AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago— True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, We find the friends we fancied we had won, Though num'rous once, reduc'd to few or none? Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? No-gold they seem'd, but they were never such. Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, Dreading a negative, and overaw'd Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. Go, fellow!-whither?-turning short about— Nay-stay at home-you're always going out. 'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end.— For what?-An please you, sir, to see a friend. A friend! Horatio cry'd, and seem'd to start Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart.And fetch cloak: for, though the night be raw, my I'll see him too-the first I ever saw. I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, Else he was seldom bitter or morose. Perhaps, his confidence just then betray'd, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. But, not to moralize too much, and strain Decreed that whosoever should offend Against the well-known duties of a friend, Convicted once, should ever after wear But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. Oh, happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else, could a law like that which I relate Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold; While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. |