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"THE QUIET LIFE" 
 
 CERTAIN VERSES BY VARIOUS 
 HANDS: the Motive set forth in a 
 PROLOGUE & EPILOGUE by 
 AUSTIN DOBSON; the whole 
 adorned with numerous Drawings 
 by EDWIN A. ABBEY & ALFRED 
 PARSONS 
 
 LONDON • SAMPSON LOW • MARSTON ■ SEARLE • & 
 RIVINGTON • LIMITED • M DCCC XC 
 
COTVRIGHT, 1889, r BY 
 QA.ll ^Rights 'Keserved. 
 
 ... ... 
 
 r ••• • • • • 
 
 • ft 
 
 
 .-•-.. ;• 
 
M 3896 
 
PAGE 
 
 ODE TO SOLITUDE 69 
 
 By Alexander Pope. 
 
 THE MARRIED MAN So 
 
 Author unknown. 
 
 TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD 85 
 
 By Thomas Randolph. 
 
 EPILOGUE 97 
 
 By Austin Dobs on. 
 
VEN as one in city pent, 
 
 Dazed with the stir and din of town, 
 Drums on the pane in discontent, 
 And sees the dreary rain come down, 
 Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass, 
 Beholds, in fancy, visions pass, 
 
 Of 
 

 <% 
 
 Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves, 
 Of birds that build in thatch and eaves, 
 Of woodlands where the throstle calls, 
 Of girls that gather cowslip balls, 
 
 Of 
 
Of kine that low and lambs that cry, 
 
 Of wains that jolt and rumble by, 
 
 Of brooks that sing by brambly ways, 
 
 Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze, 
 
 5 
 
 Of 
 
Of all the dreams with which men cheat 
 The stony sermons of the street, 
 So, in its hour, the artist brain 
 
 Weary of human ills and woes, 
 Weary of passion and of pain, 
 
 And vaguely craving for repose, 
 
 Deserts 
 
Deserts awhile the stage of strife 
 To draw the even, ordered life, 
 The easeful days, the dreamless nights, 
 The homely round of plain delights, 
 The calm, the unambitioned mind, 
 Which all men seek, and few men find. 
 
',lWm 
 
THE GARDEN. 
 
 BY ANDREW MARVELL. 
 
 ^1 OW vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays : 
 And their incessant labours see 
 Crown'd from some single herb, or tree, 
 Whose short and narrow verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
 While all the flow'rs, and trees, do close, 
 To weave the garlands of repose. 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
 And Innocence, thy sister dear ! 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companys of men. 
 
 Your 
 
 15 
 
Your sacred plants, if here below, 
 Only among the plants will grow. 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white, nor red was ever seen 
 
 So am'rous as this lovely green. 
 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name, 
 
 Little, alas ! they know or heed, 
 
 How far these beautys her exceed! 
 
 Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound, 
 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 When we have run our passion's heat, 
 Love hither makes his best retreat. 
 The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
 Still in a tree did end their race. 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
 Only that she might laurel grow : 
 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 What 
 
 16 
 
-**•■ 
 
What wond'rous life is this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about my head. 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine. 
 The nectarine, and curious peach, 
 Into my hands themselves do reach. 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass. 
 
 Mean while the mind, from pleasure less, 
 
 Withdraws into its happiness : 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 
 Does streight its own resemblance find ; 
 
 Yet it creates, transcending these, 
 
 Far other worlds, and other seas ; 
 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
 Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside, 
 My soul into the boughs does glide: 
 
 There, 
 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
 Then whets, and claps its silver wings : 
 And, till prepar'd for longer flight, 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was that happy garden-state, 
 While man there walk'd without a mate: 
 After a place so pure and sweet, 
 What other help could yet be meet ! 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 Two paradises are in one, 
 To live in paradise alone. 
 
 How well the skilful gard'ner drew 
 Of flow'rs, and herbs, this dial new ! 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
 And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we. 
 How could such sweet and wholsome hours 
 Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs? 
 
 20 
 
THE WISH. 
 
agree ; 
 The very Honey of all Earthly Joy 
 Does of all Meats the soonest cloy. 
 And they (methinks) deserve my 
 Pity 
 Who for it can endure the Stings, 
 The Croud, and Buz, and Murmur- 
 ings 
 Of this great Hive, the City. 
 
 25 
 
 AH! 
 
May I a small House and large Garden 
 
 have ! 
 And a few Friends, and many Books, 
 
 both true, 
 Both wise, and both delightful too ! 
 And since Love ne'er will from me 
 
 flee, 
 A Mistress moderately fair, 
 And good as Guardian -Angels are, 
 Only belov'd, and loving me! 
 
