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They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury :
Or fhould they a vain fhew of work affume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?

To knot, to twift, to range the vernal bloom,
But far is caft the diftaff, fpinning-wheel, and loom.

LXXII.

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 sudden, to the glafs they go,
Or faunter forth, with tottering ftep and flow:
This foon too rude an exercife they find;
Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw,
Where hours on hours they fighing lie reclin'd,
And court thevapourygod foft-breathing in the wind.

LXXIII.

Now muft I mark the villany we found;
But, ah! too late, as fhall eftfoons be fhewn.
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground,
Where fill our inmates, when unpleafing grown,
Difeas'd, and loathfome, privily were thrown.
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'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 scenes of joy and reft,

To this dark den, where Sicknefs tofs'd alway.

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Here Lethargy, with deadly fleep oppreft,
Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay
Heaving his fides, and fnored night and day;
To fir him from his traunce it was not eath,
And his half-open'd eyne he shut ftraitway;
He led, I wot, the fofteft way to death,

And taught withouten pain and ftrife to yield the

LXXV.

[breath.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unfound,
Soft-fwoln and pale, here lay the Hydropfy:
Unweildy man! with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery fupply;

For ftill he drank, and yet he still 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

LXXVI.

[a wit.

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 phyfic which the shops beftow,
And ftill new leaches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;
For fometimes fhe would laugh, and fometimes cry,
Then fudden waxed wroth, and all he knew not why.
Volume II.

Q

LXXVII.

Faft by her fide a liftless Maiden pin'd,

With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'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 II.

The Knight of Arts and Industry,

And his achievements fair,

That by his Caftle's overthrow

Secur'd and crowned were.

I.

ESCAP'D the Caftle of the fire of Sin,
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 must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain,
And of the falfe enchanter Indolence complain.

II.

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 fwink 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 Mufes other meed decree,

They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.

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III.

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 fhews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my conftant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living ftream, 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.

Comethen, 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 ftill to finish loath,
Thy half-writ fcrolls all eaten by the moth:
Arife, and fing that generous imp of fame,
Who with the fons of Softnefs nobly wroth,
To fweep away this human lumber came,
Or in a chofen few to rouse the flumbering flame.
V.

In Fairy-land there liv'd a knight of old,
Of feature flern, Selvaggio well yclep'd,
A rough unpolish'd man, robust 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 fteep'd,

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