To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen Some recommend the bowling-green; Some, hilly walks; all, exercise; Fling but a stone, the giant dies. Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen; And kitten, if the humour hit, Has harlequined away the fit. Since mirth is good in this behalf, At some particulars let us laugh: Witlings, brisk fools, cursed with half-sense, That stimulates their impotence; Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, Err with their wings for want of eyes; Poor authors worshipping a calf, Deep tragedies that make us laugh, A strict dissenter saying grace, A lecturer preaching for a place, Folks, things prophetic to dispense, Making the past the future tense, The popish dubbing of a priest, Fine epitaphs on knaves deceased. * * * * * Forced by soft violence of prayer, The blithesome goddess soothes my care, I feel the deity inspire, And thus she models my desire. Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid, Annuity securely made, A farm some twenty miles from town, Small, tight, salubrious, and my own; Two maids, that never saw the town, A serving-man not quite a clown, A boy to help to tread the mow, And drive, while t'other holds the plough; A chief, of temper formed to please, Fit to converse, and keep the keys; And better to preserve the peace, Commissioned by the name of niece; With understandings of a size To think their master very wise. WILLIAM SHENSTONE FROM THE SCHOOLMISTRESS Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield: Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, As is the harebell that adorns the field; And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. * * * * * A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. * * * * * Lo, now with state she utters the command! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn securèd are; To save from finger wet the letters fair: The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St. George's high achievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween!