Hobson's Choice.  
A POEM, IN ANSWER TO THE CHOICE, Written by a Person of Quality.  
LONDON: Printed, and Sold by john Nutt, ne●● Stationers-Hall. M. DCC.   

Hobson's Choice. A POEM.  

SInce Heaven denies us liberty of Choice,  
Why should a Man (for Godsake) make a noise?  
I'll never whine into a Golden Wish,  
Nor labour after Flying Happiness:  
Nor take the pains to Curse my backward Fate,  
Or to the Goddess Fortune doff my Hat:  
But if my Fate does lend me Breath so long,  
To make an end of this Authentic Song,  
You'll hear it; or if not, I'll hold my Tongue.  
For 'tis a Jest to Rail at adverse Fate,  
A Wise Man's Merry, does Congratulate,  
And will Enjoy himself in Every State.  
If He be doomed to Knighthood, or a Gown,  
It does affect his Heels, but not his Crown:  
For why should he have Windmills in his Head,  
Because the Bishop, or the King, has said,  
Rise up Sir Richard, or Hey-jingo Priest  
Appear, and show the World a New-made Vest?  
Prelates and Princes too are oft mistaken;  
'Tis not what They, but what One's self does make One.  
Then should a Wise Man mind the random Talk,  
Of those Iocose and Elevated Folk,  
And so be bubbled of his Native Will,  
By which he is just what he would be still?  
Fantastic Fortune may do what she can,  
She'll leave me as she finds me, still a Man;  
Or if she please to let me but alone,  
I shall be Hobson then, and that's all one:  
And tho' she most Delights to make us Apes,  
And gives us every Day New several Shapes;  
Nicknames us Lords, and Citts, and Mountebanks,  
And makes us play abroad her senseless Pranks,  
A Wise Man knows himself still under all,  
And ne'er forgets his true Original:  
The Man Appears beneath the Ass' Skin;  
And Fortune wears without, himself within.  
But what if froward Fortune looks awry?  
Why, if she be Cross-grained, even so she may.  
What Man of S 〈…〉 would care a Straw for that?  
〈…〉 ur than her Hate?  
If I deserve her Friendship, she's to blame,  
And the Reproach Asperses most the Dame.  
For who that sees a Muse's Son in Rags,  
That up and down in Rhyme for Victual begs,  
Does not with utmost Indignation say,  
Fortune's a jade, but He's an honest Boy?  
This Dons, and Men of Quality, will own,  
Who Buy his Wit, because themselves have None.  
Mean time the Bard reels on, and ne'er Reflects,  
His Poverty his Liberty Protects.  
And well he knows 'twere Mad in him to Wish,  
For Country Seats, or Landed Happiness;  
That Prayer would ne'er obtain among the Gods;  
For 'twere enough to set the Stars at Odds.  
His Planet governs with a Liberal force,  
And unrestrained, abides not stated Course,  
But freely all about the Sky it reels,  
As he below its merry Influence feels.   

By Heaven, I'd rather be just what I am,  
Plain Hobson, than be painted with the Shame  
Appearance of the Gaudy Fortunate,  
Who have less Happiness, and more Crevat.  
For Happiness would be a Paradox,  
If 'twere Enjoyed alike by Wits and Blocks.  
But Various Men pursue the Various Notion  
Of Happiness, according to the Portion  
They have of Sense, which is the Gift of Fate,  
And not to be inferred from an Estate,  
No more than Wisdom from a broad-brimed Hat.  
And yet it is the ardent wish of One,  
That was, belike, both Bred and Born in Town,  
O that hard by I had a private Seat, 
The Choice, P. 3.   
Fine as my Hopes, as my Ambition Great,  
That all the Town might come and hear me Bleat,  
And make new Wishes for a fresh Retreat.  
So Wishes still vain Wishes must succeed,  
And those again beget an Endless Breed,  
And all at last must stray without a Head;  
For who that has that Engine on his Neck,  
Whose heft does not the weak Supporter break,  
Would ever Ramble from himself so far,  
And what he has not here, to hunt for there?  
As if when he his Wench and Stream had found, 
P. 3. and 6.   
His Happiness would not in both be drowned:  
For who can bond the Cravings of his Thought,  
When it exceeds the brims of what he's got?  
The Fancied Ground-plot, and the Flowing Stream,  
Content him better as they are his Theme,  
Than if he viewed his disappointed Face in them.  
Then home recall thy Wand'ring Thoughts again,  
Make that their Mansion which was once their Den:  
There let them form Domestic Happiness,  
With less Applause, but with much more Success,  
And with inverted Wit the Poet truly Bless.  
For I'm the happy Man, when all is said,  
Who live at Home, my House upon my Head;  
Who never lengthen to a foreign Wish,  
But size my Porridge always to my Dish;  
And unaffected both with Time and Place,  
Behold th' uneven World with even Face.  
Instant Fruition Cheers my aged Pate,  
And Marks of Plenty shine upon my Hat.  
Tho' I'm not Rich, I have the Ready Mess,  
To stop my Mouth, e'er Guts are in distress:  
Not that I tune my Speculative Brain,  
Just to the Croacking of their Grosser Strain:  
But if they Cry aloud, I've Bread and Cheese,  
And they shall hold their Peace for such as these.  
Custard, and Nicer Diet, I forbidden,  
And Sacred Pies unviolated Lid.  
When Supper's done, I never Dream of want  
For times to come, Times which I also ha'ned;  
But in the Corner when I've sat a while,  
Pleased with myself, I give the World a smile,  
Then my own Pace away I go to Bed,  
Stretch myself out, and Sleep as I were Dead.   
FINIS.