The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
1. The First Part.
Since of all things which at this Guilty Time
Have felt the honest Satyrs wholsom Rhime
The Impious Play-House has been most forborn,
(Tho' it of all Things most deserves our Scorn)
We'll do at last what Justice does require;
And strip it bare of all the Gay Attire
Which Women love and Fools so much admire.
Have felt the honest Satyrs wholsom Rhime
The Impious Play-House has been most forborn,
(Tho' it of all Things most deserves our Scorn)
We'll do at last what Justice does require;
And strip it bare of all the Gay Attire
Which Women love and Fools so much admire.
Aid me, Ye Scorpions with Inveterate Spite,
Instruct me how to stab with ev'ry Word I write;
Or if my Pen's too weak this Tyde to stem,
Lend me Your Stings, and I will wound with them:
Each home-set thrust shall pierce the vitious Heart,
And draw the Poison from th'envenom'd Part;
Lash ev'ry Fop and ev'ry Drab expose,
And to the World a hideous Scene disclose:
While the Proud Mimicks who now Lord it so,
Become the Publick hiss where-e'er they go,
Their Trade decay and they unpitied Starve;
A better Fate than most of 'em deserve.
Instruct me how to stab with ev'ry Word I write;
Or if my Pen's too weak this Tyde to stem,
Lend me Your Stings, and I will wound with them:
Each home-set thrust shall pierce the vitious Heart,
And draw the Poison from th'envenom'd Part;
228
And to the World a hideous Scene disclose:
While the Proud Mimicks who now Lord it so,
Become the Publick hiss where-e'er they go,
Their Trade decay and they unpitied Starve;
A better Fate than most of 'em deserve.
The Middle Galle'ry first demands our View;
The filth of Jakes, and stench of ev'ry Stew!
Here reeking Punks like Ev'ning Insects swarm;
The Polecat's Perfume much the Happier Charm.
Their very Scent gives Apoplectick Fits,
And yet they're thought all Civit by the Cits;
Nor can we blame 'em; for the Truth to tell,
The want of Brains may be the want of Smell.
Here ev'ry Night they sit three Hours for Sale;
The Night-rail always cleanlier than the Tayl.
If any Gudgeon bites they have Him sure,
For nothing Angles Blockheads like a Whore.
Discreet in this, their Faces not to shew;
The Mask the best Complexion of the two.
Their Noses falling and their Eyes sunk in,
A wrinkl'd Forehead and a Parchment Skin:
Their Breath as hot as Ætna's Sulph'rous Fire;
Yet cold as Ice compar'd with their Desire.
The Physick each has singly swallow'd up,
Produc'd again, wou'd stock ev'n Chase's Shop.
Yet such as these our Modern Fops admire;
Perhaps to be Inur'd for hotter Fire.
A Woman's ne'er so Wicked, but she can
Find one as Wicked, or much worse in Man,
To satisfy her Lust, obey her Will,
And at her Nod perform the greatest Ill:
These ride not Strumpets, but are Strumpet-rid,
And Dog-like, fetch and carry as they're bid;
The filth of Jakes, and stench of ev'ry Stew!
Here reeking Punks like Ev'ning Insects swarm;
The Polecat's Perfume much the Happier Charm.
Their very Scent gives Apoplectick Fits,
And yet they're thought all Civit by the Cits;
Nor can we blame 'em; for the Truth to tell,
The want of Brains may be the want of Smell.
Here ev'ry Night they sit three Hours for Sale;
The Night-rail always cleanlier than the Tayl.
If any Gudgeon bites they have Him sure,
For nothing Angles Blockheads like a Whore.
Discreet in this, their Faces not to shew;
The Mask the best Complexion of the two.
Their Noses falling and their Eyes sunk in,
A wrinkl'd Forehead and a Parchment Skin:
Their Breath as hot as Ætna's Sulph'rous Fire;
Yet cold as Ice compar'd with their Desire.
