Classic Poem

Our friend, ingenious Lockley, says,
" Throw to the dogs my useless physic;
Leave, town, and all its wicked ways,
For diet, quiet, mirth, and — Chiswick! "

Adieu then, potion, draught, and pill,
On Lockley's words I've all reliance,
Who, though a leech most learned, still
Has sense more sure than all his science!

But, whilst in these sweet bow'rs I stray,
By Pleasures, Graces, Muses haunted,
The Diet, Quiet — where are they —
For which this princely seat was vaunted?

Are feasts, whose magic fumes might raise
Dalrymple's portly spectre — diet?
Are nights, the sun mistakes for days,
And gilds with all his radiance — quiet?

But Mirth is ours, my " sov'reign'st " cure,
When Townshend's polish'd satire moves it;
With Devonshire the wit is sure,
If he or utters or approves it!

And in Eliza's smiles I find
From all my pains the best distraction;
They " medicine to the wounded mind, "
And health soon feels the bright reaction!

The genial glow, which warms the streams,
By intermediate power's effected;
The surface only feels the beam
Which from its inmost bed's reflected.