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The same propensities impel the Crowd—
Alike imperious, positive, and proud.
Their Inclination only dormant lies
Thro' lack of stimulants to make it rise.
Strike but a spark to kindle Pride, or Lust,
Each graceless heart will glow with equal gust;
Or Passions' breezes, blowing, fan to flame,
Each breast will burn, and blood will boil, the same.

The strong distinctions, that so prompt appear,
Spring from the prevalence of Hope, or Fear;
The hope of Happiness, or fear of Woe,
Which Influence can inflict, or Wealth bestow—
Almighty Money makes the only odds,
Betwixt poor Peasants and Earth's golden Gods!
All Wisdom's attributes belong to Wealth,
Bestow'd by ancestry, or got by Stealth.
The strong necessity, and powerful source,
Of soft persuasion, and resistless force.
To Wealth all Pow'r—Fame—Influence—belong;
That buttress up the Throne, and blind the Throng.
A Vortex, which, in high, or abject, place,
Absorbs, or whirls about, Man's mortal Race!
To Honour hoisted, or to Slavery hurl'd—
Thus Tools and Tyrants constitute the World!
Some in proud shapes of Emperors—Princes—Popes—
Distribute stars and ribbands—titles—ropes—
And still the rising Ranks, with eager eyes,
Gaze, hankering for each paltry prize;
While ignorant Fools, below, look wide agape,
To see such Prodigies in human shape!
Meantime with secret, but consummate, skill,
They hide base Art, and arbitrary Will;
And, while appearing Patrons of the Whole,
Enslave each Body, and ensnare each Soul;
And still fresh wants, or novel whimsies, find,
To plague, or please; to grieve, or glad, Mankind!

Thus they, whom Providence hath plac'd on high,
Neglect their posts, and plot against the Sky!
In Fancy's fairy-land to Gods they grow,
And look for Worship from the World below!
Pile Pomp on Pow'r, to pillar up their Pride,
And deem all pygmies on the Earth beside—
With slime and clay their temp'ral Babels build,
While with confusion all Creation's fill'd!

In every Order, downward, Self still sways—
Claims of precedence, false—each trust betrays—
Spreads courtly colours; aping Apes above—
Lisps frail possessions—grins, egregious Love—
Each male and female—ugly—old—or dull—
All heads, and hearts, with fond Self-preference full,
Endeavour to impose despotic sway,
The lowest thinking thousands low'r than they.

Thus Common-Sense each human Creature sees,
In different forms, and different degrees.
The self-same blind propensities abound,
In every Class, above—below—around.
Like pride—congenial passions—carnal bent—
Alone unlike in colour, or extent:
All wishing idol-worship—flattery—fame—
The vizor, only, varying—Self the same.

Midst these concentric orbits Crispin run;
First Satellite, attending his terrestrial Sun;
And, from that middle scite, could clearly scan,
The mixt epitome of Motley Man:
Where, in each Place, when accurately spell'd,
Like plans, pursuits, and Hopes, his Mind beheld.
Great—middling—little, much the same, he saw
Were govern'd, all, by like unvaried Law;
The Rich not more, or less, mean—vicious—vain,
Than the poor Creatures that compos'd their Train.
No notes of difference, nor distinction, strike;
Lords and their Lacqueys acting just alike:
If this discernment any difference found,
'Twas in external suit, or titled sound;
And oft were Servants more than Masters, seen
To shine, in garnish'd garb, shape, air, and mien.
Ev'n in proud Priests, of high or low, degree,
And stiff Attendants, he could scarcely see
The least distinction—but, both low'st and high'st,
Look'd unlike Christians—how much less like Christ!
Archbishops, no Evangelists, or Seers—
Bishops, not meek Apostles, but proud Peers—
And all the Priests that fill'd inferior posts,
How different from the first discipled Hosts!
Prophets, and Priests, of old, were never vain;
Or turn'd sham godliness to shining gain!
Sought no revenues vast, for pride, or lust—
They took their Master's promises, on trust!
Ne'er to provoke His pow'r, and Men to mock,
With hirelings left their own immortal flock!
To Sunday-routs, or feasts, ne'er fled from Church;
Leaving the Souls of Sinners in the lurch!
For choicest business never Sabbaths chose,
Incurring scorn from Faith's inveterate Foes!
Ne'er from their Chapels, and Cathedrals, kept,
To anger Heav'n, while Saints and Angels wept!
Ne'er through each Town, for impious pleasure, stray'd,
While gracious Priests, and Congregations, pray'd!
Infring'd no sacred Rites, or Servants' rest,
While Curates preach'd, or Penitents confess'd!
No pompous Equipage paraded round,
True Christians' Consciences, and hearts, to wound;
Nor hop'd applauses from the thoughtless throngs
While Heav'n's pure praise burst forth from tuneful tongues!
Ne'er proudly stood amidst a pious Crowd,
While, struck with guilt, each humbly bent and bow'd;
Nor rear'd their heads with high primatic pride,
While poor Repentants wept, and groan'd, and sigh'd!
Ne'er practis'd tricks to make their face more fair,
While saints were supplicating Heav'n with pray'r—
Which Crispin mark'd with mix'd contempt and grief,
When view'd, in vain Hibernian Church's Chief.

