taste a joy like that he had bestow'd,
He proves, less happy than his favour'd brute,
A life of ease a difficult pursuit.
Thought, to the man that never thinks, may seem
As natural as when asleep to dream;
But reveries (for human minds will act)
Specious in show, impossible in fact,
Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought,
Attain not to the dignity of thought:
swarms, that


the brain, Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure reign; Nor such as useless conversation breeds, Or lust engenders, and indulgence feeds. Whence, and what are we? to what end ordain'd? What means the drama by the world sustain'd? Business or vain amusement, care or mirth, Divide the frail inhabitants of Earth. Is duty a mere sport, or an employ? Life an intrusted talent, or a toy? Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture, say, Cause to provide for a great future day, When, Earth's assign'd duration at an end, Man shall be summond and the dead attend?

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