English Poets of the Eighteenth Century · Chapter 38Matthew Green
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To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen Some recommend the bowling-green; Some, hilly walks; all, exercise; Fling but a stone, the giant dies. Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen; And kitten, if the humour hit, Has harlequined away the fit.
Since mirth is good in this behalf, At some particulars let us laugh: Witlings, brisk fools, cursed with half-sense, That stimulates their impotence; Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, Err with their wings for want of eyes; Poor authors worshipping a calf, Deep tragedies that make us laugh, A strict dissenter saying grace, A lecturer preaching for a place, Folks, things prophetic to dispense, Making the past the future tense, The popish dubbing of a priest, Fine epitaphs on knaves deceased.
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Forced by soft violence of prayer, The blithesome goddess soothes my care, I feel the deity inspire, And thus she models my desire. Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid, Annuity securely made, A farm some twenty miles from town, Small, tight, salubrious, and my own; Two maids, that never saw the town, A serving-man not quite a clown, A boy to help to tread the mow, And drive, while t'other holds the plough; A chief, of temper formed to please, Fit to converse, and keep the keys; And better to preserve the peace, Commissioned by the name of niece; With understandings of a size To think their master very wise.