They spent no portion of Heav'n's holy day,
In noise, and nonsense—garrulously gay!
No vanities profane, or vicious sports,
Engross'd God's glory, or contemn'd his Courts!
They read His Word—obey'd His bless'd Will—
All Duties learnt—and labour'd to fulfil!

They every proud pre-eminence abhorr'd;
And loath'd those sounding syllables—“My Lord!”
Claim'd no appellatives from pow'r, or place,
“Rev'rend—Most Rev'rend—Lordship—or, Your Grace!”
Yet felt Ambition bolder aims inspire,
For nobler Objects—Names, and Honours, high'r—
Not palaces—Demesnes—and Mitres—here,
But Throne—Crowns—Kingdoms—in celestial Sphere!

These modern Prelates plan more carnal scheme;
To steal within one step of pow'r supreme—
And, framing practice by their private Code,
Hope to ride on to Heav'n, an easier road!
They choose, in spite of genuine Truth, to judge,
And hate the narrow path where Pilgrims trudge—
On wicket-gate no kind attention fix,
But wish to travel on with Coach-and-six.
Push all their hopes, and interests, here, with Men,
And spurn, with sport the being born again;
Like Nicodemus wondering what is meant,
With natural knowledge, common truths content;
Nor drudge to be adopted Heaven's Heirs,
While temporal pleasures are already theirs.
Form close connexions with the Rich, and Great,
To feast their fill, in splendour, pomp, and state!
From fear of Conscience, or of Heav'n's behest,
They leave no Pride, or Passion, long, unbless'd;
Nor e'er, in harshly-mortifying mood,
Refrain from any kind of carnal food.
Ne'er captiously dispute with Brother Paul,
That 'tis not well to taste of wine at all,
But, rather than be counted over-nice,
Will patiently adopt his kind advice;
A little, still, and still, a little, take;
Not for indulgence, but their stomach's-sake!
For, if abstemious Timothy had need,
From tenderness of stomach, so to feed,
They can prefer a much more pow'rful plea,
Having far more infirmities than He.
All superstitious forms, and deeds, disclaim,
Nor seek from self-denial saintly name;
They'd rather wish their frames well cloth'd, and fed,
Than live like Wretches chronicled in red,
Ne'er weakly long a single Soul to win,
By recluse lives, and looks poor, pale, and thin;
But deem it better to indulge desire,
Than purchase fame with perishing by fire.
They, like Apostles, never, rashly, roam,
Preferring plenty, peace, and ease, at home—
Inspir'd examples never try to reach,
Nor think it requisite to pray, or preach;
But, with Armagh, decline all cleric charge;
Or, like wild, wandering Derry, live at large.
They ne'er attend the toll of Sabbath-bell—
Curates, tho' Deacons, act their part as well;
Nay, were some Christians to decide the case
Their Deputies deserve the upper place.

Tho' spending Life in luxury and ease,
They hope their kind Creator still to please;
Not the Creator that can fix their fate,
But He that made them Lords; and may translate—
That Pride which prompts them loftier still to soar,
Loaths every danger of descending low'r;
Yet scarce would call it a pure proof of Love,
By Heav'n translated to higher Sees above;
For all the pleasures, and employments, there,
Are so unlike their long-lov'd habits here,
That while such lusts, and luxuries, can be us'd,
They'd hope kind Heav'n would keep them long excus'd.

