The Virginia Gazette

Yet vain dull mortals fret, and pine, and rage,
With such we scorning noble war to wage;
Let us unheeded pass the wretches by,
And all their base dissembling tricks defy:
Such things, my friend, shall ne'er disturb their peace
Who're sworn to live with liberty and ease,
The generous sweets of friendship to enjoy,
Sweets that still heighten, and can never cloy.
O how I love the man whose honest heart
Still acts the candid, still the manly part!
With every tender passion warmly glows,
And all the joys of constant friendship knows!
Who, far remov'd from cruelty and pride,
Th' unfortunate will pity, not deride;
But guilt and baseness still surveys with scorn,
While truth and honour his fair brows adorn
With such a one I'd traverse climes unknown,
And think his utmost dangers all my own.
To these exalted virtues of the mind,
Let sprightly wit's enlivening art be join'd;
For wit with candour never can offend,
Nor for a jest give anguish to a friend:
With such it smiles, at guilt its thunders aim
But raises virtue, and exalts its fame.
Not of those witlings who can only cold,
And tell the tale of scandal often told:
Monsters so vile are frequent in our days,
And have the boldness too to look for praise;
Yet I must tell them, should they think it hard,
A beadle's station is their due reward.
Such men, my friend, with equal care you shun,
As mariners on barbarous coasts to run;
No wonder then with just disdain you view,
Their fair reverse I always found in you.
With you, kind Sir, to drink the generous glass,
And o'er a social bowl our evenings pass,
To banish all the sullen gloom of night,
In cheerful, innocent, yet gay delight,
While truth and friendship animates the soul,
And wit seems sparkling in a flowing bowl,
I've oft rejoic'd; then pleasure warms my breast,
And all my sorrows sink at once to rest,
Unnumber'd joys around me seem to rise,
And all tormenting cares my breast defies.
Thus do we pass these happy hours away,
Forgetful of the toils that haunt the day;
'Tis wit and friendship form the joys of wine
Yet snarling mortals at these joys repine,
Proud, sullen, dull, morose, envious men,
Whose very joys consist in others pain,
With hatred fill'd, and in themselves unblest,
Pine at our bliss, while envy robs their rest.
Not thus, my friend, you spend your happier time
In wit you find no fault, in mirth no crime;
Black envy ne'er thy gentle breast invades,
Nor low design thy conscience upbraids;
The badge of horror let the guilty wear,
For search their hearts you'll find no pleasures there.
Myrbire, Sept. 1767.
A. CUNYNGHAM.