'But why all this of avarice? I have none.' I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone; But does no other lord it at this hour, As wild and mad--the avarice of power? Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal? Not the black fear of death, that saddens all? With terrors round, can reason hold her throne, 310 Despise the known, nor tremble at the unknown? Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire, In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire? Pleased to look forward, pleased to look behind, And count each birthday with a grateful mind? Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end? Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend? Has age but melted the rough parts away, As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay? Or will you think, my friend, your business done, 320 When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one? Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and loved, and eat, and drank your fill: Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage: Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease, Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please. * * * * * BOOK I. EPISTLE VII. IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR SWIFT. 'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word, I would be with you, June the third; Changed it to August, and (in short) Have kept it--as you do at court. You humour me when I am sick, Why not when I am splenetic? In town, what objects could I meet? The shops shut up in every street, And funerals blackening all the doors, And yet more melancholy whores: 10 And what a dust in every place! And a thin court that wants your face, And fevers raging up and down, And W---- and H---- both in town! 'The dog-days are no more the case.' 'Tis true, but winter comes apace: Then southward let your bard retire, Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire, And you shall see, the first warm weather, Me and the butterflies together. 20 My lord, your favours well I know; 'Tis with distinction you bestow; And not to every one that comes, Just as a Scotchman does his plums. 'Pray, take them, sir,--enough's a feast: Eat some, and pocket up the rest.' What! rob your boys? those pretty rogues 'No, sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.' Thus fools with compliments besiege ye, Contriving never to oblige ye. 30 Scatter your favours on a fop, Ingratitude's the certain crop; And 'tis but just, I'll tell ye wherefore, You give the things you never care for. A wise man always is, or should, Be mighty ready to do good; But makes a difference in his thought Betwixt a guinea and a groat.