On thanklesse Friend, whose trauayle is imployde,
With Asses Damme shall reape ingratefull meede:
Whose wanton Fole by her sweete mylke acloyde,
Oft kicks the Nurse, that doth it choycely feede.
As doe the Vipers broode, whose yongling long,
When mothers care with tender loue hath cherisht:
Requite the same with such vngratefull wrong,
That in rewarde, her lyfe by them is perisht.
Whose Nature is vnkindly to deuoure,
The wombe whence fyrst they tooke their lyuing powre.
To whom we may the vngratefull forte compare,

Pleasant it is, although the woods are brown,
And trees grow thin and bare, and flowers are few,
Fearless of sweeping mist or dripping dew,
To wander through lone fields away from town,
When Phaebus palely doffs his glorious crown;
And bedded is the Lark; and the Cuckoo
Is still; and nothing stirs, but shadows of dark hue;
Or the last leaves autumnal winds have strown;
Or the belated Bee, who bustles home
With his late gleanings, too much tired to sing;
Or mouse-like Bat, that flaps his sooty wing;

You say I'm thin — And what of that?
How seldom is a poet fat!

In various climes, beyond the pow'rs of Art,
Still lib'ral Nature plays her friendly part.
Britannia's clime, her plenteous soil may boast,
And her fair garden decks Italia's coast!
Ev'n sultry India owns her lib'ral care,
And fragrant plants perfume the conscious air.
Nor thou, oh Scotland! mourn thy dreary lot,
Nor deem thy niggard clime was quite forgot:
What tho' thy shaggy cliffs and desart plain,
Seem widely spread in Sorrow's sad domain;
What tho' thy trav'ller dreads the piercing blast,
Eas'd are his toils, by courtesy, at last!

Of those the poet who commend,
How very few there are befriend;
But, while his stomach food demands,
With barren bays you fill his hands;
And, bread refusing to his claim,
You starve him first, then give him fame.

All eyes that see are poring on the West,
Where the rich-tressed traveller of the day
(Though faded are the splendours which he drest
At morning in, when fresh he took the way
That wearied him, in the bright affluence
Of orient pomp) still showeth glorious
As a proud prince returned from fields victorious,
But silent in his pride — 'tis so intense! —
Now he is gone, lone Silence thinks his praise;
Pale, pensive Evening weepeth his decease;
And there's an awful stillness — as of death,
And the last breathing of a good man's breath,

Marked you a Bee who circled round our ears,
And stunned them with his noisy trumpeting,
Now faintly heard? Again these flowers he nears,
But drops among them with more cautious wing.
With his monotonous voice he first to sleep
Hath lulled these maiden flowers, and now doth steal,
Just as Dishonesty will watch and creep,
To rob them whilst they nothing fear or feel.
When he is sated, with a louder blow
Of his deep horn he'll hence—but not by stealth;
Glad and rejoicing you shall hear him go,
Leaving them robbed of beauty's virgin wealth:—

Say, what is that, whose friendly aid supplies
The first pure glow that paints the morning skies?
Whose wond'rous pow'r can ease the captive's gloom,
And yield sweet novelty to cheer his doom? —
When friend and foe a pitying ear denies,
To me the pris'ner turns his weary eyes.
When martial crowds appear, in order drest,
Then is my charm by simple maids confest.
For me, Curiosity — uncheck'd by Time,
In idle search may waste its fading prime;
For me will ling'ring Hope consume the hour,
And feeble Indolence enjoys my power!

In the gloom of the night, over ditches I fly,
And cheer the poor traveller's road;
Tho' silent, a pleasant companion am I,
Till he views his beloved abode.

Tho' often despis'd and neglected when near,
Yet oft am I seen at a distance,
And some wou'd not think ev'n a thousand too dear
To purchase my timely assistance.—

Yet soon is my friendship disdain'd and forgot,
And I'm meanly immur'd for my pains:
Like Genius oppress'd, in Adversity's lot,
Not a spark of my glory remains!

Come let us drive business and sorrow away,
And, forgetting to-morrow, live merry to-day;
Since man is of clay-mold, and life is a span,
Let us moisten our clay, and laugh while we can.

Those dull mortals I hate, who are full of their store,
And who, having enough, still wish to get more;
Or those, who cry out, That the nation's in ruin,
Because they can't share in the spoils of undoing:

But let me be plac'd in a snug easy chair,
With a friend at my side like myself void of care,
With a friend at my side like myself void of care,