But he who blames this base prelatic plan,
Condemns not Order, but the craft of Man—
Deems due subordination always best;
But grieves that God's free Grace is judg'd a jest!
Agrees that godly Peers are precious things,
In Bishop-shapes, as well as christian Kings.
Not Priests, appointed just to prop their state,
Which carnal Popes or impious Kings create.
Confirm'd by vows profane, and perjur'd Oaths,
Which Heav'n detests, and each true Christian loathes:
Not Tools selected from some titled Race,
Devoid of Virtue, and all gifts of Grace;
Nor Blockheads, call'd by nameless Blockhead's nod,
Usurping pow'rs which all belong to God!
But Knowledge, naming Prelates to their Post,
With Grace well-gifted by the Holy Ghost;
Possess'd of Science, and pure Wisdom's dow'r,
Not mummery mocking at that Spirit's pow'r;
But such as Porteus, pious—Horsley, learn'd;
And bounteous Barrington, whose Spirit spurn'd,
Each false pretence—but, with sublimer Soul,
Soar'd high beyond Hypocrisy's controul!

Prelates, proclaim'd by Kings, and calls divine,
Should, like great Lights, more luminously shine.
Not, in a sphere confin'd, such lustre shed,
Beneath a bushel, or beneath a bed;
But labour thro' the Bishop's course to run,
As Paul prescrib'd to Timothy, his Son:
To lead a sober, sage, religious, Life,
The wise and faithful Husband of one Wife—
Not living Bachelors' abandon'd lives,
Nor keeping Concubines as well as Wives.

Their Wives—poor Souls! it vex'd the Bard to find
All titular distinctions left behind!
Who—if they boast no Title by their Birth,
Are levell'd with the lowest hordes on Earth!
For Ma'am, and Mistress, Custom's fix'd, like Fate,
To Chimney-brusher's Bride, and Nightman's Mate!

Ye elevated Chiefs, who rule the Church,
How can you leave your Consorts in the lurch!
Leave them to share, alone, your lineal Name—
Oh! fie! right reverend Benchers—fie! for shame!
Each might as well abide with boorish Sire,
As grasp a Hierarch, and get no high'r!
Tho' dress'd, and deck'd, like Queens each claims a Coach,
Still, this takes not away such rude reproach!
Would it not more with dignity accord,
To call, “My Lady”—when she calls, “My Lord?”
And would it not be nobler for your Dears
To rank as Peeresses, while you are Peers?
Oh! 'tis a sad subordinating sign
Your views, hopes, projects, are not all divine,
But arbitrary pride, and tends to prove
They're objects of Dominion, more than Love!
Love equalizes all! extirpates Pride!
And leaves no Bridegroom greater than his Bride!

When Heav'n, at first, the Marriage-rite made known,
The Wife was flesh of flesh—and bone of bone—
But when her folly wisht forbidden fruit,
Love felt corruption at the very root;
And He whose Will may punish, or prefer,
Subtracted full equality from Her—
Pluck'd, from her soaring wing, one single plume,
Lest Vanity should vie, or Pride presume—
Just to make Man's prerogative prevail,
Withdrew some scruples from the Woman's scale;
From proud aspiring projects simply, kept her,
Lest Wives might seize the Sword, and claim the Sceptre!
But Nature's Author ne'er could play such pranks,
Thus rating them below their Husbands' ranks.
Each Christian Chief should, strenuously, strive,
Like Saints, to keep equality alive—
Still, more particularly, equal State,
Between their Lordships and each loving Mate;
As humble patterns for the human Race,
They ought to spurn all Titles, Pomp, and Place;
But if they must maintain high Honour, still,
So very adverse to their lowly Will!
Then let them every apt expedient use
To gain their griev'd Companions proper dues;
To bless the feelings of each bosom Friend,
Each noble Noun, and Adjective, extend,
That both, alike, when listening crowds are near,
The same sweet, rapturing, sounds may, ever, hear!
That their pure bosoms may as nobly burn—
As often hear each tuneful note return—
As oft those matchless melodies enjoy,
Which ne'er can ears of tasteful females cloy!
As frequent feel the wish to cry encore,
At those dear cadences their Souls adore!
Let not their tenderer nerves be longer torn,
With empty epithets of common scorn;
For all the Wives of all the Bishops' bench,
Are styl'd no nobler than their Kitchen-wench—
While a low Housekeeper, or Lady's Doll,
A prudish Sycophant, or Sailor's Poll;
The Meanest Daughter of the meanest Trade,
A Beggar's Brat—lewd Jilt—or lecherous Jade,
Who can, by cunning, or gay conduct, get
Some temporal Peer, or paltry Baronet,
With her to Church, or Gretna-Green, to trip
Becomes both Lady, and, her Ladyship!

