Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake
John Byrom (16921763)Careless Content
I
Wag as it will the world for me!
When fuss and fret was all my fare
It got no ground that I could see;
So when away my caring went
I counted cost and was content.
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet;
To take what passes in good part
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
I choose to chat where’er I come,
Whate’er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum
I hold my tongue to tell the troth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.
For Fortune’s favour or her frown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,
I never dodge nor up nor down,
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.
Nor trace the turn of every tide.
If simple sense will not succeed
I make no bustling, but abide.
For shining wealth or scaring woe
I force no friend, I fear no foe.
Of they ’re-i’-th’-wrong and we ’re-i’-th’-right,
I shun the rancours and the routs;
And, wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint.
If wonted welcome be withdrawn
I cook no kind of a complaint.
With none disposed to disagree,
I like them best who best like me.
How all my betters should behave;
But fame shall find me no man’s fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave;
I love a friendship free and frank,
But hate to hang upon a hank.
I never loose where’er I link,
Though if a business budges by
I talk thereon just as I think;
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.
Whatever hap the question hath
The point impartially I poise,
And read and write, but without wrath;
For, should I burn or break my brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my pains?
Myself like him too, by his leave!
Nor to his pleasure, power or pelf
Came I to crouch, as I conceive!
Dame Nature doubtless has designed
A man the monarch of his mind.
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or, if ye ween for worldly stirs
That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be deft and debonair,
I am content, I do not care!