Whose eyes can't see, nor heads discern,
Too dull, their own dull forms to learn;
And, therefore, wisely they've provided,
A Cur by whom they all are guided;
No warrant sign till he inspects it,
No step dare take till he directs it;
But, conscious, to his judgment stoop,
And all their strings are tied to Scrope.*
* Secretary to the Treasury. He had been so under Sir R. Walpole, and the new ministers were forced to retain him from their own ignorance of business.-W.
REV. SAMUEL HILL,
CANON OF WELLS, &c. &c.
Written in August, 1744.
DEAR Muse, as you have nothing else to do, Write to the Canon, just a line or two;
First wish him health, then wish him joy, and
Wish that he may soon be preferr'd again.
That mark of grace is to the clergy giv❜n,
Never to be content on this side heav'n ;
From step to step, they labour still to rise,
Until they reach, what last they seek, the skies.
For when to pray'rs they're summon'd by the
bells,
And Hill is seated in his stall at Wells;
To th' altar, at the creed, he turns about,
With eyes uplifted, and with look devout.
When, I believe in God, he chants aloud,
To act his part, and to deceive the crowd;
To Fortune, then, he offers up his pray'r,
Who makes the clergy her peculiar care,
And softly muttering his lips between,
O, goddess, make thy votary a dean; "Then I no more thro' Wells will take the air, "Slow creeping in a chariot and a pair;
"But buy a coach, and add two horses more, "And I and Molly'll troll about with four; "Then shall these Canons tremble at my nod, "And bow to me much lower than to God; "Then shall I see them seated round my table, "Flatt'ring as well as their poor wit is able; "With beef I'll cram them, and with port I'll fill, "But while I treat them well, I'll use them ill. My vanity they'll soothe, my pride they'll swell,
"And vouch for ev'ry story that I tell ;
Cry up my preaching, and my learning raise,
My jokes they'll laugh at, and my wit they'll
"And wonder what the ministry can mean,
"To leave so great a man, so long a dean."
If he should ask you how, or what, I do,
Tell him, my Clio, that I live with you;
Attend your call, fulfil what you desire,
Speak as you prompt, and write as you inspire.
But when some friend or mistress calls, I fly
T'amuse their leisure, lay my studies by,
And sometimes please, because I always try.
Blest with an even temper, and a heart
That scorns all guilt, all falsehood, and all art;
With wit, a friend to please, a foe to hurt,
Humour to ridicule, or to divert,
If vex'd, my grief to others is unknown,
And if unhappy, only so alone;
No passion e'er disturbs my social hours,
Nor ranc'rous spleen, my happy time devours;
No gnawing envy e'er disturbs my breast-
Tho' Sands is made a peer, yet I'm at rest.
Contempt of wealth has ever been my crime,
But I grow covetous of health and time;
Stedfast in principle, and stiff in party,
To Pultney adverse still, to, Walpole hearty.
Easy where'er I am, for I can stay
Six months in Wales, yet know no tedious day;
There regularly study, eat and sleep,
And sober meals, and early hours I keep;
But when th' inverted year wears winter's
My coach is order'd, and I drive to town;
There dash into a stream of new delight,
Enjoy my friends by day, my nymph by night.
Till morn, sometimes, a social glass I take,
Not for my wine, but my companion's sake;
In short, broke loose from Wales to company,
There's nothing so irregular as I.
And when discourse, and claret fill my head,
I quite forget there's such a place as bed;
Such are the nights that I have seen of yore;
Such are the nights that I shall see no more.
When Winnington and Fox, with flow of soul,
With sense and wit, drove round the cheerful
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