Till this absurd, obnoxious, Custom's cur'd,
By human Nature not to be endur'd!
It leaves this maxim fix'd on each fair Mind,
That High-priests are most proud of all Mankind!
Prouder than Princes—there each Partner shares
All the extatic Titles that are theirs—
Prouder than Potentates, whose Wives are known
To share all Honours that attend a Throne!

O, Ye, dread Pow'rs! whence all Earth's honour springs!
Kings; Favourites, Friends, and Ministers, of Kings!
Ye that possess your pow'rful Prince's ear!
Ye that still deem a Female's favours dear!
Ye that your Sovereign's gracious Councils guide,
And gild your speech to gratify His pride;
Use all your interest—all your eloquence,
To gain such Sufferers due benevolence!
Implore your Head to exercise His Will,
Lest sharp chagrin unladied Ladies kill!
For tho' they yet retain accustom'd breath,
They must, at length, needs die a lingering death!

Ye Commons, all; both eloquent and mute;
Call forth your faculties this Case to suit.
Exert your talents to their full extent,
All you who reason, and use argument,
Or largely deal in declamation loud,
Try all your strength to win the waking Crowd;
And you, who doze, and dream from day to day,
For once, without a bribe, vociferate—Aye!

Ye cold, indifferent, silent, sleepy, Peers,
Have some compassion on your Cousin's tears!
Rouze reasoning pow'rs, if such your Souls possess,
To still their troubles, and these wrongs redress!

Ye Prelates, proud! in Colleagues' Cause appear,
And try if Truth can reach the Royal ear.
Leave lulling stalls—with rhetoric rouse the House—
Nor longer let lay Lords your Consorts chouse—
One Sermon more, if possible now preach,
That may your Sovereign's careless Conscience reach—
Thus, pitying, take your injur'd Spouses' parts,
To rouze up King's and Commons' heedless hearts;
While Justice loudly calls the Lordly class,
To see such new arrangement ought to pass.
All, use best efforts both of tongue and pen,
To make Your worshipp'd Master add—Amen!

Blest be the Patriot who propounds a Law
To heal this oversight—this dreadful flaw!
And calls the Commons' senatorial Sense
To set aside this flagrant, gross, offence!
Blest the lay Peers who help the Plaintiff's pray'rs
To make the Prelates' Helpmates rank with Their's;
And blest, thrice blest must that good Monarch be,
Who fully sanctions such a kind Decree!

Ye Peers, who second such a right Request
Tho' Consorts curse, by Bishops you'll be blest—
And for you, once a month, perhaps, may pray,
In Lent—or Session-time—on Sabbath-day!
Tho' Wealth's most wish'd, to Pomp they're ne'er averse—
Would fondly feed their Pride—tho' more their purse.
It cannot amplify their ample store
But might contribute one distinction more.
It could not to their Time or Income, add,
But Honours always make their hearts full glad!
Ribs may be crooked—are, sometimes, a clog—
Still stands the Proverb; “Love Me, love my Dog!”

Their grateful Wives would graciously address,
Perhaps repay you with a warm caress,
While joyful veins would push the purple flood,
For Bishops' Wives, you know, are flesh and blood.
'Twill stand the high'st atchievement of your Lives;
Nor need you fear your own offended Wives—
Their spiteful pride most certainly will pout,
But their caresses you can shift without—
Your Mistresses can feel no mighty grutch,
They have no honour, and they hope none such.
Your purse and your protection's all they claim—
They must not ask Nobility, or Name—
They wish no Titles while your Wealth's enjoy'd,
They have your arms, and boast your hearts beside!

This is a most inexplicable Case,
That both, made Lords, by Men of heavenly Race;
Both holding equal Honour, all their Lives,
Should, yet, so oddly op'rate on their Wives—
One should with titles charm, and t'other chouse,
Yet vote alike in legislative House!
'Tis passing strange a Woman should be wiv'd
By One, with special pow'rs from Heav'n deriv'd,
Whose holy hands, with ev'n the slightest touch,
On Barons, as on Boors, confer so much;
Still on their Wives no blessing can bestow,
More than the blackguard Rogues that rank below;
Whilst lay-Lords' Wives in Wedlock's bands combin'd
Can such a change from Curates' fingers find!!
Nay, ev'n Archbishops, with their warmest kiss,
Ne'er work this wonderous Metamorphosis—
Tho' next their Kings in privilege and pow'r,
Contribute not one Title's darling dow'r;
But must submit to let their Madams stand
Like all mere Mistresses throughout the Land!

