With Gold his thankful Hoft he paid,
Who guides him back from whence he stray'd.
But e're they part (fo well he din'd)
Th' obfequious Swain the 'Squire enjoin'd,
Next Day, to fend him Home a Stock
Of those fine Eggs, that charming Hock.
The Cargo comes, which when he saw,
He fmil'd with Joy, and bleft his Maw.
If these at Course the third were brought,
Their Pow'r wou'd raise the Feast, he thought.
Next Day, obedient to his Word,
The Dish appear'd at Courfe the third:
But Matters now were alter'd quite,
In Bed till Noon he stretch'd the Night.
Took Chocolate at ev'ry Dofe,
And just at Twelve his Worship rofe:
Then eat a Toaft, and fip'd Bohea
Till One, and fat to dine at Three
And having tafted fome half-fcore
Of coftly Things he loath'd before,
He hop'd his Dish of sav'ry Meat
Wou'd prove that ftill, 'twas Bliss to eat.
But ah! he finds, like all the rest,
Thefe Eggs were taftelefs Things at best.
This Bacon not a Dog could touch,
So rank-
he never tafted fuch.
He fends exprefs to fetch the Clown,
And thus accofts him with a Frown
"Thefe Eggs, this Bacon, that you fent,
"For Chriftian's Food were never meant:
"As foon I'll think the Moon's a Cheese,
"As those you drefs'd, the same with these.
"I little thought" Sir, fays the Peasant,
I'm glad your Worship is so pleasant.
You joke, I'm fure- for I can swear,
The fame the Fowls that laid 'em are;
And know as well that all the Bacon,
From one, the self-fame Hog, was taken.
The Air, indeed, about our Green,
Is known to make the Stomach keen.
"Is that the Cafe?" the 'Squire reply'd,
"That Air fhall be directly try'd:"
He gives Command-a Lodging's hir'd,
And down he goes, with Hope inspir'd;
And takes his Cooks- a fav'rite Train!
But ftill they ply their Art in vain.
Perhaps 'twas Riding did the Feat
He rides, but still he cannot eat.
At laft a Friend, to Phyfic bred,
Perceiv'd his Cafe- and thus he said:
"Dear Sir-I've long employ'd my Mind,
"The Cause of your Complaint to find;
"And, by my Art, at last am sure,
"A Charm alone must work the Cure.
"Be rul'd by me, you foon shall eat,
"With hearty Goût, the plainest Meat.”
The 'Squire consents the Doctor straight
Prescribes this fimple cheap Receipt.
A Pint of Milk, each rifing Morn,
Procure from Cow of fable Horn:
Shake in three Drops of Morning Dew,
From Twig of ever verdant Yew;
It muft by your own Hand be done,
Your Face turn'd Weftward from the Sun.
With this, ere half an Hour is past,
Well crumb'd with Bifcuit, break your Faft.
Which done, from Food (or all is vain)
For twice three Hours and one abstain.
Then dine on one substantial Dish,
(If plainly drefs'd) of Flesh or Fish:
Nor needs it that you be deny'd
A Pudding or a Tart befide.
I'll ftake my Life, this Courfe pursue,
And none fhall eat with higher Goût.
Grave look'd the Doctor as he spake,
The 'Squire concludes th' Advice to take.
Betimes he rose to shake the Yew,
Before the Sun exhal'd the Dew;
Then took the falutary Dose,
His other Orders follow'd clofe;
And, cheated into Temp'rance, found
The Blifs his former Lux'ry drown'd.
Yet ftill he long'd for fomething more,
And grudg'd to give his Dainties o'er
He found his Cure compleat, and thence,
To change his Breakfast, form'd Pretence:
Next adds a Difh or two at Noon,
And reach'd his usual Number foon.
For what! fhould he, with Thousands Ten
Per Annum, eat like other Men!
It must not be, his Worship thought,
So liv'd as he opin'd he ought.
Relaps'd-and, ere the Year was out,
Became immortal-by the Gout-
See then the Joy which Vice pretends her
Fade at her Touch, by Virtue nurs❜d alone.
Virtue whofe Steps the truly wife attend,
Sure Guide to Blifs, a never-failing Friend.
Each Step from Virtue is a Step to Pain,
Thus Paul affirms, "That Godliness is Gain."
Howe'er diftinguish'd, and howe'er difguis'd,
Virtue, the Source of Blifs, is known and priz'd-
Not her's the filent folitary Cell,
Where useless Men in dull Inaction dwell:
Not her's the Zealot's voluntary Woe,
Who dreams that Heaven abhors its Works
below.
Or rueful Visage, or dejected Air,
Or broken Slumber, or the Midnight Prayer:
Eternal Smiles adorn her chearful Face,
And Peace and Charity's immortal Grace-
Sneer on ye Foplings- but remember this ;
The Foes of Virtue are the Foes of Bliss.
The UNHAPPY DEBAUCHEE; the Sequel to the Miferable Glutton.
UR Smart, of late fo bold fo gay,
Had liften'd half his Airs away;
And thus, in milder Tone, exprest
The Tenor of his alter'd Breast:
"Inform'd, convinc'd, corrected too-
"Tho' keen your Words, your Theme pursue,
"Prove (that no Doubt may yet remain)
"Love's sweetest Joys the Virtuous gain;
"Tell me, if grateful Change bestows
"No sprightlier Joys than Marriage knows-
"Can Love, the cordial Drop of Life,
"Be tafted, when allay'd with Wife?-
"Or does your nobler Scheme admit
(For you with Judgment mingle Wit) "That Marriage is the Priest's Device, Or took from Politics its Rife? "Speak frankly, for I long to fee "This knotty Point from Error free."
Pleas'd with the Theme, an ardent Red
O'er Carlos' youthful Cheeks was spread;
And thus impatient of Delay,
He gave his gen'rous Purpose Way:
If Marriage Law, that cenfur'd Band,
The Priest or Politician plann'd;
I'll not enquire, but truft to show,
Did thoughtless Men their Interest know,
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