BALLAD. (Let sons of sloth dream time away)

Let sons of sloth dream time away, Regardless what may follow, And rail at us who wake the day With horn, and hound, and hollow:

We their pursuits should find the same, To their secrets were we privy, Each man to hunt some favourite game Through life goes on tantivy.

The book-worm hunts the ancient schools, And walks with Aristotle, Black-legs and ladies hunt for fools, The toper hunts his bottle.

Thus should we find, whate'er the name, To their secrets were we privy, Mankind to hunt, &c.

When doctors come in at the death, For true bred hunters these are, The patient cries, with his last breath, " Et tu Brute! then fall Caesar."

Thus we with safety might proclaim, To their secrets were we privy, Mankind to hunt, &c.

The misanthrope hunts out for woes, Muck-worms are gold pursuing, While neck and nothing, as he goes, The spendthrift hunts his ruin.

Bold tars for honour hunt the wind, Outrageous saints hunt sinners, While with round belly, capon-lined, Fat aldermen hunt dinners.

Thus should we find men's views the same, To their secrets were we privy, All, all to hunt, &c.

Fame courtiers hunt from place to place, Rakes hunt new sets of features, While generous hearts urge on the chase, To relieve their fellow creatures:

Let us, while to our action's aim Regardless who are privy, In chase of pleasure, as fair game, Through life go on tantivy.