The Physick each has singly swallow'd up,
Produc'd again, wou'd stock ev'n Chase's Shop.
Yet such as these our Modern Fops admire;
Perhaps to be Inur'd for hotter Fire.
A Woman's ne'er so Wicked, but she can
Find one as Wicked, or much worse in Man,
To satisfy her Lust, obey her Will,
And at her Nod perform the greatest Ill:
These ride not Strumpets, but are Strumpet-rid,
And Dog-like, fetch and carry as they're bid;
229
But, naming Dogs, did You yet ever meet
A proud Bitch and her Gallants in the Street?
Shock, Mastiff, Mungrel, Spaniel Blithe and Gay
With Brandish'd Tails, and panting e'er their Prey,
Have You observ'd with what Obsequious Art
They make their Court? So Am'rous at the Heart,
The more their Mistress snarls the less inclin'd to part.
This is an Emblem of our Gall'ry Ware,
The Scene we may see Nightly Acted here
Not but we must give Dog and Bitch their due,
As much the Chaster Creatures of the two;
Their Season past they're cool;—'tis only here
The Commerce holds, Insatiate, all the Year.
About one Jilt a Hundred Apes shall move,
And which is strange, at once all Chatt'ring Love:
So loud the Din, that who the Play wou'd hear
Might be as well Inform'd at Home, as there.
At last they to the Rose direct their Way
(It's Staple Trade such Customers as they)
To end th'Intrigue agreed on at the Play.
Luxurious, there they Gormandize at large,
And all at the Licentious Cully's Charge;
Till drain'd both Purse and Chine he does retire,
And within three Days finds He's all on Fire:
The total, thus, of all Venereal Jobs
Begin in Whore, and Terminate in Hobs.
If he wou'd find the Nymph that caus'd his Moan,
He toils in vain,—the Bird of Night is flown:
Yet not this warning makes the Sot give o'er,
He must repeat the Dang'rous Bliss once more,
But still finds harder Usage than before.
A proud Bitch and her Gallants in the Street?
Shock, Mastiff, Mungrel, Spaniel Blithe and Gay
With Brandish'd Tails, and panting e'er their Prey,
Have You observ'd with what Obsequious Art
They make their Court? So Am'rous at the Heart,
The more their Mistress snarls the less inclin'd to part.
This is an Emblem of our Gall'ry Ware,
The Scene we may see Nightly Acted here
Not but we must give Dog and Bitch their due,
As much the Chaster Creatures of the two;
Their Season past they're cool;—'tis only here
The Commerce holds, Insatiate, all the Year.
About one Jilt a Hundred Apes shall move,
And which is strange, at once all Chatt'ring Love:
So loud the Din, that who the Play wou'd hear
Might be as well Inform'd at Home, as there.
At last they to the Rose direct their Way
(It's Staple Trade such Customers as they)
To end th'Intrigue agreed on at the Play.
Luxurious, there they Gormandize at large,
And all at the Licentious Cully's Charge;
Till drain'd both Purse and Chine he does retire,
And within three Days finds He's all on Fire:
The total, thus, of all Venereal Jobs
Begin in Whore, and Terminate in Hobs.
If he wou'd find the Nymph that caus'd his Moan,
He toils in vain,—the Bird of Night is flown:
Yet not this warning makes the Sot give o'er,
He must repeat the Dang'rous Bliss once more,
But still finds harder Usage than before.
Hence 'tis our Surgeons and our Quacks are grown
To make so great a Figure in the Town;
Heaping up large Estates by our Debauches;
Our keeping Strumpets makes them keep their Coaches:
Their Consorts so Extravagantly Gay,
You in their Dress behold their Husband's Pay:
But backward look, you'll find it is the Stage
That makes these Locusts swarm upon the Age:
There 'tis the fruitful Bane is plough'd and till'd,
But these have all the Harvest of the Field.
