Knew what was handsome, and would do't, On just occasion, coute qui coute.
He brought him bacon, (nothing lean) Pudding that might have pleas'd a Dean; Cheese such as men in Suffolk make, But wish'd'it Stilton for his sake; Yet, to his guest though no way sparing, He ate himself the rind and paring. Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, But show'd his breeding and his wit; He did his best to seem to eat,
And cry'd, I vow you're mighty neat: • But, Lord, my friend, this
'For God's sake, come and live with men :
'Consider mice, like men, must die,
'Both small and great, both you and I ; 'Then spend your life in joy and sport; '(This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court.) 180 The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. Away they came, through thick and thin, To a tall house near Lincoln's-inn;
(Twas on the night of a debate, When all their Lordships had sat late.) Behold the place, where if a poet Shin'd in description he might show it ; Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls, And tips with silver all the walls; Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors;
O charming noons! and nights divine ! Or when I sup, or when I dine, My friends above, my folks below, Chatting and laughing all-a-row; The beans and bacon set before 'em, The grace-cup serv'd with all decorum ; Each willing to be pleas'd, and please, And ev❜n the very dogs at ease! Here no man prates of idle things, How this or that Italian sings,
A neighbor's madness, or his spouse's, Or what's in either of the Houses;
For their own worth, or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what the very best of all?
Our friend Dan Prior, told (you know)
A tale extremely a propos:
Name a Town life, and in a trice
He had a story of two Mice.
"Once on a time (so runs the fable) A country mouse, right hospitable, Receiv'd a town mouse at his board, Just as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal mouse upon the whole, Yet lov'd his friend, and had a soul;
Knew what was handsome, and would do't, On just occasion, coute qui coute.
He brought him bacon, (nothing lean) Pudding that might have pleas'd a Dean; Cheese such as men in Suffolk make, But wish'd'it Stilton for his sake; Yet, to his guest though no way sparing, He ate himself the rind and paring. Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, But show'd his breeding and his wit; He did his best to seem to eat, And cry'd, I vow you're mighty neat: But, Lord, my friend, this savage scene!
For God's sake, come and live with men : 'Consider mice, like men, must die, 'Both small and great, both you and I ;
'Then spend your life in joy and sport;
(This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court.)' 180 The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. Away they came, through thick and thin, To a tall house near Lincoln's-inn;
('Twas on the night of a debate, When all their Lordships had sat late.) Behold the place, where if a poet Shin'd in description he might show it ; Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls, And tips with silver all the walls; Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors;
But let it (in a word) be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed, The napkins white, the carpet red: The guests withdrawn had left the treat, And down the mice sat tete a tete.
Our courtier walks from dish to dish, Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, Que ca est bon! Ah goutez ca!
That jelly's rich, this Malmsey healing,
Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in.' Was ever such a happy swain!
He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again.
'I'm quite asham'd-'tis mighty rude To eat so much-but all's so good! • I have a thousand thanks to give- 'My Lord alone knows how to live.' No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all : A rat, a rat! clap to the door'— The cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence they think,
For your damn'd stucco has no chink)
An't please your Honor,' quoth the peasant, This same desert is not so pleasant:
Give me again my hollow tree,
A crust of bread, and liberty!
HORACE, BOOK I. EPISTLE I.
TO LORD BOLINGBROKE.
ST. JOHN! whose love indulg'd my labors past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last! Why will you break the sabbath of my days, Now sick alike of envy and of praise? Public too long, ah! let me hide my age: See modest Cibber now has left the stage; Our gen'rals now, retir'd to their estates, Hang their old trophies o'er the garden gates; In life's cool ev'ning satiate of applause,
Nor fond of bleeding ev'n in Brunswick's cause. 10 A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis Reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear)
'Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take 'breath,
'And never gallop Pegasus to death;
'Lest stiff and stately, void of fire, or force, 15 'You limp, like Blackmore, on a Lord Mayor's 'horse.'
Farewel then, verse, and love, and ev'ry toy, The rhymes and rattles of the man, or boy; What right, what true, what fit, we justly call, Let this be all my care-for this is all : To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste Wit ev'ry day will want, and most the last.
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