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A FRAGMENT OF ANCIENT POETRY.

By George Wethers. LORDLY gallants! tell me this,

(Though my safe content you weigh not, In your greatness what one bliss Have you gain'd that I enjoy not?

You have honour, you have wealth,
I have peace, and I have health;
All the day I merry make,

And at night no care I take.
Bound to none my fortune be;

This or that man's fall I fear not;
Him I love that loveth me;
For the rest a pin I care not.

You are sad when others chafe,
And grow merry as they laugh;
I that hate it, and am free,

Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.
You may boast of favours shown,

Where your service is applied;
But my pleasures are my own,
And to no man's humors tied;

You oft flatter, soothe, and feign,
I such baseness do disdain;
And to none be slave I would,

Though my fetters might be gold.
By great titles some believe

Highest honours are attain'd;
And yet kings have power to give
To their fools what these have gain’d.

Where they favour, there they may
All their names of honour lay;
But I look not rais’d to be

Till mine own wing carry me.
Seek to raise your titles higher,

They are toys not worth my sorrow; Those that we to-day admire,

Prove the age's scorn to-morrow.

Take your honours; let me find
Virtue in a free born mind:
This the greatest kings that be
Cannot give nor take from me.

Though I vainly do not vaunt

Large demesnes to feed my pleasure,
I have favours where you want,
That would buy respect with treasure.

You have lands lie here and there;
But

my wealth is every where;
And this aideth to my store,
Fortune cannot make me poor.

Say you purchase with your pelf

Some respect where you importune;
Those may love me for myself,
That regard you for your fortune.

Rich, or born of high degree,
Fools, as well as you, may be;
But that peace, in which I live,
No descent nor wealth can give.

If
you

boast that you may gain
The respect of high-born beauties;
Know I never woo'd in vain,
Nor preferred scorned duties.

She I love hath all delight,
Rosy red with lily white,
And, who'er your mistress be,
Flesh and blood as good as she.

Note of me was never took

For my woman-like perfections;
But so like a man. I look,
It hath gain'd me best affections.

For my love, as many showers
Have been wept as have for yours;
And yet none doth me condemn
For abuse or scorning them.

Though of dainties you have store

To delight a choicer palate, Yet your taste is pleas'd no more Than is mine in

poor

sallad.
You, to please your senses, feed,
But I eat, good blood to breed,
And am most delighted then
When I spend it like a man.

Though you lord it over me,

You in vain thereof have brav’d;
For those lusts my servants be,
Whereunto your

minds are slav'd.
To yourselves you wise appear,
But, alas! deceiv'd you are;
You do foolish me esteem,
And are that which I do seem.

When your faults I open lay,

You are mov'd and mad with vexing;
But you ne'er could do or say
Aught to drive me to perplexing.

Therefore my despised power
Greater is by far than your;
And, whate'er you think of me,
In
your
minds

you poorer be.

You are pleased more or less

No men well or ill report you,
And show discontentedness
When the times forbear to court you.

That in which my pleasures be,
No man can divide from me;
And my care it adds not to,
Whatso others say or do.

Be not proud, because you view

You by thousands are attended; For, alas! it is not you,

But your fortune that's befriended.

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In these thoughts my

riches

are;
Now though poor or mean you deem me,
I am pleas’d, and do not care
How the times or you esteem me.

For those toys that make you gay,
Are but play-games for a day;
And when Nature claims her due,

I as braye shall be as you.
VOL. III.

Y

PROLOGUE
To the new dramatic entertainment of “NOT AT Home."
OUR author, anxious for your approbation,
Has sent me here by way of preparation;
But undetermin'd still what means to use
To recommend this bantling of his muse,
From thought to thought with double haste he rov'd,
As fancy led, or judgment disapprov'd:
I could not bear to see him thus perplex'd,
So cried, “ I'll take your title for my text.”
At home, or not at home-Oh! 'tis a theme
As vast as folly's never-failing stream.
Why, not at home's the voice of modern days,
Which every age, and sex, and rank, displays;
And coxcombs, from the 'prentice to the peer,
Disdain the limits of their proper sphere.
Observe

my
lord-the

copy

of his groom In all the scenes of vulgar life at home; At home to all the pugilistic train, Lord of the ring, and hero of the rein: But not at home when tradesmen would be paid, Or worth and genius supplicate his aid; And least at home, oh mean! and grovelling mind! In that high station which his birth assign'd. In those dull moments when ennui prevails, And beaux forget to call, and scandal fails, What dame of fashion e'er can condescend At home the solitary hours to spend? At home! oh monstrous! is there then no way To kill the languor of the irksome day? Call my barouche! I'll drive to lady Bloom: Our mutual watchword still is--Not at home: And Mrs. Shuttle, odious, rustic creature! Whose suppers we endure from mere good nature. Brisk at his post, and practis'd in reply, The powder'd footman tells the ready lie; Not so the simple lad just come to town, Scarce half a coxcomb, more than half a clown, With awkward shame he turns his head away, And blushing stammers—Not at home to-day.

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