MISCELLANEOUS.

TO MY EMPTY PURSE. CHAUCER.

To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere; Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good companie, Be heavy again, or else mote I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, But I pray unto your curtesie, Be heavy again, or els mote I die.

TO CHLOE.

AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY. PETER PINDAR.

Chloe, we must not always be in heaven, For ever toying, ogling, kissing, billing; The joys for which I thousands would have given, Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.

Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows, And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves; Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose; Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves; Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression, That beauty fadeth by too much possession.

Economy in love is peace to nature, Much like economy in worldly matter; We should be prudent, never live too fast; Profusion will not, can not, always last.

Lovers are really spendthrifts—'tis a shame— Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame, Till penury stares them in the face; And when they find an empty purse, Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse, And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace! Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung, Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.

Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose— Smell twenty times—and then, my dear, thy nose Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst) The twentieth drank less flavor than the FIRST.

Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows; Yet often should the little god retire— Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows, That keeps alive the sacred fire.

TO A FLY,

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH. PETER PINDAR.

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave, Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave; Why not content the cakes alone to munch? Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl; Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul— Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize— Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies, Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup: Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand, The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand, But in goes every nose—they must, will sup.

Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed! When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild, They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed, Insisting on their own sole will so wild.

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead; The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread; By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother. And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!

And now thy little drunken eyes unclose, And now thou feelest for thy little nose, And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again." And well mayest thou rejoice—'tis very plain, That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.

And now thou rollest on thy back about, Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt— Now turnest—on the table making rings, Now crawling, forming a wet track, Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back, Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.

Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find, And poking out thy small, long legs behind; And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply; Preparing now to leave me—farewell, fly!

Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board, And rapture to thy family afford— There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife, That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream, And now sits groaning for thy precious life.

Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends, And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.

Let buns and sugar for the future charm; These will delight, and feed, and work no harm— While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin, Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss, Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss, Then, like an alligator, drags him in.

MAN MAY BE HAPPY. PETER PINDAR.

"Man may be happy, if he will:" I've said it often, and I think so still; Doctrine to make the million stare! Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove; Can brew what weather he shall most approve, Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.

But here's the mischief—man's an ass, I say; Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain; He hides the charming, cheerful ray That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain! Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroud— The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!

Who told him that he must be cursed on earth? The God of Nature?—No such thing; Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth, "Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing; Don't be too wise, and be an ape:— In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.

"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn; Yet mind me—if, through want of grace, Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face, Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."

Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst, Poor imps! unhappy, if they can't be cursed— Forever brooding over Misery's eggs, As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin; Mousing forever for a gin To catch their happiness by the legs.

Even at a dinner some will be unblessed, However good the viands, and well dressed: They always come to table with a scowl, Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish, Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish, Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.

A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal, Yet swear they can not make a meal. I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew! I hate to drop the discontented jaw! O let me Nature's simple smile pursue, And pick even pleasure from a straw.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. ROBERT BURNS.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee—thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan!

A down my beard the slavers trickle! I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a';

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick;— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothache!

THE PIG.

A COLLOQUIAL POEM. ROBERT SOUTHEY

Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig, It would be well, my friend, if we, like him, Were perfect in our kind!..And why despise The sow-born grunter?..He is obstinate, Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast That banquets upon offal. …Now I pray you Hear the pig's counsel. Is he obstinate? We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words; We must not take them as unheeding hands Receive base money at the current worth But with a just suspicion try their sound, And in the even balance weigh them well See now to what this obstinacy comes: A poor, mistreated, democratic beast, He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned That pigs were made for man,…born to be brawn'd And baconized: that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take; Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave For self-defense, the general privilege; Perhaps,…hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn? Woe to the young posterity of Pork! Their enemy is at hand. Again. Thou say'st The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him! Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. His face, …nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille? Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged. Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse: So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty, but the aptitude Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glories of the peacock's pride, Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;… Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him! All alteration man could think, would mar His pig-perfection. The last charge,…he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With noble and right-reverend precedents, And show by sanction of authority That 'tis a very honorable thing To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defense. The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt?…Jacob, what is dirt? If matter,…why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. If matter be not, but as sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified, Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep! And there! the breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

SNUFF. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up The titillated nose, and fills the eyes And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze The full-collected pleasure bursts at last! Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this The only Christopher in my calendar. Why, but for thee the uses of the nose Were half unknown, and its capacity Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath, At midnoon glowing with the golden gorse, Bears its balsamic odor, but provokes Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers, That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt And disappoint, bloom for so short a space, That half the year the nostrils would keep lent, But that the kind tobacconist admits No winter in his work; when Nature sleeps His wheels roll on, and still administer A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.

What are Peru and those Golcondan mines To thee, Virginia? miserable realms, The produce of inhuman toil, they send Gold for the greedy, jewels for the vain. But thine are COMMON comforts!…To omit Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise, Think what a general joy the snuff-box gives, Europe, and far above Pizarro's name Write Raleigh in thy records of renown! Him let the school-boy bless if he behold His master's box produced, for when he sees The thumb and finger of authority Stuffed up the nostrils: when hat, head, and wig Shake all; when on the waistcoat black, brown dust, From the oft-reiterated pinch profuse Profusely scattered, lodges in its folds, And part on the magistral table lights, Part on the open book, soon blown away, Full surely soon shall then the brow severe Relax; and from vituperative lips Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise, And jokes that MUST be laughed at shall proceed.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. CHARLES LAMB.

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love thee, so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death,

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes can not find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born. The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of THEE meant only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain; Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking land, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite—-

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe— Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake; TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any title of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys. Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy holders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

BYRON.

If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont, (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream broad Hellespont!

If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For ME, degenerate, modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo—and—Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'Twere hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I've the ague