Emotions and Feelings

Behold his funeral appears, Nor widow’s sighs, nor orphan’s tears, Wont at such times each heart to pierce, Attend the progress of his hearse. And what of that? his friends may say, He had those honors in his day. True to his profit and his pride, He made them weep before he died.

A set of phrases learnt by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play to laugh, or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why: Never to hold her tongue a minute; While all she prates has nothing in it.

’Tis an old maxim in the schools, That flattery’s 1 the food of fools; Yet now and then your men of wit Will condescend to take a bit.

All men would be tyrants if they could.

And of all plagues with which mankind are curs’d, Ecclesiastic tyranny’s the worst.

In their religion they are so uneven, That each man goes his own byway to heaven.

From this amphibious ill-born mob began That vain, ill-natur’d thing, an Englishman.

Wherever God erects a house of prayer, The Devil always builds a chapel there; And ’twill be found, upon examination, The latter has the largest congregation.

She hugg’d the offender, and forgave the offense: Sex to the last. 9

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again.

Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again.

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

None but the brave deserves the fair.

Possess your soul with patience.

For present joys are more to flesh and blood Than a dull prospect of a distant good.

Much malice mingled with a little wit.

And kind as kings upon their coronation day.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own; He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have liv’d today.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretense, But Shadwell 5 never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.

There is a pleasure sure In being mad which none but madmen know. 3

Made still a blund’ring kind of melody; Spurr’d boldly on, and dash’d through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in. Free from all meaning, whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.