An ALLEGORY on MAN. Thomas Parnell Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T42652 p. 554 K041605.000 Parnell, Thomas, 1679-1718. Poems on Several Occasions: Written by Dr. Thomas Parnell, Late Arch-Deacon of Clogher: and Published by Mr. Pope. London printed for B. Lintot 1722 [1721] pp. 141-147. [8],221,[3]p.; 8⁰.

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An ALLEGORY on MAN . A Thoughtful Being , long and spare , Our Race of Mortals call him Care : ( Were Homer living , well he knew What Name the Gods have call'd him too ) With fine Mechanick Genius wrought , And lov'd to work , tho' no one bought . This Being , by a Model bred In Jove's eternal sable Head , Contriv'd a Shape impow'rd to breathe , And be the Worldling here beneath . The Man rose staring , like a Stake ; Wond'ring to see himself awake ! Then look'd so wise , before he knew The Bus'ness he was made to do ; That pleas'd to see with what a Grace He gravely shew'd his forward Face , Jove talk'd of breeding him on high , An Under-something of the Sky . But e'er he gave the mighty Nod , Which ever binds a Poet's God : ( For which his Curls Ambrosial shake , And Mother Earth's oblig'd to quake : ) He saw old Mother Earth arise , She stood confess'd before his Eyes ; But not with what we read she wore , A Castle for a Crown before , Nor with long Streets and longer Roads Dangling behind her , like Commodes : As yet with Wreaths alone she drest , And trail'd a Landskip-painted Vest . Then thrice she rais'd , ( as Ovid said ) And thrice she bow'd , her weighty Head . Her Honours made , Great Jove , she cry'd , This Thing was fashion'd from my Side ; His Hands , his Heart , his Head are mine ; Then what hast thou to call him thine ? Nay rather ask , the Monarch said , What boots his Hand , his Heart , his Head , Were what I gave remov'd away ? Thy Part's an idle Shape of Clay . Halves , more than Halves ! cry'd honest Care , Your Pleas wou'd make your Titles fair , You claim the Body , you the Soul , But I who join'd them , claim the whole . Thus with the Gods Debate began , On such a trivial Cause , as Man . And can Celestial Tempers rage ? ( Quoth Virgil in a later Age . ) As thus they wrangled , Time came by ; ( There's none that paint him such as I , For what the Fabling Antients sung Makes Saturn old , when Time was young . ) As yet his Winters had not shed Their silver Honours on his Head ; He just had got his Pinions free From his old Sire Eternity . A Serpent girdled round he wore , The Tail within the Mouth before ; By which our Almanacks are clear That learned Aegypt meant the Year . A Staff he carry'd , where on high A Glass was fix'd to measure by , As Amber Boxes made a Show For Heads of Canes an Age ago . His Vest , for Day , and Night , was py'd ; A bending Sickle arm'd his Side ; And Spring's new Months his Train adorn ; The other Seasons were unborn . Known by the Gods , as near he draws , They make him Umpire of the Cause . O'er a low Trunk his Arm he laid , ( Where since his Hours a Dial made ; ) Then leaning heard the nice Debate , And thus pronounc'd the Words of Fate . Since Body from the Parent Earth , And Soul from Jove receiv'd a Birth , Return they where they first began ; But since their Union makes the Man , 'Till Jove and Earth shall part these two , To Care who join'd them , Man is due . He said , and sprung with swift Career To trace a Circle for the Year ; Where ever since the Seasons wheel , And tread on one another's Heel . 'Tis well , said Jove , and for consent , Thund'ring he shook the Firmament . Our Umpire Time shall have his Way , With Care I let the Creature stay : Let Bus'ness vex him , Av'rice blind , Let Doubt and knowledge rack his Mind , Let Error act , Opinion speak , And Want afflict , and Sickness break , And Anger burn , Dejection chill , And Joy distract , and Sorrow kill . 'Till arm'd by Care and taught to Mow , Time draws the long destructive Blow ; And wasted Man , whose quick decay Comes hurrying on before his Day , Shall only find , by this Decree , The Soul flies sooner back to Me .