If Offsprings come, Chief-Priests communicate
No sound of Title—no fix'd note of State;
Nor Place, or Peerage, to their Heirs convey—
But lay-Lords, both—for ever and for aye!!!

They're like two Churches, in this mighty Town;
In one, the Prelate's pow'r descends quite down
To the deep centre—where each honour'd head
May sleep secure, in consecrated bed,
While, on the ornamented walls, around,
Might noble Name, and flattering phrase, be found;
Then, from that dark deposit, soon might rise
A Being, new—more noble—bright—or wise!
But, on the surface, only, t'other, blest;
Where Prelates, a short space, might roam, or rest;
Yet all the parts, below, be left profane,
And only common substances contain—
Or, hollow'd under, hold, for proper use,
Materials often turn'd to base abuse:
Nor, there, inestimable Titles, grace,
The blank circumference of that hapless place;
Nor from the parts beneath can ever spring
Aught but some common, mean ignoble Thing!

This amply argues temporal Things, alone,
Are raised and cherish'd by an earthly Throne—
How Princes plant, and nourish, branch, and root,
While flatter'd by the flow'rs, and fed with fruit.
How Honours pour, profuse, from regal Urn,
While all the streamlets to the Fount return;
But when they, promptly, seek the pristine Source,
Soon Law, and Custom, stop their proper course;
And soon the transient nourishment that springs,
For sacred Priests, from Emperors, or Kings,
Lets all the foliage—flow'rs—and fruitage, drop,
When their bless'd Benefactor claims the Crop!

These facts disturb'd the unfashionable Bard,
Who thought Religion's lot extremely hard—
That One, who, only with a loan of Love,
Claim'd Crowns, and Kingdoms, in the World above,
Could neither Pow'r, or Privilege, bestow,
Amongst Mankind in this base World below!
How did his bowels yearn—his heart repine—
When Votaries rallied round Vanessa's shrine,
To see such humble Devotees, devoid
Of all distinction 'mid the troops of Pride
That when blythe Bishops dignified the Throng,
And Grace—or Lordship—troll'd from every tongue,
Their Wives should no high'r privilege possess
Than the pert Dowdeys that put on their Dress—
But, while they mingled with the motley Crowd,
Should hear their simple Surnames roar'd aloud;
Fairer, perhaps, in fortune, fame, form, face,
Than nominal, my Lady, or, your Grace!

His Mistress must experience vast relief,
Class'd with the Consorts of each Church's Chief!
To find their Names not standing higher in State
Than Her's, while hamper'd with untitled Mate.
Much soothe each sigh—and mitigate each groan—
To find herself not so kept low, alone;
Nor stoop to high, unwarrantable, airs,
Whose proper appellation rank'd with Their's.
But this requires more Patience than Man finds,
Connects, in common, with proud female Minds,
Where heavenly Virtues bear but feeble sway,
To make strong Passions, and stiff Pride, obey—
Her ostentatious Vanity controul,
And turn the bias of such tyrant Soul,
When, in a palace, with full pow'rs possest,
While, grand, in gold—silks—pearls—and diamonds, drest!

Who could such inauspicious lot support,
When hearing Coach—Chair—Chariot—call'd, at Court—
E'er tranquil stand, at any public Place.
Beneath such loads of infamous disgrace—
Or join with decent joy the jovial dance
'Mid such low notes of insignificance.
In Routs, at home, unmov'd, plain Madam, hear,
Or sit at ease the single Mistress there!
How could a princely Dome delights impart,
While such expression sunk the aching heart!
How broider'd bed, and proud resplendent rooms,
Where want of Title glowr'd eternal glooms!
How trees—shrubs—well roll'd walks—and smooth-shav'd lawns,
Where mortified Ambition hourly yawns;
Or all the pomps and luxuries of Life,
If, undistinguish'd from a Tradesman's Wife!

What Widow would not pettish speech revoke,
With rash Resolve, in idle passion spoke
Who might wit, wisdom, and proud wealth, employ,
To purchase honours, with connubial joy?
Feel all vile Celibacy's vows abhorr'd,
To link alliance with a courtly Lord?
Would not rescind rash, independent, plan,
And bear, again, mock government of Man;
To find her Fame resound on every side
And hear the honours of a Baron's Bride?
All burdens, pains, and penalties, incur,
To have a Title realiz'd, in Her!

