The Spleen

What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape?
 Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind,
 Who never yet thy real Cause cou'd find,
Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape.
 Still varying thy perplexing Form,
 Now a Dead Sea thou'lt represent,
 A Calm of stupid Discontent,
Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm.
 Trembling sometimes thou dost appear,
 Dissolv'd into a Panick Fear;
 On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread,
 Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed,
And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy Head:
 Or, when the Midnight Hour is told,
And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold,
 Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes,
 Before them antick Spectres dance,
Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance,
 And airy 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 lead)
 Was vanquish'd by the Spleen.

 Falsly, the Mortal Part we blame
 Of our deprest, 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 it's native Sky.
 Nor, whilst in his own Heaven he dwelt,
 Whilst Man his Paradice possest,
His fertile Garden in the fragrant East,
 And all united Odours smelt,
 No armed Sweets, until thy Reign,
 Cou'd shock the Sense, or in the Face
 A flusht, unhandsom Colour place.
Now the Jonquille o'ercomes the feeble Brain;
We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain, {6}
Till some offensive Scent thy Pow'rs appease,
And Pleasure we resign for short, and nauseous Ease.

 In ev'ry One thou dost possess,
 New are thy Motions, and thy Dress:
 Now in some Grove a list'ning 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 Croud,
 Thy Slaves, more clamorous and loud,
By Laughters unprovok'd, thy Influence too confess.
In the Imperious Wife thou Vapours art,
 Which from o'erheated Passions rise
 In Clouds to the attractive Brain,
 Until descending thence again,
 Thro' the o'er-cast, and show'ring Eyes,
 Upon her Husband's soften'd Heart,
 He the disputed Point must yield,
Something resign of the contested Field;
Til Lordly Man, born to Imperial Sway,
Compounds for Peace, to make that Right away,
And Woman, arm'd with Spleen, do's servilely Obey.

 The Fool, to imitate the Wits,
 Complains of thy pretended Fits,
 And Dulness, born with him, wou'd lay
 Upon thy accidental Sway;
 Because, sometimes, thou dost presume
 Into the ablest Heads to come:
 That, often, Men of Thoughts refin'd,
 Impatient of unequal Sence,
Such slow Returns, where they so much dispense,
Retiring from the Croud, are to thy Shades inclin'd.
 O'er me, alas! thou dost too much prevail:
 I feel thy Force, whilst I against thee rail;
I feel my Verse decay, and my crampt Numbers fail.
Thro' thy black Jaundice I all Objects see,
 As Dark, and Terrible as Thee,
My Lines decry'd, and my Employment thought
An useless Folly, or presumptuous Fault:
 Whilst in the Muses Paths I stray,
Whilst in their Groves, and by their secret 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 Sov'reign's blurr'd and undistinguish'd Face,
The threatning Angel, and the speaking Ass.

 Patron thou art to ev'ry 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 Pow'r,
   As to the Glass he still repairs,
   Pretends but to remove thy Cares,
Snatch from thy Shades one gay, and smiling Hour,
And drown thy Kingdom in a purple Show'r.
When the Coquette, whom ev'ry Fool admires,
   Wou'd in Variety be Fair,
   And, changing hastily the Scene
   From Light, Impertinent, and Vain,
 Assumes a soft, a 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, the absent Mind,
 Allows the Fop more liberty to gaze,
 Who gently for the tender Cause inquires;
 The Cause, indeed, is a Defect in Sense,