| |
| WHILE you, dear Tom, are forced to roam, | |
| In search of fortune, far from home, | |
| O’er bogs, e’er seas and mountains; | |
| I too, debarr’d the soft retreat | |
| Of shady groves, and murmur sweet | 5 |
| Of silver prattling fountains, | |
| |
| Must mingle with the bustling throng, | |
| And bear my load of cares along, | |
| Like any other sinner: | |
| For, where ’s the ecstasy in this, | 10 |
| To loiter in poetic bliss, | |
| And go without a dinner? | |
| |
| Flaccus, we know, immortal bard! | |
| With mighty kings and statesmen fared, | |
| And lived in cheerful plenty: | 15 |
| But now, in these degenerate days, | |
| The slight reward of empty praise, | |
| Scarce one receives in twenty. | |
| |
| Well might the Roman swan, along | |
| The pleasing Tiber pour his song, | 20 |
| When bless’d with ease and quiet; | |
| Oft did he grace Mæcenas’ board, | |
| Who would for him throw by the lord, | |
| And in Falernian riot. | |
| |
| But, dearest Tom! these days are past, | 25 |
| And we are in a climate cast | |
| Where few the muse can relish; | |
| Where all the doctrine now that’s told, | |
| Is that a shining heap of gold | |
| Alone can man embellish. | 30 |
| |
| Then since ’t is thus, my honest friend, | |
| If you be wise, my strain attend, | |
| And counsel sage adhere to; | |
| With me, henceforward, join the crowd, | |
| And like the rest proclaim aloud, | 35 |
| That money is all virtue! | |
| |
| Then may we both, in time, retreat | |
| To some fair villa, sweetly neat, | |
| To entertain the muses; | |
| And then life’s noise and trouble leave— | 40 |
| Supremely blest, we ’ll never grieve | |
| At what the world refuses. | |
| |
