For the fine notion of a busy man. And what is that at best, but one, whose mind Is made to tire himself and all mankind? For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign; For, if some odd fantastic lord would fain Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do, I'll not only pay him, but admire him too. But is there any other beast that lives, Who his own harm so wittingly contrives? Will any dog that has his teeth and stones, Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones, To turn a wheel? and bark to be employed, While Venus is by rival dogs enjoyed? Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name, Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame. Though satire nicely writ with humour stings But those who merit praise in other things; Yet we must needs this one exception make, And break our rules for silly Tropos' sake;[43] Who was too much despised to be accused, And therefore scarce deserves to be abused; Raised only by his mercenary tongue, For railing smoothly, and for reasoning wrong. As boys, on holidays let loose to play, Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way; Then shout to see, in dirt and deep distress, Some silly cit in her flowered foolish dress,--[44] So have I mighty satisfaction found, To see his tinsel reason on the ground; To see the florid fool despised, and know it, By some who scarce have words enough to show it; For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker The finer, nay sometimes the wittier speaker: But 'tis prodigious so much eloquence Should be acquired by such little sense; For words and wit did anciently agree, And Tully was no fool, though this man be: At bar abusive; on the bench unable; Knave on the woolsack; fop at council-table. These are the grievances of such fools as would Be rather wise than honest, great than good. Some other kind of wits must be made known, Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone; Excess of luxury they think can please, And laziness call loving of their ease; To live dissolved in pleasures still they feign, Though their whole life's but intermitting pain; So much of surfeits, head-aches, claps are seen, We scarce perceive the little time between; Well-meaning men, who make this gross mistake, And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake; Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay Too much of pain, we squander life away. Thus Dorset,[45] purring like a thoughtful cat, Married,--but wiser puss ne'er thought of that; And first he worried her with railing rhyme, Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time; Then for one night sold all his slavish life, A teeming widow, but a barren wife. Swelled by contact of such a fulsome toad, He lugged about the matrimonial load; Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he, Has ill restored him to his liberty;