At once we rush into the midst of June, A thousand great effects which spring from toil, In column square arrang'd, line after line Successive; the gay bean, her hindmost ranks Stript of their blossoms; the thick-scatter'd bed Of soporific lettuce; the green hill Cover'd with cucumbers. All these my muse Disdains not. She can stray well-pleas'd, and pluck The od❜rous leaf of marj'ram, balm, or mint; Then smile to think how near the neighbourhood Of rue and wormwood, in her thoughtful eye Resembling life, which ever thus brings forth In quick succession bitter things and sweet. Nor scorns she to observe the thriving sage, Which well becomes the garden of a clerk; The wholesome camomile, and fragrant thyme. All these thy pains, Alcanor, propagate, Support, and feed. Let the big Doctor laugh, Who only toils to satisfy the calls Of appetite insatiate, and retires, Good honest soul, offended at the world, The scythe of time, and turns the dart of death: The happy task, nor scorn to feel, Alcanor, Gives to her food an admirable zest, Unknown to indolence, which half asleep The smoaking feast of plenty. I have stray'd Wild as the mountain bee, and cull'd a sweet Unwedded maiden, is there yet a man For wisdom eminent? seek him betimes. He will not shun thee, though thy frequent foot Wear out the pavement at his door. Be sedulous to win the man of sense; Ye fair, And fly the empty fool. Shame the dull boy, Who leaves at college what he learn'd at school, And whips his academic hours away, Cas'd in unwrinkled buckskin and tight boots, Oh! had ye sense to see what powder'd apes And love his tutor and his desk. Time was When ev'ry woman was a judge of arms Of admirable heroes. And time was When women dealt in Hebrew, Latin, Greek; That lean, sweet-scented, and palav'rous fool, Who talks of honour and his sword, and plucks I would that all the fair ones of this isle Were such as one I knew. Peace to her soul, She lives no more. And I a genius need To paint her as she was. Most like, methinks, That amiable maid the poet drew With angel pencil, and baptiz'd her Portia. How often have I wonder'd at the grace |