There's many of 'em for their single Share,
Pocket, 'tis said, some Thousands ev'ry Year:
Nor is it strange in such a spreading Crime,
Where half the Town is Fluxing at a Time:
Wide as the Grave to take its Comers in,
Their Gates stand open for the Sons of Sin:
But then the Tales deliver'd out again,
Just as the Parson has his One in Ten:
And they so pale and Meagre, you'd swear
A Ghost were Weightier, tho they're nought but Air.
So craving too are these Pox-Emp'ricks grown.
Live ye, or Die, they make the Cash their own.
Expensive Malady! where People give
More to be kill'd than many wou'd to live!
Some get Estates when others drop, but here
The very Dying does undo the Heir.
O that the custom were again Return'd,
That Bodies might on Funeral Piles be burn'd
The Pestilential Vapours which the Sun
Sucks from the Ground, and thro' the Air are thrown,
Giving all Catching Plagues and Fevers Birth,
Are only Steams Exhal'd from Pocky Earth:
From whence this Town we may conclude accurst,
For here few Die but are half Rotten first.
To make so great a Figure in the Town;
230
Our keeping Strumpets makes them keep their Coaches:
Their Consorts so Extravagantly Gay,
You in their Dress behold their Husband's Pay:
But backward look, you'll find it is the Stage
That makes these Locusts swarm upon the Age:
There 'tis the fruitful Bane is plough'd and till'd,
But these have all the Harvest of the Field.
There's many of 'em for their single Share,
Pocket, 'tis said, some Thousands ev'ry Year:
Nor is it strange in such a spreading Crime,
Where half the Town is Fluxing at a Time:
Wide as the Grave to take its Comers in,
Their Gates stand open for the Sons of Sin:
But then the Tales deliver'd out again,
Just as the Parson has his One in Ten:
And they so pale and Meagre, you'd swear
A Ghost were Weightier, tho they're nought but Air.
So craving too are these Pox-Emp'ricks grown.
Live ye, or Die, they make the Cash their own.
Expensive Malady! where People give
More to be kill'd than many wou'd to live!
Some get Estates when others drop, but here
The very Dying does undo the Heir.
O that the custom were again Return'd,
That Bodies might on Funeral Piles be burn'd
The Pestilential Vapours which the Sun
Sucks from the Ground, and thro' the Air are thrown,
Giving all Catching Plagues and Fevers Birth,
Are only Steams Exhal'd from Pocky Earth:
From whence this Town we may conclude accurst,
For here few Die but are half Rotten first.
Nor is this Middle Gall'ry only found
With Drabs of Common Trading to abound;
But, to the Eternal Scandal of their Race,
Her Honour often, and as oft her Grace
Sail hither, Mask'd and Muffl'd in Disguise;
And with pert Carriage and their smart Replies
Set all the Men agog, who strait agree
They must of course, be Punks of Quality;
So lead 'em off to give their Longings vent,
For 'tis presum'd they came for that Intent:
At least, if not for common Use, t'employ
Some Friend assign'd, and take their Swill of Joy.
How often, Cl---d, hast thou here been found
By a Lascivious Herd encompass'd round?
How often have you hence retir'd, and lain
A Leash of Stallions breathless on the Plain?
Then back return'd; another Leash enjoy'd;
Another after that, when those were cloy'd;
And so elsewhere, and here, has half your Life employ'd.
Till not a Drab appears in History,
So Shameless and Libidinous as Thee.
Scarce does an Ev'ning pass thro' all the Year,
But many of the highest Rank are here:
True, if discover'd, for a blind they'll say,
They only came to take a strict Survey
If Whores cou'd be so bad as some Report;—
And that they might as well have known at Court.
But they're but Flesh, and 'tis in vain to rail,
Since fed the higher 'tis the oftner frail.
