For Not Building at Drapier's-Hill

I will not build on yonder mount;And, should you call me to account,Consulting with myself, I findIt was no levity of mind.Whate'er I promised or intended,No fault of mine, the scheme is ended;Nor can you tax me as unsteady,I have a hundred causes ready;All risen since that flattering time,When Drapier's-Hill appear'd in rhyme.I am, as now too late I find,The greatest cully of mankind;The lowest boy in Martin's schoolMay turn and wind me like a fool.How could I form so wild a vision,To seek, in deserts, Fields Elysian?To live in fear, suspicion, variance,With thieves, fanatics, and barbarians?But here my lady will object;Your deanship ought to recollect,That, near the knight of Gosford placed,Whom you allow a man of taste,Your intervals of time to spendWith so conversable a friend,It would not signify a pinWhatever climate you were in.'Tis true, but what advantage comesTo me from all a usurer's plums;Though I should see him twice a-day,And am his neighbour 'cross the way:If all my rhetoric must failTo strike him for a pot of ale?Thus, when the learned and the wiseConceal their talents from our eyes,And from deserving friends withholdTheir gifts, as misers do their gold;Their knowledge to themselves confinedIs the same avarice of mind;Nor makes their conversation better,Than if they never knew a letter.Such is the fate of Gosford's knight,Who keeps his wisdom out of sight;Whose uncommunicative heartWill scarce one precious word impart:Still rapt in speculations deep,His outward senses fast asleep;Who, while I talk, a song will hum,Or with his fingers beat the drum;Beyond the skies transports his mind,And leaves a lifeless corpse behind.But, as for me, who ne'er could clamber high,To understand Malebranche or Cambray;Who send my mind (as I believe) lessThan others do, on errands sleeveless;Can listen to a tale humdrum,And with attention read Tom Thumb;My spirits with my body progging,Both hand in hand together jogging;Sunk over head and ears in matter.Nor can of metaphysics smatter;Am more diverted with a quibbleThan dream of words intelligible;And think all notions too abstractedAre like the ravings of a crackt head;What intercourse of minds can beBetwixt the knight sublime and me,If when I talk, as talk I must,It is but prating to a bust?Where friendship is by Fate design'd,It forms a union in the mind:But here I differ from the knightIn every point, like black and white:For none can say that ever yetWe both in one opinion met:Not in philosophy, or ale;In state affairs, or planting kale;In rhetoric, or picking straws;In roasting larks, or making laws;In public schemes, or catching flies;In parliaments, or pudding pies.The neighbours wonder why the knightShould in a country life delight,Who not one pleasure entertainsTo cheer the solitary scenes:His guests are few, his visits rare;Nor uses time, nor time will spare;Nor rides, nor walks, nor hunts, nor fowls,Nor plays at cards, or dice, or bowls;But seated in an easy-chair,Despises exercise and air.His rural walks he ne'er adorns;Here poor Pomona sits on thorns:And there neglected Flora settlesHer bum upon a bed of nettles.Those thankless and officious caresI used to take in friends' affairs,From which I never could refrain,And have been often chid in vain;From these I am recover'd quite,At least in what regards the knight.Preserve his health, his store increase;May nothing interrupt his peace!But now let all his tenants roundFirst milk his cows, and after, pound;Let every cottager conspireTo cut his hedges down for fire;The naughty boys about the villageHis crabs and sloes may freely pillage;He still may keep a pack of knavesTo spoil his work, and work by halves;His meadows may be dug by swine,It shall be no concern of mine;For why should I continue stillTo serve a friend against his will?