"Squire, 'tis nothing but the cur," Mat answered him; "with cursed spite, The brute does nought but bark and bite. There is some cause, we all agree: He swears 'tis us--we say 'tis he. Get rid of him, the snarling brute, And these old halls shall not be mute; There nothing is we more desire, Than lose the cur and win the squire."
The truth prevailed, and with disgrace The cur was cudgelled out of place.
NOSCE TEIPSUM: look and spy, Have you a friend so fond as I? Have you a fault, to mankind known, Not hidden unto eyes your own? When airy castles you importune, Down falling, by the breath of Fortune, Did I e'er doubt you should inherit, If Fortune's wheel devolved on merit? It was not so; for Fortune's frown Still perseveres to hold you down. Then let us seek the cause, and view What others say and others do. Have we, like those in place, resigned Our independency of mind? Have we had scruples--and therefore Practising morals, are we poor? If such be our forlorn position, Would Fortune mend the lorn condition? On wealth if happiness were built, Villains would compass it by guilt. No: CRESCIT AMOR NUMMI--misers Are not so heartwhole as are sizars. Think, O John Gay!--and that's myself-- Should Fortune make you her own elf, Would that augment your happiness? Or haply might she make it less?
Suppose yourself a wealthy heir Of houses, lands, and income clear: Your luxury might break all bounds Of plate and table, steeds, and hounds. Debts--debts of honour--lust of play-- Will waste a county's wealth away; And so your income clear may fail, And end in exile or in jail.
Or were you raised to height of power, Would that ameliorate an hour? Would avarice and false applause Weigh in the balance as two straws? Defrauded nations, blinded kings, Would they not, think you, leave their stings? If happiness, then, be your aim (I mean the true, not false of fame), She nor in courts nor camps resides, Nor in the lowly cottage bides; Nor on the soil, nor on the wind; She tenants only in the mind.
Wearied by toil, beneath the shade, A rustic rested on his spade. "This load of life, from year to year," He said, "is very hard to bear. The dawning morning bids me up To toil and labour till I sup!"