 OH 
 
 26 
 
=**ft 
 
H Fountains! when in you shall I 
 Myself, eas'd of unpeaceful Thoughts, 
 
 espy? 
 Oh Fields! oh Woods! when, when 
 
 shall I be made 
 The happy Tenant of your shade? 
 Here's the Spring -head of Pleasure 's 
 
 Flood, 
 Where all the Riches lye that she 
 Has coin'd and stamp'd for Good. 
 
 PRIDE 
 
 28 
 
RIDE and Ambition here 
 
 Only in far- fetch 1 d Metaphors 
 
 appear ; 
 Here nought but Winds can 
 
 hurtful Murmurs scatter, 
 And nought but Eccho flatter. 
 The Gods, when they descended 
 
 hither 
 From Heav'n, did always chuse 
 
 their Way ; 
 And therefore we may boldly 
 
 say, 
 That 'tis the Way too thither. 
 
 HOW 
 
 30 
 
SOW happy here should I 
 And one dear She live, and embracing 
 
 die! 
 She who is all the World, and can 
 
 exclude 
 In Desarts Solitude; 
 
 I should have then this only Fear, 
 Lest Men, when they my Pleasures 
 
 see, 
 Should hither throng to live like me, 
 And so make a City here. 
 
 — From "The Mistress," by Abraham Cowley. 
 
 32 
 
QUI MCE. 
 
QUINCE. 
 
 BY WINTIIROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 
 
 EAR a small village in the West, 
 Where many very worthy people 
 Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best 
 To guard from evil church and steeple, 
 There stood — alas ! it stands no more ! — 
 A tenement of brick and plaster, 
 Of which, for forty years and four, 
 My good friend Quince was lord and master. 
 
 Welcome 
 
 37 
 
Welcome was he in hut and hall, 
 
 To maids and matrons, peers and peasants; 
 
 He won the sympathies of all 
 
 By making puns and making presents. 
 
 Though all the parish were at strife, 
 
 He kept his council and his carriage, 
 
 And laugh'd, and loved a quiet life, 
 
 And shrank from chancery suits and marriage. 
 
 Sound was his claret — and his head ; 
 Warm was his double ale — and feelings ; 
 His partners at the whist club said 
 That he was faultless in his dealings. 
 He went to church but once a week; 
 Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him 
 An upright man who studied Greek, 
 And liked to see his friends around him. 
 
 Asylums, 
 
 38 
 
Asylums, hospitals, and schools 
 He used to swear were made to cozen ; 
 All who subscribed to them were fools — 
 And he subscribed to half a dozen. 
 
 39 
 
 It 
 
It was his doctrine that the poor 
 Were always able, never willing ; 
 And so the beggar at his door 
 Had first abuse, and then a shilling. 
 
 Some public principles he had, 
 But was no flatterer nor fretter ; 
 He rapp'd his box when things were bad, 
 And said, " I cannot make them better !" 
 And much he loathed the patriot's snort. 
 And much he scorn'd the placeman's snuffle, 
 And cut the fiercest quarrels short 
 With " Patience, gentlemen, and shuffle !" 
 
 For 
 
 40 
 
For full ten years his pointer Speed 
 Had couch'd beneath her master's table ; 
 For twice ten years his old white steed 
 Had fatten'd in his master's stable. 
 Old Quince averr'd, upon his troth, 
 They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ; 
 And none knew why he fed them both 
 With his own hands six days in seven. 
 
 Whene'er they heard his ring or knock, 
 Quicker than thought the village slatterns 
 Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock, 
 And took up Mrs. Glasse and patterns. 
 Adine was studying baker's bills ; 
 Louisa look'd the queen of knitters ; 
 Jane happen'd to be hemming frills; 
 And Bell by chance was making fritters. 
 
 But 
 
 42 
 
But all was vain ; and while decay 
 Came like a tranquil moonlight o'er him, 
 And found him gouty still and gay, 
 With no fair nurse to bless or bore him, 
 His rugged smile and easy-chair, 
 His dread of matrimonial lectures, 
 His wig, his stick, his powder'd hair, 
 Were themes for very strange conjectures. 
 
 Some sages thought the stars above 
 
 Had crazed him with excess of knowledge ; 
 
 Some heard he had been crost in love 
 
 Before he came away from college ; 
 
 Some darkly hinted that his Grace 
 
 Did nothing great or small without him ; 
 
 Some whisper'd with a solemn face 
 
 That there was " something odd about him !" 
 
 I found 
 44 
 
I found him, at threescore and ten, 
 A single man, but bent quite double : 
 Sickness was coming on him then, 
 To take him from a world of trouble. 
 He prosed of slipping down the hill, 
 Discovered he grew older daily: 
 One frosty day he made his will ; 
 The next he sent for Doctor Bailey. 
 