With Drabs of Common Trading to abound;
231
Her Honour often, and as oft her Grace
Sail hither, Mask'd and Muffl'd in Disguise;
And with pert Carriage and their smart Replies
Set all the Men agog, who strait agree
They must of course, be Punks of Quality;
So lead 'em off to give their Longings vent,
For 'tis presum'd they came for that Intent:
At least, if not for common Use, t'employ
Some Friend assign'd, and take their Swill of Joy.
How often, Cl---d, hast thou here been found
By a Lascivious Herd encompass'd round?
How often have you hence retir'd, and lain
A Leash of Stallions breathless on the Plain?
Then back return'd; another Leash enjoy'd;
Another after that, when those were cloy'd;
And so elsewhere, and here, has half your Life employ'd.
Till not a Drab appears in History,
So Shameless and Libidinous as Thee.
Scarce does an Ev'ning pass thro' all the Year,
But many of the highest Rank are here:
True, if discover'd, for a blind they'll say,
They only came to take a strict Survey
If Whores cou'd be so bad as some Report;—
And that they might as well have known at Court.
But they're but Flesh, and 'tis in vain to rail,
Since fed the higher 'tis the oftner frail.
Withold, ye Citizens, Your Wives from hence,
If You'd Preserve their Fame and Innocence,
You else are sure to live in Cuckold's Row;
There is not yet one Precedent to show
Our Wives by coming here can Vertuous grow:
That Plays may make 'em Vitious, Truth assures;
Especially, so much Inclin'd as Yours.
The London Cuckolds they all Flock to see,
And Triumph in their Infidelity:
In vain Your Counsel;—Nothing can reclaim
A Wife that once has shaken Hands with Shame.
If e'er they take their Ply th'Adult'rous Way,
The Devil may as soon recant as they:
To sure Destruction wilfully they run;
In View of Hell, and yet go daring on.
If You'd Preserve their Fame and Innocence,
You else are sure to live in Cuckold's Row;
There is not yet one Precedent to show
Our Wives by coming here can Vertuous grow:
That Plays may make 'em Vitious, Truth assures;
Especially, so much Inclin'd as Yours.
232
And Triumph in their Infidelity:
In vain Your Counsel;—Nothing can reclaim
A Wife that once has shaken Hands with Shame.
If e'er they take their Ply th'Adult'rous Way,
The Devil may as soon recant as they:
To sure Destruction wilfully they run;
In View of Hell, and yet go daring on.
Choak't with the stench of Brimstone, 'twill be fit
To Visit next the Boxes and the Pit,
And for the Muse a Nobler Scene prepare,
And let Her breathe awhile in Milder Air.
But such a sudden Glare invades her Eyes,
So vast a Crowd of diffe'rent Vanities,
She knows where not to fix her Rancour first;
So very Wicked all, that all are worst!
Here painted Ladies, aiming at the Heart,
Their Graces Arm, and all their Charms exert:
Dress'd, one and all, with Nice Exactness there,
But Mobb'd like Dowdies at the House of Prayer.
How diffe'rent will the Scene at Night be shown!
When they restore to ev'ry Box it's Own,
When like themselves th'affrighting Things appear,
Divested of their Patches, Gemms and Hair:
This sight th'Obsequious Coxcombs shou'd attend;
Like a Death's Head 'twou'd warn 'em of their End:
But they, alas! for vainer things design'd,
Fix here their Hopes and Nothing Future Mind.
Between the Acts they to the Boxes throng,
With Whining Voices warbling each his Song:
Their Own, You may besure; for none but such
Can write what cou'd Delight that Sex so much.
Some few soft Lines (but such as well express
Their Wit is as much Borrow'd as their Dress)
Does set 'em up for Poets; all their Time
Supinely trifl'd off in Love and Rhime.
These are the Womens Men, their dear Delight;
For just as Ladies Chatter, Coxcombs write.
To Visit next the Boxes and the Pit,
And for the Muse a Nobler Scene prepare,
And let Her breathe awhile in Milder Air.
