To her last work her favourite man

Is given on nature's better plan,
A privilege in power to err!

Nor let this phrase resentment stir
Amongst the grave ones, since indeed,
The little merit man can plead
In doing well, dependeth still
Upon his power of doing ill.
Opinions should be free as air;
No man, whate'er his rank, whate'er
His qualities, a claim can found

That my opinion must be bound,

And square with his; such slavish chains
From foes the liberal soul disdains;
Nor can, though true to friendship, bend
To wear them even from a friend.

Let those, who rigid judgment own,
Submissive bow at Judgment's throne,
And if they of no value hold

Pleasure, till pleasure is grown cold,
Pall'd and insipid, forced to wait
For Judgment's regular debate
To give it warrant, let them find
Dull subjects suited to their mind.
Theirs be slow wisdom; be my plan,
To live as merry as I can,
Regardless as the fashions go,

Whether there's reason for❜t or no:
Be my employment here on earth
To give a liberal scope to mirth,

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Life's barren vale with flowers t'adorn,
And pluck a rose from every thorn.

But if, by error led astray,

I chance to wander from my way,

Let no blind guide observe, in spite,
I'm wrong, who cannot set me right.
That doctor could I ne'er endure

Who found disease, and not a cure;
Nor can I hold that man a friend
Whose zeal a helping hand shall lend
To open happy Folly's eyes,
And, making wretched, make me wise:
For next, a truth which can't admit
Reproof from Wisdom or from Wit,
To being happy here below,

Is to believe that we are so.

Some few in knowledge find relief;

I place my comfort in belief.
Some for reality may call;
Fancy to me is all in all.
Imagination, through the trick
Of doctors, often makes us sick,
And why, let any sophist tell,
May it not likewise make us well?
This I am sure, whate'er our view,
Whatever shadows we pursue,
For our pursuits, be what they will,

284 If we see right, we see our woes:

Then what avails it to have eyes?

From ignorance our comfort flows:

The only wretched are the wise. PRIOR.

Are little more than shadows still;
Too swift they fly, too swift and strong,
For man to catch or hold them long;
But joys which in the fancy live,
Each moment to each man may give:
True to himself, and true to ease,
He softens Fate's severe decrees,
And (can a mortal wish for more?)
Creates, and makes himself new o'er,
Mocks boasted vain reality,

And is, whate'er he wants to be.

Hail, Fancy-to thy power I owe
Deliverance from the gripe of woe;
To thee I owe a mighty debt,
Which Gratitude shall ne'er forget,
Whilst Memory can her force employ
A large increase of every joy.
When at my doors, too strongly barr'd,
Authority had placed a guard,
A knavish guard, ordain'd by law
To keep poor Honesty in awe :
Authority severe and stern,

To intercept my wish'd return;

When foes grew proud, and friends grew cool,
And laughter seized each sober fool;

818 It does not appear that Churchill was ever actually arrested; but his flight from his curacy in Wales was occasioned by the threat of one, and by an actual execution upon his goods, and he was, on his return to London, and until the publication of the Rosciad, in constant apprehension of similar results.

When Candour started in amaze,
And, meaning censure, hinted praise:
When Prudence, lifting up her eyes

And hands, thank'd Heaven that she was wise:
When all around me, with an air
Of hopeless sorrow, look'd despair:
When they or said, or seem'd to say
There is but one, one only way
Better, and be advised by us,

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830

Not be at all, than to be thus ;

When Virtue shunn'd the shock, and Pride

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Disabled, lay by Virtue's side,

Too weak my ruffled soul to cheer,

Which could not hope, yet would not fear.
Health in her motion, the wild grace

Of pleasure speaking in her face,

Dull regularity thrown by,

And comfort beaming from her eye,

Fancy, in richest robes array'd,

Came smiling forth, and brought me aid;
Came smiling o'er that dreadful time,
And, more to bless me, came in rhyme.
Nor is her power to me confined;
It spreads, it comprehends mankind.

When (to the spirit-stirring sound
Of trumpets breathing courage round,
And fife's well-mingled, to restrain
And bring that courage down again;
Or to the melancholy knell

Of the dull, deep, and doleful bell,
Such as of late the good Saint Bride

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355

Muffled, to mortify the pride
Of those, who, England quite forgot,
Paid their vile homage to the Scot,
Where Asgill held the foremost place,
Whilst my Lord figured at a race)
Processions ('tis not worth debate
Whether they are of stage or state)
Move on, so very, very slow,
'Tis doubtful if they move or no;
When the performers all the while
Mechanically frown or smile,
Or, with a dull and stupid stare,
A vacancy of sense declare,

Or, with down-bending eye, seem wrought

Into a labyrinth of thought,

Where reason wanders still in doubt,

And, once got in, cannot get out;

What cause sufficient can we find,
To satisfy a thinking mind,
Why, duped by such vain farces, man
Descends to act on such a plan ?
Why they, who hold themselves divine,
Can in such wretched follies join,
Strutting like peacocks, or like crows,

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355 An address of congratulation on the peace having been reluctantly wrung from the city of London, it was carried up to St. James's, 12th of May, 1763, by Sir Charles Asgill as locum tenens, accompanied by six other aldermen, the recorder, sheriffs, chamberlain and town-clerk. The procession was throughout accompanied by the hootings of the mob, and as it passed Fleet-street the great bell of St. Bride's began to toll, and then a dumb peal struck up; at its return it received similar salutation from Bow bells.