Will thrust a dagger at your breast, Whoever keeps an open ear A friendship that in frequent fits The sparks of disputation, Like hand in hand insurance plates, Most unavoidably creates The thought of conflagration. Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as a needle to the pole, Their humour yet so various— They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too, Their love is so precarious. The great and small but rarely meet Plebeians must surrender, And yield so much to noble folk, Some are so placid and serene They sleep secure from waking; Unmoved and without quaking. Courtier and patriot cannot mix Like that of salts with lemon juice, Religion should extinguish strife, But friends that chance to differ On points which God has left at large, How freely will they meet and charge! No combatants are stiffer. To prove at last my main intent No cutting and contriving— Sometimes the fault is all our own, Some blemish in due time made known By trespass or omission ; Sometimes occasion brings to light Our friend's defect long hid from sight, Then judge yourself, and prove your man As circumspectly as you can, And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection. That secrets are a sacred trust, That savour much of commonplace, But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, To finish a fine building— The carving and the gilding. The man that hails you Tom or Jack, Is such a friend that one had need To pardon or to bear it. As similarity of mind, Or something not to be defined, The same we practised at first sight, Some act upon this prudent plan, So barren sands imbibe the shower, The man I trust, if shy to me, These samples-for alas! at last Pursue the search, and you will find Good sense and knowledge of mankind To be at least expedient, And, after summing all the rest, The noblest Friendship ever shown Have not, it seems, discern'd it. O Friendship! if my soul forego Or may my friend deceive me! ; ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE. Go-thou art all unfit to share The pleasures of this place With such as its old tenants are, Creatures of gentler race. |