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'Tis no hard matter to divine
How I, who love a wench and wine,
And all the studied luxuries
That Lamb or Locket can devise,
Should have the gout, and penance do
With foot on chair in velvet shoe.
But how a man predicamental-
ly sober, and near transcendental;
That ne'er was known to be a glutton,
Beyond a penny chop of mutton,
And can't tell what sixth sense, or whore is,
And Goody is his only Chloris :
How such a one should have intestine
Saline, and acid so infesting,
Is strange to me, and as obscure
A riddle almost as the cure.

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The learned Sydenham does not doubt
But profound thought will bring the gout,
And that with bum on couch we lie,
Because our reason's soar'd too high ;
As cannons, when they mount vast pitches,
Are tumbled back upon their breaches.

Indeed I 'm apt to think in you
Th’ hypothesis is very true :
For your investigating skull
So 'oti and dioti full,
That, hunting things through common-places,
Y' are lost in entelechian mazes :
And as when to an house we come
To know if any one 's at home,
We knock; so one must kick your shin,
Ere he can find your soul's within.
Your brains (if any) sure would work well
Upon the quadrature o' th' circle:
But, if you'll have your foot no more in
Flannel, you must leave off your poring,
Be blithę and merry still as a grig,
Mirth is the best Antipodagrig ;
The gout's enrag'd by care and sadness,
The best cure for 't is the oil of gladness,

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EPISTLE XXXV.

THE SPLEEN.

то

MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.

BY MR. MATTHEW GREEN,

of the Custom-House.

This motley piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend;
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense ;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I sing, so often feel.

The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapor'd Muse;
Nor to a narrow path confin'd,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

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The child is genuine, you may trace Throughout the sire's transmitted face. Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, though mean, Draws from the spring she finds within ;

Nor vainly buys what Gildon sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.

School-helps I want, to climb on high, Where all the ancient treasures lie, And there unseen commit a theft On wealth in Greek exchequers left, Then where? from whom? what can I steal, Who only with the moderns deal? This were attempting to put on Raiment from naked bodies won : They safely sing before a thief, They cannot give who want relief; Some few excepted, names well known, And justly laureld with renown, Whose stamp of genius marks their ware, And theft detects : of theft beware; From More so lash'd, example fit, Shun petty larceny in wit,

First know, my friend, I do not mean To write a treatise on the Spleen ; Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse; Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse. If I am right, your question lay, What course I take to drive away The day-mare Spleen, by whose false pleas Men prove meer suicides in ease; And how I do myself demean In stormy world to live serene.

When by its magic lantern Spleen With frightful figures spreads life's scene, And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears, A stranger to the luck of heirs ; Reason, some quiet to restore, Shew'd part was substance, shadow more; With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown, In life's rough tide I sunk not down, But swam, 'till Fortune threw a rope, Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.

I always choose the plainest food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor ;
Thy help love's confessors implore,
And doctors secretly adore;
To thee, I fly, by thee dilute-
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolific particles of Spleen,

I never sick by drinking grow, Nor keep myself a cup too low, And seldom Cloe's lodgings haunt, Thrifty of spirits, which I want.

Hunting I reckon very good
To brace the nerves, and stir the blood;
But after no field-honors itch,

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