I desire you will mind the main chance, and be in town in time enough to let the opera[21] have play enough for its life, and for your pockets.

Your head is your best friend; it could clothe, lodge and wash you, but you neglect it, and follow that false friend, your heart, which is such a foolish, tender thing that it makes others despise your head that have not half so good a one upon their own shoulders.

In short, John, you may be a snail or a silk-worm, but by my consent you shall never be a _hare_ again.
"We go to town next week.

Try your interest and bring the duchess up by the birthday.

I did not think to have named her any more in this letter.
I find I am a little foolish about her; don't you be a great deal so, for if _she_ will not come, do you come without her." * * * * * Gay was not the man to keep his feelings of disappointment to himself, and his feelings were so widely known that at the time the following copy of verses was handed about in manuscript [22]:-- A mother who vast pleasure finds, In forming of the children's minds; In midst of whom with vast delight, She passes many a winter's night; Mingles in every play to find, What bias nature gives her mind; Resolving there to take her aim.
To guide them to the realms of fame; And wisely make those realms their way, To those of everlasting day; Each boist'rous passion she'd control, And early humanise the soul, The noblest notions would inspire, As they were sitting by the fire; Her offspring, conscious of her care, Transported hung around her chair.
Of Scripture heroes would she tell, Whose names they'd lisp, ere they could spell; Then the delighted mother smiles, And shews the story in the tiles.
At other times her themes would be, The sages of antiquity; Who left a glorious name behind, By being blessings to their kind: Again she'd take a nobler scope, And tell of Addison and Pope.
This happy mother met one day, A book of fables writ by Gay; And told her children, here's treasure, A fund of wisdom, and of pleasure.
Such decency! such elegance! Such morals! such exalted sense! Well has the poet found the art, To raise the mind, and mend the heart.
Her favourite boy the author seiz'd, And as he read, seem'd highly pleas'd; Made such reflections every page, The mother thought above his age: Delighted read, but scarce was able, To finish the concluding fable.
"What ails my child ?" the mother cries, "Whose sorrows now have fill'd your eyes ?" "Oh, dear Mamma, can he want friends Who writes for such exalted ends?
Oh, base, degenerate human kind! Had I a fortune to my mind, Should Gay complain; but now, alas! Through what a world am I to pass; Where friendship's but an empty name, And merit's scarcely paid in fame." Resolv'd to lull his woes to rest.
She told him he should hope the best; That who instruct the royal race.
Can't fail of some distinguished place.
"Mamma, if you were queen," says he, "And such a book was writ for me; I know 'tis so much to your taste, That Gay would keep his coach at least." "My child, what you suppose is true, I see its excellence in you; Poets whose writing mend the mind, A noble recompense should find: But I am barr'd by fortune's frowns.
From the best privilege of crowns; The glorious godlike power to bless, And raise up merit in distress." "But, dear Mamma, I long to know.
Were that the case, what you'd bestow ?" "What I'd bestow," says she, "My dear, At least five hundred pounds a year." [Footnote 1: Johnson: _Lives of the Poets_ (ed.