University of Virginia Library

Man, individual Man, if singly left
Must feel his Mind of many a bliss bereft;
Must suffer endless fears, and pains, and woes,
From personal frailties, and from pow'rful foes;
And would from reasoning, form a riper plan,
Of mutual human helps, by massing Man.
Then, whatsoe'er became the full extent
Of combination, and assistance, lent,
'Twere needful to establish binding Rules,
For curbing Culprits, and confining Fools;
That each bold disobedience, and demur,
Which forms infring'd, might penalties incur,
Whether those compulsory rules arise
From general suffrage, framing mutual ties,
Or few, commission'd, with a full controul,
By all the Mass, might represent the Whole—
Each Soul that breathes, beneath such solemn Pacts,
Stands bound, explicitly, by all their Acts.

Here, then is drawn, distinct, a legal line
That must all Individuals' deeds define;
And Heav'n still sanctions all such social Laws,
Each Statute—Chapter—Paragraph—and Clause—
As firm as forms in holy Writ reveal'd,
Unless by like Authority repeal'd.
Thus all who claim the blessings Laws procure,
Must all privations, and restraints endure,
And none from personal Passion, Lust, or Pride,
Attempt to loose the knots those Laws have tied.

Such legal compacts must incur expence,
To keep due Order, and procure Defence;
And such expences must, or ought, to fall,
In just proportion, equally, on all—
And all who thus defraud, by dint of Art,
Depôt, appointed, of the smallest Part,
Whate'er their Wit, or Sophistry, may say,
'Tis pilfer'd from each purse of those that pay.

It matters not what monstrous Cheats are known,
Among mean Rascals that surround a Throne;
Or what base tricks, by barter, or by Trade,
Some Smugglers practice—who the Laws have made.
Tho' Kings be meaner than the meanest Clown,
And, for a trifle, sell a foreign Town—
Still, to supply false pomp, and fleshly sport,
Accept curs'd pay from foreign rival Court—
Or, like a cormorant, should a Sovereign seize
Enormous favours, or more monstrous fees—
Should shuffle off His shoulders personal charge,
And lay it on the Subjects' backs at large—
Should smuggle gifts, like greedy, graceless, Queen,
To perjure Peers—and dire Delinquent skreen;
While jointly, pillaging impoverish'd State
Place all at interest to accumulate—
With numerous millions find not half their fill,
But strive for millions more and smuggle still;
Nor give one guinea, from their mighty store,
To prompt pure Merit, or to help the Poor.

Should Princes grasp a People's golden stuff,
Nor find their fifty thousands near enough;
But still game—drink—and guttle—all they get,
And leave much larger sums, beside, in debt;
Which neither Friends, or Parents, reimburse,
But smuggle all from patient Subjects' Purse—
Drawn most in drops from Artists' mangled hands,
And Labourers' brows, who till the burden'd Lands.

Should haughty Statesmen, by some smuggling stealth,
Impound large portions of the Kingdom's wealth,
And, maugre common scandal and disgrace,
Smuggle their Pimps a pension, or a place;
Or Legislators' Avarice, Pride, and Lust,
Betray their Conscience, and their Country's trust;
And, by base tricks, with strong ambition, tow'r,
To smuggle greater Titles—Pomp—or Pow'r—
Yet famous Ladies never should refuse
To pay their part of tributary dues—
Should ne'er, by selfish tricks, defraud the State,
And lay on labouring Wights, the added weight—
Ladies! who publicly present their plea
To splendid—proud—and matchless, Charity!
Such must find Fame most heavily aggriev'd
Should Hinds and Artists simply say They thiev'd!
Or Penury, with few pennies in its fob,
Indignantly declare such Wretches rob!
Ladies! that love the meretricious Things
Which gaily glitter in the Courts of Kings,
Should ne'er contrive those petty streams to turn,
Which trickle in to help the Treasury's Urn;
And issuing out again make Grandeur shine,
While Kings and Queens, like Idols, look divine!
Such courtly Ladies, never, sure, should try
To make such silvery dews, in rills, run by;
Or to their private purse those drops divert
Which kill their Characters, or Honours hurt!
Productive dews! like pearly drops, run down
That gayly deck the Monarch's golden crown
And form the substance of the shining show'rs,
That yield His Courtiers kindly fruits and flow'rs!
Those worshipp'd crops each Christian sees, and sighs,
Yet no demands of Cæsar's dues denies—
Those idolized flow'rs, and fruits, of gold,
Ne'er from their Lords their bleeding hands withhold!
Tho' sweltering o'er such produce, oft he weeps,
Yet still with patience ploughs—sows—weeds—and reaps—
Bears to the barn—and threshes out the store—
Sells at the Mart—but his own Wealth's no more!
For, while his corn, and coin, with labour, waxes,
All sinks in bare Subsistence, Rates, and Taxes!