What wonderous raptures would her heart dilate,
To boast of such a beatific State!
More lov'd than melody from Mara's lip
Would lisp the tuneful trill—“Your Ladyship!”
Would make her Mind with greater transport glow,
Than Fischer's flute—Cramer's, with Crosdill's bow!
More full her feelings, and affection strong,
Than Texier's action, join'd with Texier's tongue—
More than sweet sound of Poet's Patroness,
Or Chimney-sweeper's shout, and May-day Dress.
'Twere better be Cit's dull, and plodding, Spouse,
And with low Vintner—Grocer—Hosier, house;
At length in annual Palace once appear,
And be a Lady, but a single Year,
Than live, for ever, thus in splendid Halls,
And hear no Title echoing round the Walls!

Lady!—what extacy attends the sound!
While each lov'd voice reverberates, loud, around.
More fascinating far to Female's ears,
Than all the fancied tones of tuneful Spheres!
Sweeter than symphonies in vernal grove,
Tho' choicest swain should join to chaunt his Love!
Should she her long-neglected charms unfurl,
Beneath fond pressure of a plastic Earl,
How much must Countess raise commotions higher,
Than flat-key'd Relict of a Country-Squire!
But—were she dubbed the counterpart of Duke,
How bold she'd brave the envious World's rebuke!
Yet Fate, it's fear'd, before the nuptial Night,
Would suffocate her heart, with hop'd delight!
But, such fierce conflict should her frame survive,
And meet Love's consummation, still alive,
More dangerous, far, than batter'd Duke's embrace,
Would sound those monosyllables—“Your Grace!”
Would, like strong Incantation, stop her breath,
And end her glorying in the grasp of Death!
But should each strong, each struggling, bliss be borne,
And her enraptur'd Life survive till Morn,
What full felicity! what genuine joy!
To hear Domestics “Grace”—and “Duchess”—cry;
While flattering Troops, that o'er her threshold throng,
Greet her with “Grace,” and “Duchess,” all day long!
Still happier to perceive, proclaim'd aloud,
The Duchess, and her Grace, in public Crowd;
But most of all to hear each rapturing tone
Resound from throngs of Courtiers, round the Throne!
Such sounds, in Drawing-Room, repeated still,
Not long would Life support the Spirit's thrill!

Such blissful chaunt would charm her bosom more
Than Wilton Carpets, spread on every floor!
Or, when full-fitted to her nuptial Name,
More sweet than snow-white Feather-work in frame—
More than its bright festoons, in perfect bloom,
Pinn'd up, so rich! round all her Dressing-room—
Yea, when fix'd firm, while, with applauses, view'd,
By Cæsar's Bride, and all her female Brood!!!

Such silv'ry sounds would past compare excel
All precious tinkling of the Porter's bell,
When Plenipos, and Ministers of State,
In groups come pressing through her palace-gate!
More than bright patent-lamps, and waxen-lights,
At Concerts—Readings—Routs—or Dinner-Nights!
More soft than accents from Italian's tongue,
Or rustling silks, as Courtiers trail along!
Far nobler notes, that strike her tympanums,
When brother Duke, or sister Duchess, comes!
Mellower than double-bass of courtly Coach,
When wonderous Queen, and Princesses, approach!

With added transport, still, would vision view
The servile Suite enlarg'd—laced liveries, new;
The countless proofs in colours, or on plate;
Glories pourtray'd, or grav'd, in splendid State!
With pompous ostentation, vast, and vain,
Endeavouring to outstrip each Equal's train—
All, eager eyes attention to engage;
Outvie ev'n Princes in proud Equipage!

What painful pleasure must from raptures rise,
To mark Escutcheon shine with dazzling dyes!
To ramble o'er the fair enchanting field,
And rich Achievements of ennobling Shield!
The widow'd angles raz'd, and ducal charms
Conjointly quarter'd with unlozeng'd Arms—
Whilst enigmatic motto, underneath,
On silvery ribband, or on golden wreath,
In language, learn'd, and false, ambiguous, phrase
Apt, striking hints, to construing skill, conveys,
Of pious manners—might—or warring worth,
Transmitted down to Dukes of modern birth,
But wrought by doughty long-departed Sire;
To which, in latter times few Sons aspire—
With wavey mantlings hung, on either side,
In velvet pomp, or gold-embroider'd pride!
But more than mantling speaks, or Poet writes,
Or hieroglyphic Heraldry recites—
More than train'd complimental tongue recounts
The glorious crested Coronet surmounts—
With jewels, bright, and burnish'd gilding, bound,
And gay fragarian foliage wreath'd around—
Honours far higher than all the ample host
Of new-created, humbler, Barons, boast!
Than Viscounts—Earls—and Marquisses—ev'n all
Whose leaves are blended with degrading ball!

