Classic Poem

TO DAMON.

You're right, my friend: — I'll ask no longer,
Whence our sorrow, whence our woe?
'Tis Envy: yes, you do not wrong her,
All our ills from Envy flow.

Young ladies, at the playhouse shining,
Seem the happiest beings there,
But yet, at home, they sit repining
At one fairer, or as fair.

The hall when powder'd chaplains visit,
Ruffles streaming at their breast,
Each shabby student, sighing, sees it,
And concludes the puppies blest.

But mark them in the nurs'ry moping;
Presentations fire their brain;
The hale incumbent's long a-dropping;
Waiting-women soothe in vain.

The modest bard, whose num'rous numbers,
Draw'rs and trunks from critics screen;
What can break his midnight slumbers?
Writers in the Magazine.

Why, let him be the man he envies,
Weekly spread his oily odes;
Yea, let no critic strictly canvass,
Zephyrs, meads, or groves, or gods.

Say, sleeps he found? or needs he poppy?
Something does his brow engloom;
He still is wretch'd, — and who is happy?
B EATTIE , O GILVIE , or Home .

Away, ye whining self-tormentors!
Come, ye sons of meek Content!
Whose bosoms Envy never enters,
Clown, philosopher, or saint:

And lead me to her hermit dwelling,
Lonely, sure, the matron dwells;
Far from peevish, raving, railing,
Poets, students, beaux, or belles.

From the happy number dash me;
Friend! you find I'm envious too;
What! — not believe I'm envious! — bless me!
Don't you see I envy you?