The Glory's none—and scanty are the Gains,
Enjoy'd by patient want with all its pains;
While Greatness, over-grown, and pompous Pride,
The produce of its toils, and cares, divide;
Yet never move one muscle for supply
Of ampler crops their Pride and Lusts destroy!

Tho' Ladies, thus, with manifest delight,
Filch from mixt Millions by illegal sleight;
Nor for the wants and woes of fellows feel,
Tho' righteous Heav'n commands, “Thou shalt not steal.”
Indifferent what is right, or what is wrong,
That separately concerns the swinish Throng—
But little anxious what is won, or lost,
So they can join the Joy—and 'scape the Cost—
But little care whose Load's increas'd, or eas'd,
So Pride's indulg'd, and prurient Lusts are pleas'd.
So they can foster Ostentation's flame
Engross the shine, and glory in the shame—
Each sacred Subject judg'd a bare-faced joke,
While Heav'n's prohibitory Rules are broke!

All heavenly Laws thus Pow'r and Wealth explode,
And fracture, by such Frauds the civil Code;
While, tho' all Traders—Artists—Peasants—Poor—
See grim Taxgatherers, daily round their door,
With untouch'd interest, King, and Courtier, 'scapes,
Tho' Laws, for Cheats, are chang'd, in endless shapes.

Great Monarchs have but little cause to grieve,
Who pay not mites while mints their palms receive—
Their Sons and Daughters ample dowries draw,
Without taxation or the letts of Law—
And while they pick their comfortable crumbs,
No contraband Delinquent sinks the Sums.

The Pensioner, and Placeman, much the same,
Come to the Treasury for their scarce-tax'd claim;
For pimping perquisites, and blushless bribes,
Nor care one fig for other cheating Tribes,
And they who gladly lend the grievous loans,
Beneath whose load each hard-ground labourer groans,
Demand, with small deduction, custom'd dues,
Regarding little other smuggling Crews.
But they who ne'er enjoy their new delights
To chear their eyes, or charm their appetites—
Who toil, continual, crush'd with cumberous weight,
To feed, and clothe, and gratify the Great—
Tho' their dull education ne'er defin'd
The rights that appertain to all Mankind—
And tho' their dead'ning habits ne'er declare
What ample pleasures King and Courtier share;
The pomp—the splendour—the indulgent ease—
All sensual Will can wish—all Pride can please—
The feasts of Fancy, and the jovial Joys,
That from their anxious thoughts, and toils, arise—
And tho' they seem to suffer all, with phlegm,
With neither nerves, or nous, alive like Them;
Their Souls are like, susceptible of cares;
Their Frames of misery, sharp and keen as Theirs—
And God will call Them to a reckoning, strict,
For all the cruelties their crimes inflict;
Pronouncing at His bar their dread deserts
For all Want's corporal pains, and mental hurts!

To tricks more treacherous, and of meaner kinds,
Such as must move contempt in candid Minds.
Was Crispin's Will unwillingly compell'd,
While each prompt impulse of his breast rebell'd;
Such pow'rful bent, implicitly obey'd,
Seldom deceives, and scarcely can degrade.
Shall servile Vassal, to a Tyrant bound,
Run rash Caprice's never-ending rounds?
By sad Necessity's strong fetters tied,
To wait on Arrogance, and work for Pride,
Still crouch to Jealousy's unjust command,
And break each civil, and each social band?
His weak Employer's whims ne'er counteract,
Or forfeit peace, or fly from slavish pact?