But such a sudden Glare invades her Eyes,
So vast a Crowd of diffe'rent Vanities,
She knows where not to fix her Rancour first;
So very Wicked all, that all are worst!
Here painted Ladies, aiming at the Heart,
Their Graces Arm, and all their Charms exert:
Dress'd, one and all, with Nice Exactness there,
But Mobb'd like Dowdies at the House of Prayer.
How diffe'rent will the Scene at Night be shown!
When they restore to ev'ry Box it's Own,
When like themselves th'affrighting Things appear,
Divested of their Patches, Gemms and Hair:
This sight th'Obsequious Coxcombs shou'd attend;
Like a Death's Head 'twou'd warn 'em of their End:
But they, alas! for vainer things design'd,
Fix here their Hopes and Nothing Future Mind.
Between the Acts they to the Boxes throng,
With Whining Voices warbling each his Song:
Their Own, You may besure; for none but such
Can write what cou'd Delight that Sex so much.
Some few soft Lines (but such as well express
Their Wit is as much Borrow'd as their Dress)
233
Supinely trifl'd off in Love and Rhime.
These are the Womens Men, their dear Delight;
For just as Ladies Chatter, Coxcombs write.
Not far from hence, another much distress'd,
At once makes Cupid and himself a Jest:
With a low Cringe, Her Vanity to Please,
He Drawls his Passion in such Terms as these.
At once makes Cupid and himself a Jest:
With a low Cringe, Her Vanity to Please,
He Drawls his Passion in such Terms as these.
MADAM! by Heav'n You have an Air so Fine,
It renders the least thing You do—Divine!
We dare not say You were Created here,
But dropt an ANGEL from th'ÆTHEREAL SPHERE!
Ten Thousand CUPIDS on Your FORE-HEAD Sit,
And shoot resistless Darts thro' all the PIT.
Before Your Feet, see! Your Adorers lie,
Live, if You Smile; and if You Frown, they die!
Ev'n I, Your true Predestinated Slave,
Rather than meet Your Hate wou'd meet my Grave:
Ah! Pity then, Bright Nymph the Wound You gave!
It renders the least thing You do—Divine!
We dare not say You were Created here,
But dropt an ANGEL from th'ÆTHEREAL SPHERE!
Ten Thousand CUPIDS on Your FORE-HEAD Sit,
And shoot resistless Darts thro' all the PIT.
Before Your Feet, see! Your Adorers lie,
Live, if You Smile; and if You Frown, they die!
Ev'n I, Your true Predestinated Slave,
Rather than meet Your Hate wou'd meet my Grave:
Ah! Pity then, Bright Nymph the Wound You gave!
Thus sighs the Sot, thus tells his Am'rous Tale,
And thinks his florid Nonsense must prevail;
Bows, and withdraws: And next to prove his Love,
Steals up, and Courts the Fulsome Punks above.
Mean while the Nymph, proud of her Conquest, looks
Big as Wreath'd Poets in the Front of Books;
Surveys the Pit with a Majestick Grace,
To see who falls a Victim to her Face;
Does in her Glass her self with Wonder view,
And fancies all the Coxcomb said was true.
Hence 'tis the Whiffling, Vain, Fantastick Chit
Is the Fair Ladies only Man of Wit.
With Servile Flatt'ry sleeking his Address,
Where e'er he goes, he's certain of Success.
Speak Truth to our fine Women, and you'll find,
Of all things, That the least can make 'em kind:
Nor can we blame 'em; for it calls 'em plain,
Deceitful, Idle, Foolish, Fond and Vain.
Wit in a Lover more than Death they fear;
For only Witty Men can tell what Trash they are.
But a pert, airy, empty, Noisy Ass,
In their Esteem does all his Sex Surpass:
Believ'd a Hero, tho' by Heav'n design'd
The Grin of Wit, and Scandal of his Kind.