 And so he lived, and so he died ! — 
 When last I sat beside his pillow, 
 He shook my hand, and "Ah!" he cried, 
 " Penelope must wear the willow. 
 Tell her I hugg'd her rosy chain 
 While life was flickering in the socket ; 
 And say that when I call again, 
 I'll bring a license in my pocket. 
 
 " I've 
 46 
 
"I've left my house and grounds to Fag- 
 I hope his master's shoes will suit him ; 
 And I've bequeathed to you my nag, 
 To feed him for my sake, or shoot him. 
 The vicar's wife will take old Fox— 
 She'll find him an uncommon mouser; 
 And let her husband have my box, 
 My Bible, and my Assmanshauser. 
 
 "Whether I ought to die or not, 
 My doctors cannot quite determine; 
 It's only clear that I shall rot, 
 And be, like Priam, food for vermin. 
 My debts are paid ; but nature's debt 
 Almost escaped my recollection: 
 Tom! we shall meet again; and yet 
 I cannot leave you my direction." 
 
 48 
 

 THE VICAR. 
 
■ 
 
 
 
 
 tests* 
 
 i^gr 
 
 ^>h : ' y " 
 
 THE VICAR. 
 
 BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 
 
 |OME years ago, ere time and taste 
 Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
 When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 
 And roads as little known as scurvy, 
 The man who lost his way between 
 
 St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket 
 Was always shown across the green, 
 And guided to the Parson's wicket. 
 
 Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 
 
 Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
 Led the lorn traveller up the path, 
 
 Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
 
 52 
 
 And 
 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 
 Upon the parlour steps collected, 
 
 Wagged all their tails, and seem'd to say— 
 " Our master knows you — you're expected." 
 
 , ^ - ... 
 
Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 
 
 Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow ; 
 The lady laid her knitting down, 
 
 Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow ; 
 Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 
 
 Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
 He found a stable for his steed, 
 
 And welcome for himself, and dinner. 
 
 If, when he reached his journey's end, 
 
 And warm'd himself in Court or College, 
 He had not gained an honest friend, 
 
 And twenty curious scraps of knowledge, — 
 If he departed as he came, 
 
 With no new light on love and liquor, — 
 Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 
 
 And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 
 
 His 
 54 
 
His talk was like a stream which runs 
 
 With rapid change from rocks to roses : 
 It slipt from politics to puns, 
 
 It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses ; 
 Beginning with the laws which keep 
 
 The planets in their radiant courses, 
 And ending with some precept deep 
 
 For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 
 
 57 
 
 He 
 
He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 
 
 Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; 
 And when, by dint of page and line, 
 
 He 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error, 
 The Baptist found him far too deep, 
 
 The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow, 
 And the lean Levite went to sleep, 
 
 And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. 
 
 His sermon never said or show'd 
 
 That earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, 
 Without refreshment on the road 
 
 From Jerome or from Athanasius : 
 
 And 
 
 58 
 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 
 
 ' The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them, 
 For all who understood admired, 
 
 And some who did not understand them. 
 
 He 
 
 59 
 
He wrote, too, in a quiet way, 
 
 Small treatises, and smaller verses, 
 And sage remarks on chalk and clay, 
 
 And hints to noble Lords — and nurses; 
 True histories of last year's ghost, 
 
 Lines to a ringlet or a turban, 
 And trifles for the Morning Post, 
 
 And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 
 
 He did not think all mischief fair, 
 
 Although he had a knack of joking; 
 He did not make himself a bear, 
 
 Although he had a taste for smoking; 
 And when religious sects ran mad, 
 
 He held, in spite of all his learning, 
 That if a man's belief is bad, 
 
 It will not be improved by burning. 
 
 And 
 
 60 
 
And he was kind, and loved to sit 
 
 In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, 
 And praise the farmer's homely wit, 
 
 And share the widow's homelier pottage : 
 At his approach complaint grew mild; 
 
 And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, 
 The clammy lips of fever smiled 
 
 The welcome which they could not utter. 
 
 He always had a tale for me, 
 
 Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus; 
 From him I learnt the rule of three, 
 
 Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qua: genus: 
 I used to singe his powder'd wig, 
 
 To steal the staff he put such trust in, 
 And make the puppy dance a jig, 
 
 When he began to quote Augustine. 
 
 Alack 
 62 
 

 Alack the change ! in vain I look 
 
 For haunts in which my boyhood trifled — 
 The level lawn, the trickling brook, 
 
 The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled : 
 The church is larger than before ; 
 
 You reach it by a carriage entry; 
 It holds three hundred people more, 
 
 And pews are fitted up for gentry. 
 