This must all other ornaments surpass,
Tho' multiplied by each reflecting glass.
Would claim idolatrous distinction, more
Than lock'd-up libraries' chaotic store.
More than the Bible Cunning recommends,
Not as an object for Herself, but Friends—
More than commodes conceal, or caskets hold,
Of glittering stones, or gowns emboss'd with gold—
More than shelves, tables, trunks, whose burdens, break,
With modern plate, or porcelain antique.
This would contribute happiness immense,
More than perceiv'd by every other Sense.
To dwell on splendour spread o'er ducal Crown,
Blazing at home, and flaming thro' the Town!
Toys, and utensils, all proclaiming State!
Each badge of servitude! each scrap of plate!
Holsters and bridles—buckles—bits—and beads,
On prancing saddle-horse, and champing steeds;
While coach, and chariot, vis-à-vis, and chair,
On pannel, pole, and perch, like Pomp declare!

But sly Scintilla, now, with all her Art,
Could never hope to gain a Noble's heart!
No youthful Bridegroom, gay, would now, engage,
So sour'd in temper, and so sunk in Age.
Tho' not of Wealth, nor much of Wit, bereft,
No 'ticeing trait of loveliness was left.
Stern, ruthless, Time, no proofs of pity show'd,
But, on her, yearly, laid an added load,
Till all her limbs relax'd—her fabric bow'd—
For wedlock look'd less fit than funereal shrowd!
Each sinew swelled so high, and muscle shrunk,
Show'd a mere shape of bones and bended trunk—
Had mix'd with white her 'minish'd ebon hair,
And furrow'd o'er that face she once thought fair!
A fancy, Women must not boldly blame,
For each vain female fondly thinks the same—
A face, when youthful, her prompt tongue declar'd,
With airs of triumph, to the blushing Bard,
An Artist judg'd was just the very Thing
Whence skill might sketch an emblematic Spring.
But long that gay, self-worshipp'd Spring was gone,
With brighter beauties that through Summer shone—
Ev'n Autumn's charms were now completely lost,
And nought was found but wintery storms, and frost;
Except when Pride, with Passions instant glow,
Transform'd to sanguine fire her face of snow.

Unbless'd with wealth, when young, her Friends thought fit
To praise her beauty, and applaud her Wit—
Exhibited abroad a hopeful bait
To trail a Squire, and hook a clear Estate.
When, searching round the woodland, hill, and plain,
They beat, and quest, and hunt—but not in vain—
She, practising the tricks her Parents taught,
The prey was started, soon, and Reynard caught—
For, tho' the Fox was old, the Chick was young,
And, tho' he'd pillaged folds, robb'd henroosts, long,
Yet, wearied, now, with taking things by stealth,
He wish'd an Heir to give his gather'd Wealth.

Her aggrandizement was her Friends' first aim;
Securing Riches—and some nobler Name,
And, both made sure by craft and civil Laws,
To govern Fashion, and to gain applause—
But all the specious Plot was nearly spoil'd
For Deity bestow'd but one, weak, Child;
Which, tho' a Son, to make their hope secure
Soon, with each wish, it perished premature!

Thus Providence with prescient counsel scann'd,
And counterplotted all their Cunning plann'd;
For, putting forth that providential pow'r,
Which form'd, and fed the bud, and embryo flow'r,
To make still more His Will, and Wisdom, known,
Cut off the idol bloom before 'twas blown.

The mourning Mother had but little car'd
If Heav'n had snatch'd the Sire, the Offspring spared,
For Wealth was pounded by the Marriage pact,
Herself at large with ample pow'rs to act.
Should Charity herself decide the Case,
Where Interest occupies the upper place,
And Ostentation triumphs over all,
The Duties are but weak—the Love but small.

To make surmise and calm opinion, clear,
Let full uncontroverted facts appear—
The different dispositions of their Souls
Were wide as Earth's Antipodes, or Poles;
And all the objects that awak'd desire
Were adverse as the pow'rs of phlegm and fire.
His Mind was diffident, but Her's was bold.
He, taciturnal—She, a frequent Scold.
He, unassuming—She, like Satan, proud.
He lov'd retirement—She, a courtly Crowd.
He, modest—unaffected—studious—plain—
She, splendid—specious—talkative—and vain.
He was domesticated—She was gay—
'Twas Chaucer's January match'd with May.
A thoughtful Owl, from every eye retir'd,
And pompous Peacock ne'er enough admir'd.