Such Giddy Insects here for ever come,
And very little Dare, but much Presume:
Perpetually the Ladies Ears they ply,
And Whisper Slander at the Standers by:
Then laugh aloud; which now is grown a part
Of Play-house Breeding, and of Courtly Art.
The true Sign of Your Modish Beau Garson
Is Chatt'ring like a Ladies lewd Baboon,
Shewing their Teeth to charm some pretty Creature;
For grinning, among Fops, is held a Feature.
Nor is this all; they are so oddly dress'd,
As if they'd sworn to be a standing Jest,
Ap'd into Men for Pastime to the Rest.
Observe 'em well, You'll think their Bodies made
T'attend the Empty Motions of the Head;
If that but wags the whole Machine does move,
From top to Toe devoted all to Love.
Their Whigs and Steinkirks to that height refin'd,
They dare not tempt their Enemy—the Wind;
Of the least slender puff each Sot affraid is,
It kills the Curls design'd to kill the Ladies.
So stiff they are, in all Parts ty'd so strait,
'Tis strange to me the Blood shou'd Circulate.
But leaving these Musk-Cats to publick Shame,
I'll turn my Head and seek out other Game.
And thinks his florid Nonsense must prevail;
Bows, and withdraws: And next to prove his Love,
Steals up, and Courts the Fulsome Punks above.
Mean while the Nymph, proud of her Conquest, looks
Big as Wreath'd Poets in the Front of Books;
Surveys the Pit with a Majestick Grace,
To see who falls a Victim to her Face;
Does in her Glass her self with Wonder view,
And fancies all the Coxcomb said was true.
Hence 'tis the Whiffling, Vain, Fantastick Chit
Is the Fair Ladies only Man of Wit.
With Servile Flatt'ry sleeking his Address,
Where e'er he goes, he's certain of Success.
234
Of all things, That the least can make 'em kind:
Nor can we blame 'em; for it calls 'em plain,
Deceitful, Idle, Foolish, Fond and Vain.
Wit in a Lover more than Death they fear;
For only Witty Men can tell what Trash they are.
But a pert, airy, empty, Noisy Ass,
In their Esteem does all his Sex Surpass:
Believ'd a Hero, tho' by Heav'n design'd
The Grin of Wit, and Scandal of his Kind.
Such Giddy Insects here for ever come,
And very little Dare, but much Presume:
Perpetually the Ladies Ears they ply,
And Whisper Slander at the Standers by:
Then laugh aloud; which now is grown a part
Of Play-house Breeding, and of Courtly Art.
The true Sign of Your Modish Beau Garson
Is Chatt'ring like a Ladies lewd Baboon,
Shewing their Teeth to charm some pretty Creature;
For grinning, among Fops, is held a Feature.
Nor is this all; they are so oddly dress'd,
As if they'd sworn to be a standing Jest,
Ap'd into Men for Pastime to the Rest.
Observe 'em well, You'll think their Bodies made
T'attend the Empty Motions of the Head;
If that but wags the whole Machine does move,
From top to Toe devoted all to Love.
Their Whigs and Steinkirks to that height refin'd,
They dare not tempt their Enemy—the Wind;
Of the least slender puff each Sot affraid is,
It kills the Curls design'd to kill the Ladies.
So stiff they are, in all Parts ty'd so strait,
'Tis strange to me the Blood shou'd Circulate.
But leaving these Musk-Cats to publick Shame,
I'll turn my Head and seek out other Game.
235
In the Side-Box Moll Hinton You may see,
Or Howard Moll, much wickeder than she;
That is their Throne; for there they best Survey
All the Young Fops that flutter to the Play.
So known, so Courted, in an Hour, or less,
You'll see a Hundred making their Address;
Bow, Cringe and Leer, as supple Poets do,
The Patron's Guineas shining in their View:
While they, Promiscuous, let their Favours fall,
And give the same Incouragement to all.
