The Duty of Employing one's Self. An EPISTLE. Edward Rolle Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.003 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. III. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 64-67. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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The Duty of Employing one's Self . An EPISTLE . FEW people know it , yet , dear sir , 'tis true , Man should have somewhat evermore to do . Hard labour's tedious , every one must own ; But surely better such by far , than none ; The perfect drone , the quite impertinent , Whose life at nothing aims , but — to be spent ; Such heaven visits for some mighty ill : 'Tis sure the hardest labour , to sit still . Hence that unhappy tribe who nought pursue : Who sin , for want of something else to do . Sir John is bless'd with riches , honour , love And to be bless'd indeed , needs only move . For want of this , with pain he lives away , A lump of hardly-animated clay : Dull till his double bottle does him right : He's easy just at twelve o'clock at night . Thus for one sparkling hour alone he's blest ; While spleen and head-ach seize on all the rest . What numbers , sloth with gloomy humours fills ! Racking their brains with visionary ills . Hence what loud outcries , and well-meaning rage , What endless quarrels at the present age ! How many blame ! how often may we hear , " Such vice ! — well , sure , the last day must be near ! " T' avoid such wild , imaginary pains , The sad creation of distemper'd brains , Dispatch , dear friend ! move , labour , sweat , run , fly ! Do aught — but think the day of judgment nigh . There are , who've lost all relish for delight : With them no earthly thing is ever right . T' expect to alter to their taste , were vain ; For who can mend so fast , as they complain ? Whate'er you do , shall be a crime with such ; One while you've lost your tongue , then talk too much : Thus shall you meet their waspish censure still ; As hedge-hogs prick you , go which side you will . Oh ! pity these whene'er you see them swell ! Folks call 'em cross — poor men ! they are not well . How many such , in indolence grown old , With vigour ne'er do any thing , but scold ? Who spirits only from ill-humour get ; Like wines that die , unless upon the fret . Weary'd of flouncing to himself alone , Acerbus keeps a man to fret upon . The fellow's nothing in the earth to do , But to sit quit and be scolded to . Pishes and oaths , whene'er the master's sour'd , All largely on the scape-goat slave are pour'd . This drains his rage ; and tho' to John so rough , Abroad you'd think him complaisant enough . As for myself , whom poverty prevents From being angry at so great expence ; Who , should I ever be inclin'd to rage , For want of slaves , war with myself must wage ; Must rail , and hear ; chastising , be chastis'd : Be both the tyrant , and the tyranniz'd ; I chuse to labour , rather than to fret : What's rage in some , in me goes off in sweat . If times are ill , and things seem never worse ; Men , manners to reclaim , — I take my horse . One mile reforms 'em , or if aught remain Unpurg'd , — 'tis but to ride as far again . Thus on myself in toils I spend my rage : I pay the fine ; and that absolves the age . Sometimes , still more to interrupt my ease , I take my pen , and write — such things as these : Which tho' all other merit be deny'd , Shew my devotion still to be employ'd . Add too , tho' writing be itself a curse , Yet some distempers are a curse for worse : And since 'midst indolence , spleen will prevail , Since who do nothing else , are sure to rail ; Man should be suffer'd thus to play the fool , To keep from hurt , as children go to school . You should not rhyme in spite of nature ? — True ; Yet sure 'tis greater trouble , if you do ; And if 'tis lab'ring only , men profess , Who writes the hardest , writes with most success . Thus for myself , and friends , I do my part ; Promoting doubly the pains-taking art : First to myself , 'tis labour to compose ; To read such lines , is drudgery to those .