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'Tis no hard matter to divine
The learned Sydenham does not doubt
Indeed I 'm apt to think in you
MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.
BY MR. MATTHEW GREEN,
of the Custom-House.
This motley piece to you I send,
The want of method pray excuse,
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,
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
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