In dubious balance, till the last subsides; Things are not poised in just the equal state, That the ass stands stock-still in the debate; 100 Though, when deciding, he may slowly pass And long for both—the nature of the ass; ’Tis but an impulse that he must obey, When he resigns one bundle of the hay.” * * * * * Take your friend Belwood, whom his guardians sent To Doctor Sidmere—full of dread he went; Doctor they call’d him—he was not of us, And where he was—we need not now discuss. He kept a school; he had a daughter fair, He said, as angels—say, as women—are. 110 Clara, this beauty, had a figure light; Her face was handsome, and her eyes were bright; Her voice was music, not by anger raised; And sweet her dimple, either pleased or praised; All round the village was her fame allow’d; She was its pride, and not a little proud. The ruling thought that sway’d her father’s mind Was this—I am for dignity design’d. Riches he rather as a mean approved, Yet sought them early, and in seeking loved; 120 For this he early made the marriage vow, But fail’d to gain—I recollect not how; For this his lady had his wrath incurr’d, But that her feelings seldom could be stirr’d; To his fair daughter, famed as well as fair, He look’d, and found his consolation there. The Doctor taught of youth some half a score, Well-born and wealthy—He would take no more; His wife, when peevish, told him, “Yes! and glad”— It might be so—no more were to be had. 130 Belwood, it seems, for college was design’d, But for more study he was not inclined; He thought of labouring there with much dismay, And motives mix’d here urged the long delay. He now on manhood verged, at least began To talk as he supposed became a man. “Whether he chose the college or the school Was his own act, and that should no man rule; He had his reasons for the step he took; Did they suppose he stay’d to read his book?” 140 Hopeless, the Doctor said, “This boy is one With whom I fear there’s nothing to be done.” His wife replied, who more had guess’d or knew, “You only mean there’s nothing he can do; Ev’n there you err, unless you mean indeed That the poor lad can neither think nor read.”— “What credit can I by such dunce obtain?”— “Credit? I know not—you may something gain; ’Tis true he has no passion for his books, But none can closer study Clara’s looks; 150 And who controls him? now his father’s gone, There’s not a creature cares about the son. If he be brought to ask your daughter’s hand, All that he has will be at her command; And who is she? and whom does she obey? Where is the wrong, and what the danger, pray? Becoming guide to one who guidance needs Is merit surely—If the thing succeeds, Cannot you always keep him at your side, And be his honour’d guardian and his guide? 160