was numb'd in that strange fashion,
I would not sign an obligation,
(Though heaven such a friend ne'er sent me,)
Would one a thousand pounds have lent me
On my own bond."
In his epistle to the Earl of, after complaining that he had heard nothing of his lordship for a long time, he proceeds
"But let that pass, you now must know
We do on our last quarter go;
And that I may go bravely out,
Am trowling merry bowl about,
To lord, and lady, that and this,
As nothing were at all amiss,
When after twenty days are past,
Poor Charles has eat and drunk his last.
No more plum-porridge then, or pie,
No brawn with branch of rosemary,
No chine of beef, enough to make
The tallest yeoman's chine to crack;
No bag-pipe humming in the hall,
Nor noise of house-keeping at all,
Nor sign, by which it may be said,
This house was once inhabited.
I may perhaps, with much ado,
Rub out a Christmas more or two;
Or, if the fates be pleas'd, a score,
But never look to keep one more."
It would seem from what follows, that he once contemplated flying to France or Flanders for refuge, and that the nobleman to whom the epistle is addressed, commanded the regiment in which he had served as a Captain:
"But that's too serious. Then suppose,
Like travelling Tom, with dint of toes,
I'm got unto extremest shore,
Sick, and impatient to be o'er
That channel which secur'd my state
Of peace, whilst I was fortunate,
But in this moment of distress,
Confines me to unhappiness:
But where's the money to be had
This surly Neptune to perswade?
It is no less then shillings ten,
Gods will be brib'd as well as men.
Imagine then your Highlander
Over a cann of muddy beer,
Playing at passage with a pair
Of drunken fumblers for his fare;
And see I've won, oh, lucky chance,
Hoist sail amain, my mates, for France;
Fortune was civil in this throw,
And, having robb'd me, lets me go.
I've won, and yet how could I choose,
He needs must win, that cannot lose ;
Fate, send me then a happy wind,
And better luck to those behind.
"But what advantage will it be
That winds and tides are kind to me,
When still the wretched have their woes,
Wherever they their feet dispose?
What satisfaction, or delight
Are ragouts to an appetite?
What ease can France or Flanders give
To him that is a fugitive?
Some two years hence, when you come o'er,
In all your state, ambassador,
If my ill nature be so strong
T' out-live my infamy so long,
You'll find your little officer
Ragged as his old colours are;
And naked, as he's discontent,
Standing at some poor sutler's tent,
With his pike cheek't, to guard the tun
He must not taste when he has done.
Hump, says my Lord, I'm half afraid,
My captain's turn'd a reformade,
That scurvy face I sure should know :
Yes faith, my Lord, 'tis even so,
I am that individual he:
I told your Lordship how 'twould be.
Thou didst so, Charles, it is confest,
Yet still I thought thou wer't in jest ;
But comfort! poverty's no crime,
I'll take thy word another time.
"This matters now are coming to,
And I'm resolv'd upon't; whilst you,
Sleeping in fortune's arms, ne'er dream
Who feels the contrary extreme;
Faith, write to me, that I know
Whether you love me still, or no;
Or if you do not, by what ways
I've pull'd upon me my disgrace;
For whilst I still stand fair with you,
I dare the worst my fate can do ;
But your opinion long59 I find,
I'm sunk for ever to mankind."
59 Sic, but query if not a misprint for "gone."
His real feelings, and perhaps his situation, are however most strongly described in his Ode to Poverty:
"Yet Poverty, as I do take it,
Is not so epidemical
As many in the world would make it,
Who all that want their wishes poor do call;
For if who is not with his divident
Amply content,
Within that acceptation fall,
Most would be poor, and peradventure all.
This would the wretched with the rich confound;
But I not call him poor does not abound,
But him, who snar'd in bonds, and endless strife,
The comforts wants more than supports of life;
Him whose whole age is measur'd out by fears,
And though he has wherewith to eat,
His bread does yet
Taste of affliction, and his cares
His purest wine mix and allay with tears.
