When from the Town I seek the sylvan shade, The Muse shall lend me all her magic aid; 'Midst the cool grove, nor love of pomp, or
Nor party rage disturb my happier hour;
The Muse alone my constant guide and friend,
Of all my joys, beginning and the end.
Forc'd by some friend's importunate request,
To give up all my love of peace and rest,
Obliged to jostle thro' the crowded street,
And elbow every mortal that I meet,
Push thro' the courts, and hasten without fail,
For some poor client to give bond or bail;
The motley mob with sneers mistake my case,
And think me pushing for some stall, or place;
Thus while I bustle thro' the busy town,
An hundred cares disturb me—not my own:
One begs at early hour I would support
His cause to morrow at the public court;
Another urging will take no denial,
And cites me as a Witness at his trial:
While others rudely pull me by the coat,
And loudly ask my interest and my vote.
'Tis now some years, since first a noble Peer Wou'd take my hand, and whisper in my ear;
Ask me to dine, commend some pleasant spot,
And talk of trifles which are soon forgot,
As who acts best in Reynold's last new play,
Or what the news, and rumour of the day:
Say can the Spaniards join the gallic fleet,
Or will at length the proud Direct'ry treat?—
When I protest I know no more than they,
They think me wond'rous sly, and walk away.-
Thus do my hours insipid steal along, While this is still the burden of my song.
Hail, far-fam'd Maudlin! when will heaven
'Midst thy cool groves to indulge my love of ease?
In active indolence amuse my time,
And pass the peaceful hours with books and rhyme.
Sooth the dull cares, and tumults of my breast, And gently lull the sober soul to rest.
Or, when at home, my neighbouring friends regale,
A social circle, with my nut-brown ale,
Or good old port, while every welcome guest
Without controul just drinks as he likes best.
No trifling subjects our discourse engage
Of Opera Dancers, or the Comic Stage,
What this fine palace, that proud villa cost, But what concerns each serious mortal most. Does real bliss from wealth, or virtue flow? What makes, and keeps men happy here below; What best our mutual friendship will maintain, What yields most pleasure, and what gives least pain?
Should some old friend with honest rage relate, 28
How starving Elways gain'd his vast estate,
The gentle Shenstone wou'd begin a tale,
As thus In some remote and lonely vale
There liv'd a sober mouse, whose homely board
Could every day one frugal meal afford;
A pamper'd mouse resolv'd one day to spend
A few spare hours and visit this old friend;
With hearty welcome he receives his guest,
And opes his cup-board to provide the best,
Serves him at table with officious care,
And heaps his plate with lumps of country fare;
The civil mouse with delicate disgust
Nibbles some cheese, or gnaws some mouldy
When thus he cries, too long you have endur'd Within this dismal cave to live immur'd;
Leave these dull scenes, unknowing and un
And taste with me the pleasures of the Town;
Short is our life, the coward and the brave
Alike descend beneath the silent grave.
Thus said, with eager haste they post away,
And reach the city at the close of day.
There in a palace with rich carpets spread,
They lie luxurious on a silken bed;
There joyous revel 'midst the luscious store
Of costly dainties left the day before.—
The well-bred mouse his rustic guest attends,
Tastes every dish, their qualities commends,
While the poor cull with secret joy elate,
Smiles, and indulges in his change of state.
When lo! the doors unlock with jarring sound,
A motley rabble fills the room around,
Half dead with fear the trembling culprits stole
To seek for safety thro' some lucky hole,
While thus the rustic as in haste he flies,
With scorning sneer, adieu, kind Sir, he cries,
Your taste is much more elegant than mine,
I like not so much company to dine,
Content with coarser bill of fare to dwell,
Secure from danger in my humble cell.
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