THE JOURNEY: A FRAGMENT. SOME OME of my Friends (for Friends I must suppose All, who, not daring to appear my foes, Feign great good will, and, not more full of fpite. Than full of craft, under false colours fight) Some of my Friends (fo lavishly I print) As more in forrow. than in anger, hint (Tho' that indeed will scarce admit a doubt) That I fhall run my stock of Genius out, My no great flock, and publishing so fast, Muft needs become a Bankrupt at the last. "The Hufbandman, to fpare a thankful foil, "Which, rich in difpofition, pays his toil "More than a hundred fold, which fwells his store "E'en to his wifh, and makes his barns run o'er, 66 By long Experience taught, who teaches best, "Foregoes his hopes awhile, and gives it rest. "The Land, allow'd it's loffes to repair, "Refresh'd, and full in ftrength, delights to wear "A fecond Youth, and to the Farmer's eyes "Bids richer crops, and double harvests rise. "Nor think this practice to the earth confin'd, "It reaches to the culture of the Mind. "The Mind of Man craves reft, and cannot bear, "Tho' next in pow'r to Gods, continual care. "Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown) "Muft, to ensure his vigour, be laid down, "And fallow'd well; had CHURCHILL known " but this, "Which the most flight observer scarce could "mifs, "He might have flourish'd twenty years, or more, "Tho' now alas! poor Man! worn out in four.” Recover'd from the vanity of youth, I feel, alas! this melancholy truth, Thanks to each cordial, each advising Friend, Apply myself once more to Books, and Men, For twice fix moons (let winds, turn'd Porters, bear This oath to Heav'n) for twice fix moons I fwear, No No Muse shall tempt me with her Siren lay, It cannot be-Whether I will, or no, Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow. Convinc'd, determin'd, I in profe begin, But e'er I write one fentence, Verfe creeps in, And taints me thro' and thro'; by this good light In Verfe I talk by day, I dream by night; If now and then I curfe, my curfes chime, Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhime. E'en now I err, in fpite of Common Sense, And my Confeffion doubles my offence. Reft then, my Friends-spare, spare your precious breath, And be your flumbers not lefs found than death: Perturbed Spirits reft, nor thus appear To waste your counfels in a spendthrift's ear, On your grave leffons I cannot fubfift, Nor e'en in verfe become OEconomist; Reft then, my Friends, nor, hateful to my eyes, Let Envy, in the shape of Pity, rife To blast me e'er my time; with patience wait, ('Tis no long interval) propitious Fate Shall glut your pride, and ev'ry Son of phlegm And |