Harlots of all things shou'd be most abhorr'd,
And in the Play-house nothing's more ador'd:
In that lewd Mart the rankest Trash goes off,
Tho' rotten to the Core, and Death to Cough;
Tho' Ulcers on their Lungs as thick take Place
As Firey Pimples on a Drunkards Face.
Or Howard Moll, much wickeder than she;
That is their Throne; for there they best Survey
All the Young Fops that flutter to the Play.
So known, so Courted, in an Hour, or less,
You'll see a Hundred making their Address;
Bow, Cringe and Leer, as supple Poets do,
The Patron's Guineas shining in their View:
While they, Promiscuous, let their Favours fall,
And give the same Incouragement to all.
Harlots of all things shou'd be most abhorr'd,
And in the Play-house nothing's more ador'd:
In that lewd Mart the rankest Trash goes off,
Tho' rotten to the Core, and Death to Cough;
Tho' Ulcers on their Lungs as thick take Place
As Firey Pimples on a Drunkards Face.
Discharg'd of these, observe another way
The Fops in Scarlet swearing at the Play:
Nor yet unduly they themselves acquit,
For Fustian on the Stage, too, goes for Wit.
A Harmless Jest, or Accidental Blow,
Spilling their Snuff, or touching but the Toe,
With many other things too small to name,
Does blow these Sparks of Honour to a Flame:
For such vile Trifles, or some Viler Drab,
'Tis in an Instant Damn me, and a Stab.
No mild Perswasion can these Brutes reclaim;
'Tis thus to Night, to Morrow 'tis the same.
What a long List might Justice here Produce
Of Blood, of Fighting, Banning and Abuse?
What Weekly Bill, for Number, can compare
To those that have been basely Butcher'd here,
Within the Compass but of Twenty Year?
One Actress has at least, to name no more,
Been her own self the Slaughter of a Score.
Murder's so Rife, with like Concern we hear
Of a Man kill'd, as Baiting of a Bear.
All People now, the Place is grown so ill,
Before they see a Play shou'd make their Will:
For with much more Security, a Man
Might take a three Years Voyage to Japan.
The Fops in Scarlet swearing at the Play:
Nor yet unduly they themselves acquit,
For Fustian on the Stage, too, goes for Wit.
A Harmless Jest, or Accidental Blow,
Spilling their Snuff, or touching but the Toe,
With many other things too small to name,
Does blow these Sparks of Honour to a Flame:
For such vile Trifles, or some Viler Drab,
'Tis in an Instant Damn me, and a Stab.
No mild Perswasion can these Brutes reclaim;
'Tis thus to Night, to Morrow 'tis the same.
What a long List might Justice here Produce
Of Blood, of Fighting, Banning and Abuse?
What Weekly Bill, for Number, can compare
To those that have been basely Butcher'd here,
Within the Compass but of Twenty Year?
One Actress has at least, to name no more,
Been her own self the Slaughter of a Score.
236
Of a Man kill'd, as Baiting of a Bear.
All People now, the Place is grown so ill,
Before they see a Play shou'd make their Will:
For with much more Security, a Man
Might take a three Years Voyage to Japan.
Here others, who no doubt believe they're Witty,
Are hot at Repartee with Orange Betty:
Who, tho' not blest with half a Grain of Sense
To Leven her whole Lump of Impudence,
Aided by that, perpetually's too hard
For the vain Fops, and beats 'em from their Guard:
When fearing the Observing few may carp,
They laughing cry, egad the Jade was Sharp:
Who'd think with Banter she shou'd Us outdo?
Nay more, be found the better Punster too?
When, without Boasting we may safely Swear
We thought w'ad gain'd the Height of what these Arts cou'd bear.
Yet these true Owphs wou'd think it an Offence
More than all Human Wit cou'd Recompence,
Not to be rank't among the Men of Sense.
Were selfish Coxcombs truely what they thought,
They'd first be Gods, and next with Incense sought.
