With good and gentle humour’d hearts,
    I choose to chat where’er I come,
  Whate’er the subject be that starts: 
    But if I get among the glum,
  I hold my tongue to tell the truth,
  And keep my breath to cool my broth.

  For chance or change of peace or pain;
    For Fortune’s favour or her frown;
  For lack or glut, for loss or gain,
    I never dodge, nor up nor down: 
  But swing what way the ship shall swim,
  Or tack about with equal trim.

  I suit not where I shall not speed,
    Nor trace the turn of ev’ry tide;
  If simple sense will not succeed
    I make no bustling, but abide: 
  For shining wealth, or scaring woe,
  I force no friend, I fear no foe.

  Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
    Of the’re i’th’ wrong, and we’re i’th’ right,
  I shun the rancours and the routs,
    And wishing well to every wight,
  Whatever turn the matter takes,
  I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

  With whom I feast I do not fawn,
    Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;
  If wonted welcome he withdrawn,
    I cook no kind of a complaint: 
  With none dispos’d to disagree,
  But like them best who best like me.

  Not that I rate myself the rule
    How all my betters should behave;
  But fame shall find me no man’s fool,
    Nor to a set of men a slave. 
  I love a friendship free and frank,
    And hate to hang upon a hank.

  Fond of a true and trusty tie,
    I never loose where’er I link;
  Tho’ if a bus’ness budges by,
    I talk thereon just as I think;
  My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
  Still on a side together stand.

  If names or notions make a noise,
    Whatever hap the question hath,
  The point impartially I poise,
    And read or write, but without wrath;
  For should I burn, or break my brains,
  Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

  I love my neighbour as myself,
    Myself like him too, by his leave—­
  Nor to his pleasure, pow’r, or pelf,
    Came I to crouch, as I conceive: 
  Dame Nature doubtless has design’d
  A man the monarch of his mind.

  Now taste and try tills temper, sirs,
    Mood it and brood it in your breast—­
  Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs. 
    That man does right to mar his rest,
  Let me be deft and debonair,
  I am content, I do not care.

* * * * *

The Gatherer

“A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.”  SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

FRENCH TRAGEDY.