And moping here did Hypochondria fit,
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly sit;
And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.
A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low;
She felt, or fancy'd, in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry,
Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.
LXXVII.
Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd,
With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings;
Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind,
Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things.
And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings:
The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks;
A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings;
Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks
Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox
The Knight of Arts and Industry,
And his achievements fair,
That by this castle's overthrow
Secur'd and crowned were.
ESCAP'D the castle of the sire of sin,
Ah! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find?
For all around, without, and all within,
Nothing save what delightful was and kind,
Of goodness savouring and a tender mind,
E'er rose to view: but now another strain,
Of doleful note, alas! remains behind:
I now must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain,
And of the false enchanter Indolence complain.
II.
Is there no patron to protect the Muse,
And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil?
To every labour its reward accrues,
And they are sure of bread who swink and moil;
But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive despoil,
As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee:
Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the Muses other meed decree,
They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.
I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ;
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Thro' which Aurora shows her brightening face ;
You cannot bar my constant 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, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave.
IV.
Come then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song:
Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth,
Dragging the lazy languid line along,
Fond to begin, but still to finish loth,
Thy half-writ scrolls all eaten by the moth:
Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame,
Who with the sons of Softness hobly wroth,
To sweep away this human lumber came,
Or in a chosen few to rouze the slumbering flame.
V.
In Fairy-land there lived a knight of old,
Of feature stern, Selvaggio well yclep'd,
A rough unpolish'd man, robust and bold,
But wond'rous poor: he neither sow'd nor reap'd,
Ne stores in summer for cold winter heap'd;
In hunting all his days away he wore ;
Now scorch'd by Jurie, now in November steep'd,
Now pinch'd by biting January sore,
He still in woods pursu'd the libbard and the boar.
VI.
As he one morning, long before the dawn,
Prick'd thro' the forest to dislodge his prey,
Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn,
With wood wild-fring'd, he mark'd a taper's ray,
That from the beating rain and wintry fray,
Did to a lonely cot his steps decoy ;
There, up to earn the needments of the day,
He found dame Poverty, nor fair nor coy;
Her he compress'd, and fill'd her with a lusty boy.
VII.
Amid the green-wood shade this boy was bred,
And grew at last a knight of muckle fame,
Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed,
The Knight of Arts and Industry by name.
Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame;
He knew no beverage but the flowing stream;
His tasteful well-earn'd food the sylvan game,
Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem:
The same to him glad summer or the winter breme.
VIII.
So pass'd his youthful morning, void of care,
Wild as the colts that through the commons run;
For him no tender parents troubled were,
He of the forest seem'd to be the son,
And certes had been utterly undone,
But that Minerva pity of him took,
With all the gods that love the rural wonne,
That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook;
Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look.
Of fertile genius him they nurtur'd well,
In every science and in every art,
By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel,
Than can or use, or joy, or grace impart,
Disclosing all the powers of head and heart;
Ne were the goodly exercises spar'd,
That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert,
And mix elastic force with firmness hard:
Was never knight on ground mote be with him compar'd.
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