INSTRUCTIONS to a PORTER

You! to whose care I've now consign'd My house's entrance, caution use, While you discharge your trust, and mind Whom you admit, and whom refuse.

Let no fierce passions enter here, Passions the raging breast that storm, Nor scornful pride, nor servile fear, Nor hate, nor envy's pallid form.

Should av'rice call—you'll let her know Of heap'd-up riches I've no store, And that she has no right to go Where Plutus has not been before.

Lo! on a visit hither bent High-plum'd ambition stalks about; But should he enter, sweet content Will give me warning—shut him out.

Perhaps the Muse may pass this way, And tho' full oft I've bent the knee, And long invok'd her magic sway, Smit with the love of harmony;

Alone tho' she might please—yet still I know she'll with Ambition come; With lust of fame my heart she'll fill, She'll break my rest—I'm not at home.

There is a rascal, old and hideous, Who oft (and sometimes not in vain) Close at my gate has watch'd assiduous, In hopes he might admittance gain.

His name is Care—if he should call, Quick out of doors with vigour throw him, And tell the miscreant once for all I know him not, I ne'er will know him.

Perhaps then Bacchus, foe to care, May think he'll sure my favour win, His promises of joy are fair But false—you must not let him in.

But welcome that sweet power! on whom The young desires attendant move; Still flush'd with beauty's vernal bloom, Parent of bliss, the Queen of Love.

O! you will know her, she has stole The lustre of my Delia's eye; Admit her, hail her—for my soul Breathes double life when she is nigh.

If then, stern Wisdom at my gate Should knock with all her formal train, Tell her I'm busy—she may wait, Or, if she chooses—call again.