 Sit in the Vicar's seat : you'll hear 
 
 The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
 Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 
 
 Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 
 Where is the old man laid ? — look down, 
 
 And construe on the slab before you, 
 " Hie jacet Gvlielmvs Broivn, 
 
 Vir nulld 11011 donandus lauru." 
 
 64 
 
ODE TO SOLITUDE. 
 
ODE TO SOLITUDE. 
 BY ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 APPY the man whose wish and care 
 
 A few paternal acres bound, 
 Content to breathe his native air 
 In his own ground. 
 
 Whose 
 
 69 
 

 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
 
 Whose flocks supply him with attire, 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
 In winter fire. 
 
 Blest, 
 
 71 
 
w,w 
 
 IJX 
 
 Blest, who can unconccrn'dly find 
 
 Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 
 In health of body, peace of mind, 
 Quiet by day. 
 
 Sound 
 
 72 
 
Sound sleep by night ; study and ease, 
 
 Together mixt ; sweet recreation ; 
 
 And Innocence, which most does please 
 
 With meditation. 
 
 Thus 
 
 74 
 
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, 
 
 Thus unlamentcd let me die, 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 Tell where I lie. 
 
 77 
 
THE MARRIED MAM. 
 
THE MARRIED MAN. 
 
 ONLY am the man, 
 
 Among all married men, 
 That do not wish the priest, 
 To be unlinked again. 
 
 And though my shoe did wring, 
 I would not make my moan, 
 
 Nor think my neighbor's chance 
 More happy than mine own. 
 
 Yet court I not my wife, 
 But yield observance due, 
 
 Being neither fond, nor cross, 
 Nor jealous, nor untrue. 
 
 80 
 
MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD. 
 
TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD. 
 
 BY THOMAS RANDOLPH. 
 
 OME, spur away, 
 I have no patience for a longer stay, 
 But must go down, 
 And leave the chargeable noise of this great town ; 
 I will the country see, 
 Where old simplicity, 
 Though hid in grey, 
 Doth look more gay 
 Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. 
 Farewell, you city wits, that are 
 Almost at civil war ; 
 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. 
 
 More of my days 
 I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise ; 
 
 Or to make sport 
 For some slight puisne of the Inns-of-Court. 
 
 85 
 
 Then, 
 
I 
 
 J 1 
 
 \\«J 
 
 Then, worthy Stafford, say, 
 How shall we spend the day? 
 With what delights 
 Shorten the nights? 
 When from this tumult we are got secure, 
 Where mirth with all her freedom goes, 
 Yet shall no finger lose ; 
 Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure. 
 
 There 
 86 
 

There from the tree 
 We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; 
 
 And every day 
 Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, 
 
 Whose brown hath lovelier grace 
 
 Than any painted face, 
 
 That I do know 
 
 Hyde Park can show. 
 Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet 
 (Though some of them in greater state 
 Might court my love with plate) 
 The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street. 
 
 But think upon 
 Some other pleasures : these to me are none. 
 
 Why do I prate 
 Of women, that are things against my fate ? 
 
 I never mean to wed 
 
 That torture to my bed. 
 
 My muse is she 
 
 My love shall be. 
 Let clowns get wealth and heirs. When I am gone, 
 And the great bugbear, grisly death, 
 Shall take this idle breath, 
 If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. 
 
 Of 
 88 
 
Of this no more ; 
 We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store. 
 
 No fruit shall 'scape 
 Our palates, from the damson to the grape. 
 
 Then (full) we'll seek a shade, 
 
 And hear what music's made ; 
 
 How Philomel 
 
 Her tale doth tell, 
 And how the other birds do fill the quire: 
 
 The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, 
 Warbling melodious notes: 
 We will all sports enjoy which others but desire. 
 
 Ours 
 
 90 
 
■''■•■■■ ' ~ 
 
 
Qurs is the sky, 
 Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: 
 
 Nor will we spare 
 To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare ; 
 
 But let our hounds run loose 
 
 In any ground they'll choose; 
 
 The buck shall fall, 
 
 The stag, and all : 
 Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, 
 For to my muse, if not to me, 
 I'm sure all game is free: 
 Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. 
 
 And when we mean 
 To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, 
 
 And drink by stealth 
 A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, 
 
 I'll take my pipe and try 
 
 The Phrygian melody ; 
 
 Which he that hears 
 
 Lets through his ears 
 A madness to distemper all the brain. 
 Then I another pipe will take, 
 And Doric music make 
 To civilise with graver notes our wits again. 
 
 92 
 
■ ■ ■ 
 

 
 
 **v 
 
 ET the dream pass, the fancy fade ! 
 We clutch a shape, and hold a shade. 
 Is Peace so peaceful ? Nay, — who knows ! 
 There are volcanoes under snows. 
 
 97 
 
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