Because I am by nature blind, I wisely choose to walk behind; However, to avoid disgrace, I let no creature see my face. My words are few, but spoke with sense; And yet my speaking gives offence: Or, if to whisper I presume, The company will fly the room. By all the world I am opprest: And my oppression gives them rest. Through me, though sore against my will, Instructors every art instil. By thousands I am sold and bought, Who neither get nor lose a groat; For none, alas! by me can gain, But those who give me greatest pain. Shall man presume to be my master, Who's but my caterer and taster? Yet, though I always have my will, I'm but a mere depender still: An humble hanger-on at best; Of whom all people make a jest. In me detractors seek to find Two vices of a different kind; I'm too profuse, some censurers cry, And all I get, I let it fly; While others give me many a curse, Because too close I hold my purse. But this I know, in either case, They dare not charge me to my face. 'Tis true, indeed, sometimes I save, Sometimes run out of all I have; But, when the year is at an end, Computing what I get and spend, My goings-out, and comings-in, I cannot find I lose or win; And therefore all that know me say, I justly keep the middle way. I'm always by my betters led; I last get up, and first a-bed; Though, if I rise before my time, The learn'd in sciences sublime Consult the stars, and thence foretell Good luck to those with whom I dwell. ON A HORN The joy of man, the pride of brutes, Domestic subject for disputes, Of plenty thou the emblem fair, Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care! I saw thee raised to high renown, Supporting half the British crown; And often have I seen thee grace The chaste Diana's infant face; And whensoe'er you please to shine, Less useful is her light than thine: Thy numerous fingers know their way, And oft in Celia's tresses play. To place thee in another view, I'll show the world strange things and true; What lords and dames of high degree May justly claim their birth from thee! The soul of man with spleen you vex; Of spleen you cure the female sex. Thee for a gift the courtier sends With pleasure to his special friends: He gives, and with a generous pride, Contrives all means the gift to hide: Nor oft can the receiver know, Whether he has the gift or no. On airy wings you take your flight, And fly unseen both day and night; Conceal your form with various tricks; And few know how or where you fix: Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast That they to others give thee most. Meantime, the wise a question start, If thou a real being art; Or but a creature of the brain, That gives imaginary pain? But the sly giver better knows thee; Who feels true joys when he bestows thee. ON A CORKSCREW