Happy the man, who void of cares and strife, In silken, or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling. He nor hears with pain New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpye, or Town Hall[63] repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Cloe, or Philips, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, Wretched repast! my meagre corps sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well polish'd jet, Exhale Mundungus, ill perfuming scent: Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size Smokes Cambro-Briton, vers'd in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwalador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale, when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flows nectareous wine, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aërial citadel ascends. With vocal heel, thrice thund'ring at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd, Confounded to the dark recess I fly Of woodhole; straight my bristling hairs erect Thro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shudd'ring limbs, and, wonderful to tell! My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! his faded brow Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode. In his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods avert Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks Another monster not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible and magic charms First have endu'd: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious as whilom knights were wont, To some enchanted castle is convey'd, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains