Poor Richard's Almanac

Ill thrives that hapless family that shows

A cock that’s silent, and a hen that crows:

I know not which lives more unnatural lives,

Obeying husbands, or commanding wives.

​

Doris a widow past her prime,

Her spouse long dead, her wailing doubles;

Her real griefs increase by time;

What might abate, improves her troubles.

Those pangs her prudent hopes supprest,

Impatient now she cannot smother,

How should the helpless woman rest?

One’s gone;-nor can she get another.

EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF, ETC.

A Town fear’da Siege, and held Consultation,

What was the best Method of Fortification:

A grave skilful Mason declar’d his Opinion,

That nothing but Stone could secure the Dominion.

A Carpenter said, Tho’ that was well spoke

Yet he’d rather advise to defend it with Oak.

A Tanner much wiser than both these together,

Cry’d, Try what you please, but nothing’s like Leather.

Giles Jolt, as sleeping in his cart he lay,

Some pilfering villains stole his team away;

Giles wakes and cries, – what’s here? a dickens, what?

Why, how now? – Am I Giles or am I not?

If he, I’ve lost six geldings, to my smart;

If not, odds buddikins, I’ve found a cart.

Dorothy would with John be married;

Dorothy’s wise, I trow:

But John by no means Dorothy will wed;

John’s the wiser of the two.

Two or three frolicks abroad in sweet May,

Two or three civil things said by the way,

Two or three languishes, two or three sighs,

Two or three bless me’s and let me die’s!

Two or three squeezes, and two or three towzes,

With two or three hundred pound spent at their houses,

Can never fail cuckolding two or three spouses.

Think, bright Florella, when you see,

The constant changes of the year,

That nothing is from ruin free,

The gayest things must disappear.

Think of your beauties in their bloom,

The spring of sprightly youth improve;

For cruel age, alas, will come,

And then ’twill be too late to love.

Syl. dreamt that bury’d in his fellow clay,

Close by a common beggar’s side he lay:

And, as so mean a neighbour shock’d his pride,

Thus, like a corpse of consequence, he cry’d;

Scoundrel, begone; and hence forth touch me not:

More manners learn; and, at a distance, rot.

How, scoundrel, in a haughtier tone cry’d he;

Proud lump of dirt, I scorn yourwords and thee:

Here all are equal; now yourcase is mine;

This is my rotting place, and that is thine.

Whate’er’s desired, knowledge, fame, or pelf,

Not one will change his neighbour with himself;

The learn’d are happy nature to explore,

The fool is happy that he knows no more.

The rich are happy in the plenty given;

The poor contents him with the care of heaven.

Thus does some comfort ev’ry state attend,

And pride’s bestowed on all, a common friend.

Kind Katherine to her husband kiss’d these words,

“Mine own sweet Will, how dearly I love thee!”

If true (quoth Will) the world no such affords.

And that it’s true I durst his warrant be:

For ne’er heard I of woman good or ill,

But always loved best, her own sweet Will.

What will not Luxury taste? Earth, Sea, and Air,

Are daily ransacked for the Bill of Fare.

As honest Hodge the Farmer sow’d his Field,

Chear’d with the Hope of future gain ‘twould yield,

Two upstart Jacks in Office, proud and vain,

Come riding by, and thus insult the Swain:

You drudge and sweat, and labour here, Old Boy,

But we the Fruit of your hard Toil enjoy.

Belike you may, quoth Hodge, and but your Due,

For, Gentlemen, It is HEMP I’m sowing now.

Fond Pride of Dress is sure an empty Curse;

Ere Fancy you consult, consult your Purse.

Celia’s rich Side-board seldom sees the Light,

Clean is her Kitchen, and her Spits are bright;

Her Knives and Spoons, all rang’d in even Rows,

No Hands molest, nor Fingers discompose:

A curious Jack, hung up to please the Eye,

Forever still, whose Flyers never fly:

Her Plates unsully’d shining on the Shelf;

For Celia dresses nothing, but herself.

When will the miser’s chest be full enough?

When will he cease his bags to cram and stuff?

All day he labours and all night contrives,

Providing as if he’d an hundred lives,

While endless care cuts short the common plan.

So have I seen with dropsy swol’n, a man,

Drink and drink more, and still unsatisfied,

Drink till drink drown’d him, yet he thirsty dy’d.

