What art thou, Spleen, which every thing dost ape?

Thou Proteus to abuse Mankind,

Who never yet thy hidden Cause cou'd find;

Or fix thee to remain in one continu'd Shape;

Still varying thy perplexing Form,

Now a dead Sea thoul’t represent,

A Calm of stupid Discontent,

The dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm:

Trembling sometimes thou dost appear,

Dissolv'd into a panick Fear. 

On Sleep intruding do'st thy Shadows spread,

Thy gloomy Terrors round the lent Bed,

And crowd with boding Dreams the melancholy Head.

Or when the mid-night Hour is told,

And drooping Lids thou still do'st waking hold,

Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes;

Before 'em antic Spectres dance,

Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance,

And aiery Phantoms rise.

Such was the monstrous Vision seen,

When Brutus (now beneath his Cares opprest,

And all Rome’s Fortunes rolling in his Breast,

Before Philippi’s latest Field

Before his Fate did to Octavius yield)

Was vanquish'd by the Spleen.

 

Falsly the mortal part we blame

Of our depress'd and pond’rous Frame,

Which till the first degrading Sin

Let thee, its dull attendant, in;

Still with the other did comply;

Nor clogg'd the active Soul, dispos'd to fly,

And range the Mansions of its native Sky:

Nor whilst in his own Heaven he dwelt,

Whilst Man his Paradise possest,

His fertile Garden in the fragrant East,

And all united Odours smelt. 

No pointed Sweets until thy Reign

Cou'd shock the Sense, or in the face

A Flush, Unhandsome Colour place:

Now the Jonquil o’recomes[sic] the feeble Brain,

We faint beneath the Aromatick pain,

Till some offensive scent thy Powers appease,

And Pleasure we resign for short and nauseous Ease.

 

New are thy Motions and thy Dress,

In every one thou dost possess:

Here some attentive secret Friend

Thy false Suggestions must attend,

Thy whisper'd Griefs, thy fancy'd Sorrows hear,

Breath'd in a Sigh, and witness'd by a Tear:

Whilst in the light and vulgar Crowd

Thy Slaves more clamorous and loud, 

By laughter unprovok'd thy Influence too confess.

In the imperious Wife thou Vapours art,

Which from o'er-heated Passions rise

In clouds to the attractive Brain,

Until descending thence again

Thro' the o'er-cast and showring Eyes,

Upon the Husband's softned Heart,

He the disputed Point must yield,

Something resign of the contested Field;

'Till Lordly Man, born to Imperial Sway,

Compounds for Peace, to make his Right away

And Woman arm'd with Spleen dos servilely obey.

 

The Fool, to imitate the Wits,

Complains of thy pretended Fits;

And Dulness, born with him would lay

Upon thy accidental Sway;

Because thou do'st sometimes presume

Into the ablest Heads to come,

That often Men of Thoughts refin'd,

Impatient of unequal Sense,

Such slow returns, where they so much dispense,

Retiring from the Crowd, are to thy Shades confin'd,

In me alas! thou dost too much prevail,

I feel thy force, while I against thee rail?

I feel my Verse decay, and my crampt Numbers fall.

Through thy black Jaundies I all Objects see,

As dark and terrible as thee;

My Lines decry'd, and my Imployment thought

An useless Folly, or presumptuous Fault;

While in the Muses Paths I stray,

While in their Groves, and by their Springs,

My Hand delights to trace unusual things,

And deviates from the known and common way:

Nor will in fading Silks compose,

Faintly th'inimitable Rose:

Fill up an ill drawn Bird, or paint on Glass

The Sovereigns blur'd and undistinguish'd Face,

The threatening Angel, and the speaking Ass.

 

Patron thou art of every gross abuse,

The sullen Husband's feign'd excuse,

When the ill humour with his Wife he spends,

And bears recruited Wit and Spirits to his Friends.

The Son of Bacchus pleads thy Power,

As to the Glass he still repairs,

Pretends but to remove thy Cares;

Snatcht from thy Shades one gay and smiling hour,

And drown thy Kingdom with a Purple Show'r.

When the Coquet whom every Fool admires,

Wou'd in variety be fair,

And shifting hastily the Scene,

From light impertinent and vain,

Assumes a soft and melancholy Air,

And of her Eyes rebates the wand'ring Fires,

The careless Posture, and the Head reclin'd;

The thoughtful and composed Face

Proclaiming the withdrawn and absent Mind,

Allows the Fop more liberty to gaze;

Who gently for the tender Cause enquires:

The Cause indeed is a defect in Sense;

But still the Spleen's alledg'd, and still the dull Pretence.

 

But these are thy fantastic Harms,

The tricks of thy pernicious Rage,

Which do the weaker sort engage;

Worse are the dire effects of thy more powerful Charms.

By thee Religion all we know

That should enlighten here below,

Is veil'd in darkness, and perplext

With anxious Doubts, with endless Scruples vext,

And some restraint imply'd from each perverted Text.

Whilst tast[sic] not, touch not what is freely given,

Is but the Niggard's Voice, disgracing bounteous Heaven.

From Speech restrain'd, by thy deceits abus'd,

To Desarts banish'd, and in Cells reclus'd;

Mistaken Votaries to the Powers Divine,

While they a purer Sacrifice design

Do but the Spleen adore, and worship at thy Shrine.

 

In vain to chase thee, every Art we try;

In vain all Remedies apply;

In vain the Indian Leaf infuse,

Or the pearch'd Eastern Berry bruise;

Some pass in vain those bounds, and nobler Liquors use.

Now Harmony in vain we bring,

Inspire the Flute, and touch the String;

From Harmony no help is had:

Musick but sooths thee, if too sweetly sad;

And if too light, but turns thee gladly mad.

Not skilful Lower thy Source cou'd find,

Or through the well-dissected Body trace

The secret and mysterious ways,

By which thou dost destroy and prey upon the Mind;

Tho' in the Search, too deep for Humane Thought,

With unsuccessful Toil he wrought,

'Till in pursuit of thee himself was by thee caught;

Retain'd thy Prisoner, thy acknowledg[sic] Slave,

And sunk beneath thy Weight to a lamented Grave.