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The Complaint.
Night 2.
Ev'n age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown
In furrow'd brows. So gentle life's descent,
We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain,
We take fair days in winter, for the Spring;
And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft
Man must compute that age He cannot feel,
He scarce believes he's older for his years.
Thus, as life's latest eve, we keep in store
One disappointment sure, to crown the rest;
The disappointment of a promis'd hour.
On this, or similar, Philander! Thou
Whose mind was moral, as the Preacher's tongue;
And strong, to weild all science, worth the name;
How often we talk'd down the Summer's Sun,
And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream!
How often thaw'd and shorten'd Winter's eve,
By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth,
Best found, so sought; to the recluse more coy!
Thoughts disintangle passing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,
Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song;
Song, fashionably fruitless: such as stains
The fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires;
Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane.
Know'st thou, Lorenzo! what a friend contains?
As Bees mixt Nectar draw from fragrant flow'rs,
So men from FRIENDSHIP, wisdom, and delight;
Twins ty'd by nature, if they part, they die.
Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach?
Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up, want air,
And spoil, like bales, unopen'd to the Sun.
Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deny'd;
Speech, thought's canal! speech, thought's criterion tool
Thought in the mine, may come forth gold, or dross;
When coin'd in word, we know its real worth.
In furrow'd brows. So gentle life's descent,
We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain,
We take fair days in winter, for the Spring;
And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft
Man must compute that age He cannot feel,
He scarce believes he's older for his years.
Thus, as life's latest eve, we keep in store
One disappointment sure, to crown the rest;
The disappointment of a promis'd hour.
On this, or similar, Philander! Thou
Whose mind was moral, as the Preacher's tongue;
And strong, to weild all science, worth the name;
How often we talk'd down the Summer's Sun,
And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream!
How often thaw'd and shorten'd Winter's eve,
By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth,
Best found, so sought; to the recluse more coy!
Thoughts disintangle passing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,
Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song;
Song, fashionably fruitless: such as stains
The fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires;
Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane.
Know'st thou, Lorenzo! what a friend contains?
As Bees mixt Nectar draw from fragrant flow'rs,
So men from FRIENDSHIP, wisdom, and delight;
Twins ty'd by nature, if they part, they die.
Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach?
Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up, want air,
And spoil, like bales, unopen'd to the Sun.
Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deny'd;
Speech, thought's canal! speech, thought's criterion tool
Thought in the mine, may come forth gold, or dross;
When coin'd in word, we know its real worth.
If