But 'tis a Truth, fixt in Apollo's Rules,
Your Wou'd-be-Wits are but the Van of Fools;
The very same that we in Armies find;
The Apes in Office worse than all behind:
Who tho' they fiercely look and loudly roar,
A Game Cock's Feather wou'd outweigh a score.
Are hot at Repartee with Orange Betty:
Who, tho' not blest with half a Grain of Sense
To Leven her whole Lump of Impudence,
Aided by that, perpetually's too hard
For the vain Fops, and beats 'em from their Guard:
When fearing the Observing few may carp,
They laughing cry, egad the Jade was Sharp:
Who'd think with Banter she shou'd Us outdo?
Nay more, be found the better Punster too?
When, without Boasting we may safely Swear
We thought w'ad gain'd the Height of what these Arts cou'd bear.
Yet these true Owphs wou'd think it an Offence
More than all Human Wit cou'd Recompence,
Not to be rank't among the Men of Sense.
Were selfish Coxcombs truely what they thought,
They'd first be Gods, and next with Incense sought.
But 'tis a Truth, fixt in Apollo's Rules,
Your Wou'd-be-Wits are but the Van of Fools;
The very same that we in Armies find;
The Apes in Office worse than all behind:
Who tho' they fiercely look and loudly roar,
A Game Cock's Feather wou'd outweigh a score.
Another Set together whispering run,
Where they may best Debauch when Farce is done:
Th'Agreement made, out Pander'us whips before
To bespeak Musick, Supper, Wine and Whore:
There they till Midnight Soak, and Cram and Drench,
The Bumper now in Use, and now the Wench.
Top-full at last, away they Scow'ring run,
And leave no Mischief in their Pow'r undone.
The Cries of Martyr'd Watchmen now You'll hear,
As soon, Demolish'd Windows clattering there.
Whose ever Fate it is to walk the Street,
And with these Bullies and their Harlots meet,
They must avoid, or else be sure to feel
Deep in their Lungs some Villains fatal Steel;
Villain, I say, that for a Cause so small
As not t'Uncap, or reeling to the Wall,
And yet much oftner for no Cause at all,
Shall those poor Innocents of Life disarm,
That neither Spoke, Design'd, or wish'd 'em harm.
Like any Hero these will Foam and Fight,
When they're urg'd on by Strumpet or by Spite;
But if their King and Country claim their Aid,
As none cou'd threaten more, there's none so much afraid.
Not One will move, not one his Prowess show,
But stand stock still, when Honour bids 'em go.
Where they may best Debauch when Farce is done:
Th'Agreement made, out Pander'us whips before
To bespeak Musick, Supper, Wine and Whore:
237
The Bumper now in Use, and now the Wench.
Top-full at last, away they Scow'ring run,
And leave no Mischief in their Pow'r undone.
The Cries of Martyr'd Watchmen now You'll hear,
As soon, Demolish'd Windows clattering there.
Whose ever Fate it is to walk the Street,
And with these Bullies and their Harlots meet,
They must avoid, or else be sure to feel
Deep in their Lungs some Villains fatal Steel;
Villain, I say, that for a Cause so small
As not t'Uncap, or reeling to the Wall,
And yet much oftner for no Cause at all,
Shall those poor Innocents of Life disarm,
That neither Spoke, Design'd, or wish'd 'em harm.
Like any Hero these will Foam and Fight,
When they're urg'd on by Strumpet or by Spite;
But if their King and Country claim their Aid,
As none cou'd threaten more, there's none so much afraid.
Not One will move, not one his Prowess show,
But stand stock still, when Honour bids 'em go.
A Hundred Others, had they but their due,
Of such as these, we shou'd expose to view;
But, with what's past, too feelingly perplext,
We'll shew the Crimes of Plays and Players next.
Of such as these, we shou'd expose to view;
But, with what's past, too feelingly perplext,
We'll shew the Crimes of Plays and Players next.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |