When terrible tempests assail us, Then why should we quarrel for riches, &c. The courtier's more subject to dangers, In various nations we try; Then why should we quarrel for riches, A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches, How happy a state does the miller possess ! * In the entertainment of 'The King and Miller of Mansfield.' This song was written-not by Mr. Dodsley, but-by a Mr. Charles Highmore, at his request. What though he all dusty and whiten'd does go, Than a courtier, who struts in his garter and star. Though his hands are so daub'd they're not fit to be seen, The hands of his betters are not very clean ; A palm more polite may as dirtily deal; Gold, in handling, will stick to the fingers like meal. What if, when a pudding for dinner he lacks, He cribs, without scruple, from other men's sacks Or should he endeavour to heap an estate, ; He eats when he's hungry, he drinks when he's dry, If so happy a miller, then who'd be a king? * [The subject of this song, and of the dramatic entertainment from which it was taken, seems to be contained in the fifteenth of the Ancient Ballads reprinted in the present volume.] SONG XXVII. BY MR. ISAAC BICKERSTAFF.* THE honest heart, whose thoughts are clear The greatness that would make us grave, Is but an empty thing; What more than mirth would mortals have? SONG XXVIII. THE OLD MAN'S WISH. BY DR. POPE. IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down, May I And govern my passion with an absolute sway, grow wiser and better, as my strength wears away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook, In the comic opera of 'Love in a Village.' With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile, With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more May I govern, &c. meal. With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor, And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar; With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine, To drink the king's health as oft as I dine. May I govern, &c. last day, With a courage undaunted may I face my In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, For he govern'd his passion with an absolute sway, And grew wiser and better, as his strength wore away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.* * The author republished this song, in his old age, with large additions, and a number of whimsical notes, and illustrations from the Roman, Italian, and German poets. None of his supplemental stanzas were thought properly adapted to the present publication; but all the corrections and alterations he has made in the original verses have been carefully retained; except only as to the last chorus, which does not, in his enlarged copy, differ from the first. The solitary bird of night Through the thick shades now wings his flight, In philosophic gloom he lay, Beneath his ivy bower. With joy I hear the solemn sound, Which midnight-echoes waft around, She loves the cool, the silent eve, Here Folly drops each vain disguise, O Pallas! queen of every art, That glads the sense, or mends the heart, [Prefixed to her English translation of Epictetus.] |