Satires And Biography By Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams] |
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ANOTHER SERIOUS EPISTLE FROM CARLTON HOUSE TO THE PAVILION AT BRIGHTON. |
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 | Satires And Biography |  |
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ANOTHER SERIOUS EPISTLE FROM CARLTON HOUSE TO THE PAVILION AT BRIGHTON.
DEAR PAV.
Your
ironical Ode, the loose fancy combin'd,
As a novel, amuses the overstrain'd mind:
Though varlets, like tendrils, impressively free,
Clung around his fair trunk, they've not injur'd the tree;
Then let not Hypocrisy sneer so malign,
Or draw forth her snakes—the auspicium's benign:
No envy, no meanness could cleave to his will,
And his soul ever scorn'd adaptation to ill.
When the throne's his estate, and he issues his thought,
He'll irradiate the realm, and be all that he ought.
The imperial eagle shall proudly ride o'er him;
All humanity hail, and all Britons adore him.
As a novel, amuses the overstrain'd mind:
Though varlets, like tendrils, impressively free,
Clung around his fair trunk, they've not injur'd the tree;
Then let not Hypocrisy sneer so malign,
Or draw forth her snakes—the auspicium's benign:
No envy, no meanness could cleave to his will,
And his soul ever scorn'd adaptation to ill.
When the throne's his estate, and he issues his thought,
He'll irradiate the realm, and be all that he ought.
The imperial eagle shall proudly ride o'er him;
All humanity hail, and all Britons adore him.
The caprices of Fashion are wondrous indeed,
And the wrigglings of Folly oft make my heart bleed:
Though not old as the hills, I remember the day,
When St. James's Park was the scene to display
All the beauty of Britain; then beaus with long sleeves,
And long skirts, and long stories, made love to their Eves;
Made their vows to their Daphnes, who each kept her man
At the end of her hoop, and the end of her fan:
Beyond that, not a Tarquin could venture;—but now
The fond sluts let 'em buss, in that moment they bow:
No dread of destruction enfeebles their act;—
Nay, they'd kiss without blushing, and publish the fact:
Were they plac'd where the dragon withheld lawless fruit,
They would each munch a pippin, and poison the brute:
The Tabby's fell obloquy's now lost its force,
Each seems bad, till you know her companion, who's worse:
Has thought fled the vile inconsiderate elves?
Pray who'll honor that sex that don't honor themselves?
And the wrigglings of Folly oft make my heart bleed:
Though not old as the hills, I remember the day,
When St. James's Park was the scene to display
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And long skirts, and long stories, made love to their Eves;
Made their vows to their Daphnes, who each kept her man
At the end of her hoop, and the end of her fan:
Beyond that, not a Tarquin could venture;—but now
The fond sluts let 'em buss, in that moment they bow:
No dread of destruction enfeebles their act;—
Nay, they'd kiss without blushing, and publish the fact:
Were they plac'd where the dragon withheld lawless fruit,
They would each munch a pippin, and poison the brute:
The Tabby's fell obloquy's now lost its force,
Each seems bad, till you know her companion, who's worse:
Has thought fled the vile inconsiderate elves?
Pray who'll honor that sex that don't honor themselves?
The metropolis now an excrescence is grown;
It is spread like the evil—'tis gone out of town!
But the realm, as a body, no health can impart,
The north road's the aorta, and that is the heart;
Whence it forces vile blood all th'anatomy over,
From Snowdon to Caithness, from Penzance to Dover:
It lies stretch'd on the main, and fortuitous driven,
Like a wallowing monster insulting high heaven:
It creates its own vermin, who crawl o'er its face,
Bellowing loud of their rights while they worship disgrace!
It's diseas'd and decrepit, old, wicked, and sly,
And as pregnant with humours as dogs in July.
When an ulcer is burst on its navel or jaw,
Its pediculi suck it, and call it a Spa;
Raise irregular huts to confederate thick,
Make their faith their perdition, and drink themselves sick!
It is spread like the evil—'tis gone out of town!
But the realm, as a body, no health can impart,
The north road's the aorta, and that is the heart;
Whence it forces vile blood all th'anatomy over,
From Snowdon to Caithness, from Penzance to Dover:
It lies stretch'd on the main, and fortuitous driven,
Like a wallowing monster insulting high heaven:
It creates its own vermin, who crawl o'er its face,
Bellowing loud of their rights while they worship disgrace!
It's diseas'd and decrepit, old, wicked, and sly,
And as pregnant with humours as dogs in July.
When an ulcer is burst on its navel or jaw,
Its pediculi suck it, and call it a Spa;
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Make their faith their perdition, and drink themselves sick!
