What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her As he was a poet sublimer than me.
FROM THE GRUMBLING HIVE; OR, KNAVES TURNED HONEST
A spacious hive, well stocked with bees, That lived in luxury and ease;
And yet as famed for laws and arms, As yielding large and early swarms; Was counted the great nursery
Of sciences and industry.
Vast numbers thronged the fruitful hive; Yet those vast numbers made 'em thrive; Millions endeavouring to supply
Each others lust and vanity,
While other millions were employed To see their handiworks destroyed;
They furnished half the universe, Yet had more work than labourers.
Some with vast stocks, and little pains, Jumped into business of great gains;
And some were damned to scythes and spades, And all those hard laborious trades Where willing wretches daily sweat And wear out strength and limbs, to eat; While others followed mysteries
To which few folks bind prentices, That want no stock but that of brass, And may set up without a cross,— As sharpers, parasites, pimps, players, Pickpockets, coiners, quacks, soothsayers, And all those that in enmity
With downright working, cunningly Convert to their own use the labour
Of their good-natured heedless neighbour. These were called knaves; but bar the name, The grave industrious were the same: All trades and places knew some cheat, No calling was without deceit.
Thus every part was full of vice, Yet the whole mass a paradise: Flattered in peace, and feared in wars, They were th' esteem of foreigners, And lavish of their wealth and lives, The balance of all other hives.
Such were the blessings of that state; Their crimes conspired to make them great.
The root of evil, avarice,
That damned, ill-natured, baneful vice, Was slave to prodigality,
That noble sin; whilst luxury
Employed a million of the poor, And odious pride a million more; Envy itself, and vanity, Were ministers of industry;
Their darling folly-fickleness In diet, furniture, and dress-
That strange, ridiculous vice, was made The very wheel that turned the trade. Their laws and clothes were equally Objects of mutability;
For what was well done for a time, In half a year became a crime.
How vain is mortal happiness!
Had they but known the bounds of bliss, And that perfection here below Is more than gods can well bestow, The grumbling brutes had been content With ministers and government.
But they, at every ill success,
Like creatures lost without redress, Cursed politicians, armies, fleets;
While every one cried, 'Damn the cheats!' And would, though conscious of his own, In others barbarously bear none.
One that had got a princely store By cheating master, king, and poor, Dared cry aloud, "The land must sink For all its fraud'; and whom d'ye think The sermonizing rascal chid?
A glover that sold lamb for kid!
The least thing was not done amiss, Or crossed the public business, But all the rogues cried brazenly, 'Good Gods, had we but honesty!' Mercury smiled at th' impudence, And others called it want of sense, Always to rail at what they loved: But Jove, with indignation moved, At last in anger swore he'd rid The bawling hive of fraud; and did. The very moment it departs,
And honesty fills all their hearts,
There shews 'em, like th' instructive tree,
Those crimes which they're ashamed to see,
Which now in silence they confess By blushing at their ugliness;
Like children that would hide their faults And by their colour own their thoughts, Imagining when they're looked upon, That others see what they have done.
But, O ye Gods! what consternation! How vast and sudden was th' alternation! In half an hour, the nation round, Meat fell a penny in the pound.
Now mind the glorious hive, and see How honesty and trade agree. The show is gone; it thins apace, And looks with quite another face. For 'twas not only that they went By whom vast sums were yearly spent; But multitudes that lived on them, Were daily forced to do the same. In vain to other trades they'd fly; All were o'erstocked accordingly.
As pride and luxury decrease, So by degrees they leave the seas. Not merchants now, but companies, Remove whole manufactories. All arts and crafts neglected lie: Content, the bane of industry, Makes 'em admire their homely store, And neither seek nor covet more. So few in the vast hive remain,
The hundredth part they can't maintain Against th' insults of numerous foes, Whom yet they valiantly oppose,
Till some well-fenced retreat is found, And here they die or stand their ground. No hireling in their army's known; But bravely fighting for their own Their courage and integrity At last were crowned with victory. They triumphed not without their cost, For many thousand bees were lost.
Hardened with toil and exercise, They counted ease itself a vice; Which so improved their temperance That, to avoid extravagance, They flew into a hollow tree, Blessed with content and honesty.
Then leave complaints: fools only strive To make a great an honest hive. T' enjoy the world's conveniences, Be famed in war, yet live in ease, Without great vices, is a vain Utopia seated in the brain.
THE HAZARD OF LOVING THE CREATURES
Where'er my flattering passions rove,
I find a lurking snare;
'Tis dangerous to let loose our love Beneath th' eternal fair.
Souls whom the tie of friendship binds,
And things that share our blood, Seize a large portion of our minds, And leave the less for God.
Nature has soft but powerful bands,
And reason she controls;
While children with their little hands
Hang closest to our souls.
Thoughtless they act th' old Serpent's part;
What tempting things they be!
Lord, how they twine about our heart, And draw it off from Thee!
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