Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod,
Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy.
A little, round, fat, oily man of God,
Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry:
He had a roguifh twinkle in his eye,
And fhone all glittering with ungodly dew,
If a tight damfel chaunc'd to trippen by ;
Which when obferv'd, he shrunk into his mew,
And ftrait would recollect his piety anew.
Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought
(Old inmates of the place) but ftate-affairs :
They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought;
And on their brow fat every nation's cares.
The world by them is parcel'd out in fhares,
When in the Hall of Smoak they congress hold,
And the fage berry fun-burnt Mocha bears
Has clear'd their inward eye: then, fmoke-enroll'd, Their oracles break forth myfterious as of old.
Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac'd court:
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,
From every quarter hither made refort;
Where, from grofs mortal care and business free,
They lay, pour'd out in eafe and luxury.
Or fhould they a vain fhew of work affume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom;
But far is caft the diftaff, fpinning-wheel, and loom.
Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe.
They fit, they loll, turn o'er fome idle rhyme;
Then, rifing fudden, to the glafs they go,
Or faunter forth, with tottering ftep and flow:
This foon too rude an exercise they find;
Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw,
Where hours on hours they fighing lie reclin'd,
And court the vapoury god foft-breathing in the wind,
LXXIII.
Now muft I mark the villainy we found,
But, ah! too late, as fhall eftfoons be fhewn.
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground;
Where still our inmates, when unpleafing grown,
Difeas'd, and loathfome, privily were thrown,
Far from the light of heaven, they languifh'd there,
Unpity'd uttering many a bitter groan;
For of these wretches taken was no care:
Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses were.
LXXIV.
Alas! the change! from fcenes of joy and reft,
To this dark den, where fickness tofs'd alway.
Here Lethargy, with deadly fleep oppreft,
Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay,
Heaving his fides, and fnored night and day;
To ftir him from his traunce it was not eath,
And his half-open'd eyne he fhat ftraitway:
He led, I wot, the fofteft way to death,
And taught withouten pain and ftrife to yield the breath.
LXXV. Of
Of limbs enormous, but withal unfound,
Soft-fwoln and pale, here lay the Hydropfy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monftrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;
For ftill he drank, and yet he ftill was dry,
And moping here did Hypochondria fit,
Mother of spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;
And fome her frantic deem'd, and fome her deem'd a
A lady proud fhe was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low:
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood,
All the difeafes which the spittles know,
And fought all phyfick which the fhops bestow,
And still new leaches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;
For fometimes fhe would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then fudden waxed wroth, and all the knew not why. LXXVII.
Faft by her fide a liftlefs maiden pin'd,
With aching head, and fqueamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, fhe feem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in fecret all forbidden things. And here the 'Tertian shakes his chilling wings; The fleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a ferpent ftings; Whilft Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. CANTO
The knight of arts and industry,
And his atchievements fair;
That by his castle's overthrow,
Secur'd, and crowned were,
ESCAP'D the caftle of the fire of fin,
Ah! where fhall I fo fweet a dwelling find?
For all around, without, and all within,
Nothing fave what delightful was and kind,
Of goodness favouring and a tender mind,
E'er rofe to view. But now another ftrain,
Of doleful note, alas! remains behind:
I now muft fing of pleasure turn'd to pain,
And of the falfe enchanter Indolence complain.
Is there no patron to protect the Muse,
And fence for her Parnaffus' barren foil?
To every labour its reward accrues,
And they are fure of bread who swink and moil;
But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive defpoil,
As ruthless wafps oft rob the painful bee :
Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the other Mufes meed decree,
They praised are alone, and farve right merrily.
I care not, Fortune, what you me deny :
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;
You cannot fhut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora fhews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my conftant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave :
Of fancy, reafon, virtue, nought can me bereave.
IV.
Come then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song;
Come, lig no more upon the bed of floth,
Dragging the lazy languid line along,
Fond to begin, but fill to finish loth,
Thy half-writ fcrolls all eaten by the moth :
Arife, and fing that generous imp of fame,
Who with the fons of foftnefs nobly wroth,
To sweep away this human lumber came,
Or in a chofen few to roufe the flumbering flame.
V.
In Fairy-Land there liv'd a knight of old,
Of feature ftern, Selvaggio well yc'ep'd,
A rough unpolish'd man, robuft and bold,
But wondrous poor: he neither fow'd nor reap'd,
Ne ftores in fummer for cold winter heap'd;
In hunting all his days away he wore;
Now fcorch'd by June, now in November steep'd, 'Now pinch'd by biting January fore,
He fill in woods pursued the libbard and the boar.
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