You've a Dutchess, I'm told, dress'd as Puritans would;
And some dairy-maids clad as our dutchesses should:
Though in either 'tis madness to rush to be blam'd,
Yet they're privately pleas'd that they're publicly sham'd.
'Tis the rage to be noted, makes Folly inclin'd
To laugh loud at the altar, and ride o'er the blind:
Many catch, e'en in guilt, at the general gaze,
And seem blest in proportion as each can amaze:
But whene'er Observation shall cease to descry,
Notoriety'll pine, and our foplings will die.
And some dairy-maids clad as our dutchesses should:
Though in either 'tis madness to rush to be blam'd,
Yet they're privately pleas'd that they're publicly sham'd.
'Tis the rage to be noted, makes Folly inclin'd
To laugh loud at the altar, and ride o'er the blind:
Many catch, e'en in guilt, at the general gaze,
And seem blest in proportion as each can amaze:
But whene'er Observation shall cease to descry,
Notoriety'll pine, and our foplings will die.
How many are curs'd in the strife to be gay!
How many but live at the death of the day!
How the heart's soft emotions are slain by excess!
For that nymph has no slave who would commonly bless!
Though she blazons thus roseate, and prattles so fine,
Her health is all—rouge, and her spirits—bad wine.
We're egregiously taking our joys upon trust,
Till the farce is compress'd, and we moulder in dust:
In living beyond what's prescrib'd for our pow'rs,
We absorb true delight to anticipate hours.—
Yet who gains by thus marring the night and the morn?—
'Tis abridging the use of a day that's unborn!
Though they knit in the dance, and are dreadfully glad,
'Twill predim their bright eyes, and make Beauty's soul sad.
How brittle's existence!—how futile our health!
How deceptive is grandeur!—how slippery our wealth!
Some are cut down by Time, while half shav'd and half lather'd;—
But old Q. fully mown, to his fathers is gather'd.
Ah! he died like a saint, though he'd smack'd of the sinner:
He's snatch'd from Life's feast, having mumbled his dinner.
Thus, you see, Magnanimity's ta'en a peg lower:
Think of this, you pert minx—seek Repentance, and know her.
All the nap may be worn from the superfine drapery;
The young Day may be chas'd by a Night black and vapoury:
Maudlin Juno might perish for ripping Jove's breeches!
Agile Hermes be hung, who'd ta'en Plutus's riches!
Ceres' barn be unroof'd—Ocean swallow our cities!
Old Mars lose his halberd, and Phœbus his ditties!
Th'exciseman seize Bacchus with tubs of run gin!
Lean Hope punt at Pharo, and yet never win!
D'ye expect, you vile jade, like the Sybarite crew,
To sleep but on vi'lets, and drink roses' dew?
Your betters can suffer, and not yield a tear;
Zounds! I've been in a pillory many a year!
Thank your stars for a your cates—ring not Misery's bell,
There are few bricklayers' daughters can live half so well.
How many but live at the death of the day!
How the heart's soft emotions are slain by excess!
For that nymph has no slave who would commonly bless!
Though she blazons thus roseate, and prattles so fine,
Her health is all—rouge, and her spirits—bad wine.
We're egregiously taking our joys upon trust,
Till the farce is compress'd, and we moulder in dust:
In living beyond what's prescrib'd for our pow'rs,
We absorb true delight to anticipate hours.—
Yet who gains by thus marring the night and the morn?—
'Tis abridging the use of a day that's unborn!
Though they knit in the dance, and are dreadfully glad,
'Twill predim their bright eyes, and make Beauty's soul sad.
How brittle's existence!—how futile our health!
How deceptive is grandeur!—how slippery our wealth!
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But old Q. fully mown, to his fathers is gather'd.
Ah! he died like a saint, though he'd smack'd of the sinner:
He's snatch'd from Life's feast, having mumbled his dinner.
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Think of this, you pert minx—seek Repentance, and know her.
All the nap may be worn from the superfine drapery;
The young Day may be chas'd by a Night black and vapoury:
Maudlin Juno might perish for ripping Jove's breeches!
Agile Hermes be hung, who'd ta'en Plutus's riches!
Ceres' barn be unroof'd—Ocean swallow our cities!
Old Mars lose his halberd, and Phœbus his ditties!
Th'exciseman seize Bacchus with tubs of run gin!
Lean Hope punt at Pharo, and yet never win!
D'ye expect, you vile jade, like the Sybarite crew,
To sleep but on vi'lets, and drink roses' dew?
Your betters can suffer, and not yield a tear;
Zounds! I've been in a pillory many a year!
Thank your stars for a your cates—ring not Misery's bell,
There are few bricklayers' daughters can live half so well.
Pall Mall, August 13th, 1796.
Yours, &c. CARLTON HOUSE.
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