Could opposites, like these, in taste, and dress;
Age—manners—aims—pursuits—e'er coalesce?
Could such discordant instruments be found
In harmony, or unison of sound?
Were seconds, or were sevenths, ever known
To mix in fine felicity of tone?
Rondeaus, or dialogues, in parts, agree;
One natural, one in artificial, key?
Where different chaunts in different rhythms run,
And sharps oft ending what in flats begun?
Seldom one tone, in treble, or in bass,
Was ornamented with a single grace,
Scarce e'er, in concert, cross'd a double bar
But all ears tingled with unnatural jar—
Ne'er tried a close duette, but sore mistakes
Convuls'd each quavering pipe with open shakes.

On every topic was opinion split—
Morals, and Manners—Eloquence, and Wit.
Each point in Politics produc'd a flame—
Each tenet in Religion just the same.
As certain spirits cool and calm remain,
Which vessels, distant, and distinct contain;
But, mix'd ferment, and instantly, conspire,
To vent their violence in fumes and fire—
Or as disparted clouds their clamour hide,
And, o'er the airy regions, calmly ride;
Till, negative, and positive, in pow'r,
Approaching near, their heavy aspects low'r,
Whence flashes fly, and sullen echoes sound,
Distressing every eye, ear, heart, around.

Such fierce contentions, as a common Friend,
Did poor Crispinus oft, with pain attend,
And, as their sentiments could ne'er agree,
Was, sometimes, nam'd a sorrowing Referee.
Neither would learn, but both aspire to teach—
He aimed at truth—She, at applausive Speech—
While demonstration was His constant scope
She snatcht a simile; or tried a trope.
Kings, and their Creatures were His warmest hate—
But She ador'd a Court, and courtly State.
She lov'd a Drawing-room, and pompous Prig—
He look'd aloof, an independent Whig.
She lov'd Kings, Queens, and all the regal Clan,
He was an upright, plumb Republican.
He wish'd one Servant to attend, alone—
She wish'd as many Slaves as throng a Throne;
Wish'd all Mankind dependent on her breath—
A downright Despot! an Elizabeth!

Religion was, with Her, a specious plea,
But He despis'd both Priests and Piety.
He Revelation's finish'd Code forsook—
She made her Bible a convenient Book;
A very stalking-horse to try for game,
To hunt for flattery, or to hawk for fame.
He deem'd religious rites mere tricks in Trade—
Mere Courtiers' cant, or Hypocrites' Parade.
He wanted Liberty to live at large—
She panted to enforce each priestly Charge.
He long'd to set aside each Hierarch's dow'r
She labour'd to enlarge prelatic pow'r.
He from all forms determin'd to elope—
She long'd to prove a second Lady-pope.
He dreamt that Being would with Body die—
She hop'd unending blessedness to buy—
Hop'd Heav'n by right-lin'd conduct to deserve,
Tho' always wandering in some devious curve.
Thought Charity, tho' sour'd with selfish leav'n,
Might purchase some snug settlement in Heav'n.
Flatter'd herself a few important pence,
And those giv'n grudgingly from heaps immense,
Might some celestial policy procure,
And Stock, and Building, both, from fire ensure—
Would bribe that Being, who had lent the Whole,
Not to expend small Fees to save her Soul,
While squandering all the mighty mass, beside
In Lust, and Vanity—and Pomp—and Pride.
She judg'd large Loans, to Family, and Friends,
Might make, for all offences, full amends—
Small silver doles deceive the Judge divine,
And Angel-Hosts corrupt with copper-coin—
Some small donations to needy Poor,
Might smoothe her path to Paradise's door;
And, with one Penny, Simon Peter win,
To turn his golden Key, and let her in.
She fancied Seas of broth might well suffice,
To swim both Soul, and Body, to the Skies,
Yet was their flood so weak, and shallow, found,
Her bad-steer'd Boat was like to run aground.
She thought her moral claims were much increas'd,
By Sweeps', and Sunday-Schools', fallacious feast;
Whose warey benefits would reimburse
All Providence had pour'd, yet spare her purse—
That ostentatitious boons on these bestow'd,
Would raise loud acclamations all the road—
Cockets, and passports, by such Customs paid,
Remove all dull impediments to Trade;
While crusts and scraps would pay off each arrear,
Secure her place and her whole passage clear.