'Tis in this sense that I am poor,
And I'm afraid shall be so still,
Obstrep'rous creditors besiege my door,
And my whole house clamorous echos fill:
From these there can be no retirement free,
From room to room, they hunt, and follow me;
They will not let me eat, nor sleep, nor pray,
But persecute me night and day;
Torment my body, and my mind,
Nay if I take my heels and fly,
They follow me with open cry,
At home no rest, abroad no refuge can I find.
Thou worst of ills! what have I done
That heaven should punish me with thee!
From insolence, fraud, and oppression,
I ever have been innocent and free.
Thou wert intended (Poverty)
A scourge for pride and avarice,
I ne'er was tainted yet with either vice;
I never in prosperity,
Nor in the height of all my happiness,
Scorn'd, or neglected any in distress,
My hand, my heart, my door
Were ever open to the poor;
And I to others in their need have granted,
Ere they could ask, the thing they wanted,
Whereas I now, although I humbly crave it,
Do only beg for peace, and cannot have it.
Give me but that, ye bloody persecutors,
(Who formerly have been my suitors)
And I'll surrender all the rest
For which you so contest,
For heaven's sake, let me but be quiet,
I'll not repine at clothes, nor diet,
Any habit ne'er so mean
Let it be but whole and clean,
Such as nakedness will hide,
Will amply satisfy my pride;
And for meat
Husks and acorns will I eat,
And for better never wish;
But when you will me better treat,
A turnip is a princely dish:
Since then I thus far am subdu'd,
And so humbly do submit,
Faith, be no more so monstrous rude,
But some repose at least permit ;
Sleep is to life and human nature due,
And that, alas, is all for which I humbly sue."
The complaint of having been deserted by his friends as well as by those whom he had served, also occurs in other places; and in one of his Eclogues he says,
"CLOTTEN. The want of wealth I reckon not distress,
But of enough to do good offices;
Which growing less, those friends will fall away;
Poverty is the ground of all decay;
With our prosperities our friendships end,
And to misfortune no one is a friend,
Which I already find to that degree,
That my old friends are now afraid of me,
And all avoid me, as good men would fly
The common hangman's shameful company.
Those who by fortune were advanced above,
Being obliged by my most ready love,
Shun me, for fear lest my necessity
Should urge what they're unwilling to deny,
And are resolved they will not grant; and those
Have shared my meat, my money, and my clothes,
Grown rich with others' spoils as well as mine,
The coming near me now do all decline,
Lest shame and gratitude should draw them in,
To be to me what I to them have been;
By which means I am stripp'd of all supplies,
And left alone to my own miseries.
CORYDON. In the relation that thy grief has made,
The world's false friendships are too true display'd;
But, courage, man, thou hast one friend in store
Will ne'er forsake thee for thy being poor;
I will be true to thee in worst estate,
And love thee more now than when fortunate.
CLOTTEN. All goodness then on earth I see's not lost,
I of one friend in misery can boast,
Which is enough, and peradventure more
Than any one could ever do before;
And I to thee as true a friend will prove
Not to abuse but to deserve thy love."
His Ode to Hope merits insertion, not only from its being a picture of his own mind, but as a fair specimen of his poetical powers:
HOPE, thou darling, and delight
Of unforeseeing reckless minds,
Thou deceiving parrisite,
Which no where entertainment finds
But with the wretched or the vain ;
'Tis they alone fond hope maintain.
Thou easy fool's chief favorite;
Thou fawning slave to slaves, that still remains
In galleys, dungeons, and in chains;
Or with a whining lover lov'st to play,
With treach'rous art
Fanning his heart,
A greater slave by far, than they
Who in worst durance wear their age away.
Thou, whose ambition mounts no higher,
Nor does to greater fame aspire,
Than to be ever found a liar :
Thou treach'rous fiend, deluding shade,
Who would with such a phantom be betray'd,
By whom the wretched are at last more wretched made.
Yet once, I must confess, I was
Such an overweening ass,
As in fortune's worst distress
To believe thy promises;
Which so brave a change foretold,
Such a stream of happiness,
Such mountain hopes of glitt'ring gold,
Such honours, friendships, offices,
In love and arms so great success;
That I e'en hugg'd myself with the conceit,
Was myself party in the cheat,
And in my very bosom laid
That fatal Hope by which I was betray'd,
Thinking myself already rich and great:
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