I never saw an oft-transplanted tree,

Nor yet an oft-removed family,

That throve so well as those that settled be.

Sam had the worst wife that a man could have,

Proud, lazy sot, could neither get nor save;

Eternal scold she was, and what is worse,

The devil burn thee, was her common curse.

Forbear, quoth Sam, that fruitless curse, so common,

He’ll not hurt me, who’ve married his kinswoman.

Our smith of late most wonderfully swore,

That whilst he breathed he would drink no more.

But since, I know his meaning, for I think

He meant he would not breathe while he did drink.

​

What knowing judgment, or what piercing Eye,

Can MAN’s mysterious Maze of Falsehood try?

Intriguing MAN, of a suspicious Mind,

MAN only knows the Cunning of his Kind:

With equal Wit can counter-work his Foes,

And Art with Art, and Fraud with Fraud oppose.

Then heed ye FAIR, e’er you their Cunning prove,

And think of Treach’ry, while they talk of Love.

Beneath this silent stone is laid,

A noisy, antiquated maid,

Who, from her cradle talk’d till death,

And ne’er before was out of breath.

Whither she’s gone we cannot tell;

For if she talks not, she’s in Hell!

If she’s in Heaven, she’s there unblest

Because she hates a place of rest.

A nymph and a swain to Apollo once prayed,

The swain had been jilted, the nymph been betray’d;

They came for to try if his oracle knew,

E’er a nymph that was chaste, or a swain that was true.

Apollo stood mute, and had like to be pos’d:

At length he thus sagely the question disclos’d;

He alone may be true in whom none will confide,

And the nymph may be chaste that has never been try’d.

Thus with kind words, squire Edward cheer’d his friend;

Dear Dick! youon my friendship may’st depend;

And be assur’d, I’ll ne’er see Dick in want.

But now in debt, and all his assets scant,

Dick’s soon confin’d, – his friend no doubt would free him:

His word he kept, – in want he ne’er would see him.

It is a strange Forest that has no rotten Wood in’t

And a strange Kindred that all are good in ‘t.

More carefully the holy book survey:

Your rule is, you should watch as well as pray.

Tim and his Handsaw are good in their Place,

Tho’ not fit for preaching or shaving a face.

Girls, mark my Words; and know, for Men of Sense,

Your strongest Charms are native Innocence.

Shun all deceiving Arts; the Heart that’s gain’d

By Craft alone, can ne’er be long retain’d.

Arts on the Mind, like paint upon the Face,

Fright him, that’s worth your Love, from your Embrace.

In simple Manners all the Secret lies:

Be kind and virtuous, you’ll be blest and wise.

Luke, on his dying Bed, embraced his Wife,

And beg’d one Favour: Swear, my dearest Life,

Swear, if you love me, never more to wed,

Nor take a second Husband to your Bed.

Anne dropt a Tear. You know, my dear, says she,

Your least Desires have still been Laws to me;

But from this Oath, I beg you’d me excuse;

For I’m already promised to John Hughes.

A Farmer once made a Complaint to a Judge,

My Bull, if it please you, Sir, owing a Grudge,

Belike to one of your good Worship’s Cattle,

Has slain him out-right in a mortal Battle:

I’m sorry at heart because of the Action,

And want to know how must be made Satisfaction.

Why, you must give me your Bull, that’s plain;

Says the Judge, or pay me the Price of the Slain.

But I have mistaken the Case, Sir, says John,

The dead Bull I talk of, & please you, ‘s my own:

And yours is that Beast that the Mischief has done.

The Judge soon replies with a serious Face:

Say you so? then this Accident alters the Case.

All other Goods by Fortune’s Hand are giv’n,

A WIFE is the peculiar gift of Heav’n.

Vain Fortune’s Favours, never at a Stay,

Like empty Shadows, pass, and glide away;

One solid Comfort, our eternal Wife,

Abundantly supplies us all our Life:

This Blessing lasts (if those that try say true)

As long as Heart can wish – and longer too.

A year of Wonders now behold!

Britons despising Gallic Gold!

A Year that stops the Spanish Plunders!

A Year that they must be Refunders!

A Year that sets our Troops a marching!

A Year secures our Ships from Searching!

A Year that Charity’s extended!

A Year that Whig and Tory’s blended!

Amazing Year! that we’re defended!