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I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd-
755 Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain. Despondence, self-deserted in her grief, Lost by abandoning her own relief, Murmuring and ungrateful discontent, That scorns afflictions mercifully nieant,
760 Those humours tart as wine upon the fret, Which idleness and weariness beget ; These, and a thousand plagues, that haunt the breast, Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, Divine communion chases, as the day
765 Drives to their dens th' obedient beasts of prey. See Judah's promis'd king, bereft of all, Driv'n out an exile from the face of Saul; To distant caves the lonely wand'rer flies, To scek that peace a tyrant's frown denies. 770 Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, Hear him, o'erwhelm’d with sorrow, yet rejoice; No womanish or wailing grief has part, No, not a moment, in his royal heart ;
'Tis nianly musick, such as martyrs make,
Religion does not censure or exclude
Me poetry, (or rather notes that aim
THE YEARLY DISTRESS,
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.
COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The burden of my song.
Three quarters of the year,
When tithing time draws near.
As one at point to die,
He heares up many a sigh.
Along the miry road,
To make their payments good.
In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd, When he that takes, and he that pays,
Are both alike distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
He trembles at the sight.
And well he may,
for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come-each makes his leg,
And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg,
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 :
Were e'er such hungry folk ? There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no tiine to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Holds the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they aro dull
And lumpish still as ever ;
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins,
Come, neighbours, we must wag—" The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
And one of storms of hail,
By maggots at the tail.
“ In pulpit none shall hear:
“ You sell it plaguy dear.”
Or clergy made so fine ?
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, Without the clowns that pay.