DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth,
And with our follies glut thy heighten'd mirth;
Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return,
In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn,
Between you both I unconcern'd stand by;
Hurt, can I laugh? and honest, need I cry?
SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair;
(At Barthol'mew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the edict of the May'r)
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd,
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held,
His left was with a good black pudding fill'd,
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage:
Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit methinks is something dull.
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain
What does your emblematic Worship mean?
Quoth Andrew, honest English let us speak ;
Your emble---(what d'ye call't?) is Heathen Greek,
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense,
That busy fool I was which thou art now,
Desirous to correct, not knowing how,
With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things as I thought fit:
I for this conduct had what I deserv'd,
And, dealing honestly, was almost starv'd.
But thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat,
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill---
Bow, then, says Andrew, and for once I will.--
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much; think little, and talk less:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue.
A rev'rend prelate stopp'd his coach-and-six
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks:
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on, (he cry'd) this fellow is no fool.
DUM studeo fungi fallentis munere vitæ,
Adfectoque viam sedibus Elysiis,
Arctoa florens Sophiâ, Samisque superbus'
Discipulis, animas morte carere cano.
Has ego corporibus profugas ad sidera mitto;
Sideraque ingressis otia blanda dico;
Qualia conveniunt divis, queis fata volebant
Vitäi faciles mollitèr ire vias:
Vinaque cœlicolis media inter gaudia libo;
Et me quid majus suspicor esse viro.
Sed fuerint nulli forsan, quos spondeo, cœli;
Nullaque sint Ditis numina, nulla Jovis:
Fabula sit terris agitur quæ vita relictis;
Quique superstes homo; qui nihil, esto Deus.
Attamen esse hilares, et inanes mittere curas
Proderit, ac vitæ commoditate frui,
Et festos agitâsse dies, ævique fugacis
Tempora perpetuis detinuisse jocis.
His me parentem præceptis occupet orcus,'
Et mors; seu divum, seu nihil, esse velit;
Nam sophia ars illa est, quæ fallere suavitèr horas
Admonet, atque orci non timuisse minas.
STUDIOUS the busy moments to deceive,
That fleet between the cradle and the grave,
I credit what the Grecian dictates say,
And Samian sounds o'er Scotia's hills convey.
When mortal man resigns his transient breath,
The body only I give o'er to death;
The parts dissolv'd and broken frame I mourn; What came from earth I see to earth return.
The immaterial part, th' ethereal soul,
Nor can change vanquish, nor can death control.
Glad I release it from its partners' cares,
And bid good angels waft it to the stars:
Then in the flowing bowl I drown those sighs,
Which, spite of wisdom, from our weakness rise.
The draught to the dead's mem'ry I commend,
And offer to thee now, immortal friend :
But if oppos'd to what my thoughts approve,
Nor Pluto's rage there be, nor pow'r of Jove,
On its dark side if thou the prospect take,
Grant all forgot beyond black Lethe's lake;
In total death suppose the mortal lie,
No new hereafter, nor a future sky;
Yet bear thy lot content, yet cease to grieve;
Why ere death comes dost thou forbear to live?
The little time thou hast, 'twixt instant now
And Fate's approach, is all the Gods allow ;
And of this little hast thou ought to spare
To sad reflection and corroding care?
The moments past, if thou art wise, retrieve,
With pleasant mem'ry of the bliss they gave.
The present hours in present mirth employ,
And bribe the future with the hopes of joy ;
The future (few or more, howe'er they be)
Where destin'd erst, nor can by Fate's decree
Be now cut off betwixt the grave and thee,
Que fais tu bergere dans ce beau verger
Tu ne songe gueres à me soulager?
Tu connois ma flamme, tu vois ma langueur.
Prens belle inhumaine pitié de mon cœur.
Dequoy te plains tu malheureux berger?
Que n'ay je point fait pour te soulager!
J'ay quitté la plaine, mon troupeau, mon chien,
Prend on tant de peine quand on n'aime rein.
WHY thus from the plain does my shepherdess rove,
Forsaking her swain and neglecting his love?
You have heard all my grief, you see how I die,
Oh! give some relief to the swain whom you fly.
How can you complain, or what am I to say,
Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray?
Need I tell what I mean, that I languish alone!
When I leave all the plain, you may guess 'tis for one.
Volume II.
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