"Not so blithe Corin, in his humble Cell, / Within his Bosom kinder Tenants dwell; / And though no Locks, or massy Bolts, secure / The slight Obstruction of his simple Door; / He sleeps at Ease, secure in Heaven's good Care, / Reckless of Villains, and exempt from Fear."
— Whyte, Samuel (1733-1811)
Rous'd by the stilly Clamours of a Mouse
In quest of Food; Robbers, he thinks, he hears;
But for his Gold, not for himself, he fears.
When having finish'd his nocturnal Round,
Try'd Locks, and Bolts, and all in Safety found,
He, with elated Heart, tho' ill at Ease,
His wonted Visit to his Mammon pays;
And bending o'er it with lack-lustre Eyes,
Devours the Piles, and still for more he sighs;
Sighs, and steals off, dreading his very Self,
Might with felonious Hands secrete the Pelf.
On his worn Pallet, now, view him reclin'd;
Terrifick Visions haunt his tortur'd Mind;
A thousand Ills his croaking Fears suggest--
The gleaming Poniard pointed at his Breast!
His Servant, Brother, or, perhaps, his Wife,
Prepares the noxious Bowl against his Life;
And, sometimes, struggling in the Jaws of Death,
His rake-hell Heir, relentless, stops his Breath,
Plunders his Coffers, to the Dice Box flies,
Stakes the last Guinea, and in Prison dies.
Now Morpheus, with a Sledge, or ponderous Stone,
Forces the Door: He with a doleful Groan,
Expressive of his Pain and dire Dismay,
Starts up, and chides the slow Return of Day.
Thus is his Rest disturb'd, broken, destroy'd,
And not a Moment is with Peace enjoy'd.
Not so blithe Corin, in his humble Cell,
Within his Bosom kinder Tenants dwell;
And though no Locks, or massy Bolts, secure
The slight Obstruction of his simple Door;
He sleeps at Ease, secure in Heaven's good Care,
Reckless of Villains, and exempt from Fear.
Exempt and reckless! is he then at Rest?
And do no secret Throws at Times molest?