Suspicion was her Spirit's constant plague;
Her Fancy fill'd with freaks, and visions vague;
While Passion far from Sense, and Reason run,
Till her shrunk Frame look'd like a Skeleton.
A mischievous and everlasting Pest!
Which robb'd her heart of joy, her head of rest.
An Imp that still domestic peace disturb'd,
Which Wisdom ne'er controul'd, nor Conscience curb'd;
Nor supplication, serious, and devout,
Or pious fasting, strove to turn him out.
Minerva-like the frantic Fiend was bred
In the hot matrix of her teeming head;
In this, unlike, the moon-ey'd Monster's sight
Could ne'er distinguish what was wrong, or right—
Its utmost wisdom unimportant plot,
And still, close peeping, could not quit the spot.
A base Descendant of a different Race,
In whose crude composition none could trace,
By feature—form—complexion—word—or deed,
The least resemblance of celestial Breed!
Her close Companion in that warm abode,
Whether she wak'd, or slept, or walk'd, or rode;
Still squat, like Satan, at her Grandam's ear,
Whispering imaginary mischiefs there;
Imbueing, hourly, her productive brain,
With fancied injuries, false, and vile, and vain.
Imaginations, weak; or megrims, wild;
For Maniac only fit, or froward Child.
The Slave of Whim! weak Folly's trifling Tool!
Domestic, mocking, Menials' ridicule!
Investigating, daily, theft, or fraud;
At home her study, oft her talk abroad.
Her cabinet debates—her dozing dreams—
Contriving still to execute her schemes;
Some trick to trace—or Culprit's crime detect,
For falsehood—thievery—fraud—or vile neglect.
Full oft was clearest character arraign'd—
Oft pure simplicity with scandal stain'd—
And, frequent, Crispin bore the prompt expence
Of cruel anger for his calm defence;
While each atrocious deed, or base design,
Was found—form'd—finish'd—in her mental Mine.

Among the many plans that shaping Pow'r,
Engender'd, and produced, each procreant hour,
Begot and buried in the womb of thought,
Some finish'd brats, tho' frights, to birth were brought;
And Crispin was compell'd, as Accoucheur,
To help in bringing forth each spawn, impure!

One devilish bastard, undeserving birth,
A moral Monster! without wit, or worth—
Unfit for life—too loathsome for the light;
And carefully conceal'd from common sight—
'Twas nothing more than a deformed mass—
No creature could proclaim it lad, or lass—
Scowl'd with Dam's cunning wink, and Sire's curs'd squint—
Without one grain of Grace, or Honour, in't;
A dark, a dismal, and infernal Fiend!
And every Soul that saw it, shook, chagrin'd!

When Crispin spied it, first, he felt quite scar'd,
And offer'd every argument he dar'd,
To have it strangled, ere 'twas fully born;
But all his hints were bandied back, with scorn—
And, as the Demon was decreed to live,
He penn'd its hist'ry in plain narrative;
When, as he hated flattery, and fuss,
The secret story was related thus.

No One which knew the honest Butler, thought
That miracles, by Him, would e'er be wrought;
Or could suspect him of such strange design
As turning Water into perfect Wine—
Yet, to indulge his taste, and spare his purse,
'Twas thought he sometimes practis'd the reverse.
Thus his pure Mistress mus'd, like all Men, prone,
To sketch out characters, most like their own—
Suppos'd him skilful in the cunning Art,
From every bottle to purloin a part,
And, to escape the scandalous disgrace,
Of putting simple water in its place—
Then, that the matter might be fully tried,
Thus, her vext Agent! Crispin, was employ'd.

Within the precincts of proud London town,
Where herds drink other's healths their own to drown—
Like Syphons, such so often, and so long,
They near can realize the Key and Thong—
Thus, what with nutriment, and what with waste,
Each tongue becomes a connoisseur in taste;
While, drunk at others cost, no guzzlers grudge;
So every Common-council-Man's a Judge.

Among such Suckers Crispin had a Friend,
Who might some help in such dilemma lend;
Instead of acting in a Despot's aid,
Or carrying on such pimping, plotting, trade—
For, tho' a constant Friend to Freedom's cause,
He lov'd pure moral and politic Laws;
Nor was his conduct ever so absurd,
As butchering health with bacchanalian herd.
To Him the Bard's commission was consign'd,
Who felt his errand as a task unkind;
For, inwardly, his Mind was much appall'd,
Tho' to obedience, by his Duty, call'd.
With him, in poke, a full pint bottle took,
To hear each word, and watch each learned look,
While thro' the glass he cast his glancing eye,
And form a Sentence from each apt reply.

He bore his burden to the destin'd place,
And laid before his Friend the awkward case,
While, with extreme confusion, felt, not feign'd,
His humbling embassy the Bard explain'd;
And, deep embarrass'd, diffidently spoke,
Expecting censure, or satyric stroke.
He knew his conduct well deserv'd such lot
For thus engaging in the groveling plot—
A plot that quite o'erturn'd a standing rule,
So long establish'd in the Christian school;
That moral rule which comprehends the Whole
Of all that walk erect, with reasoning Soul;
And Crispin's Conscience, here, had found a flaw,
Tho' sad Necessity transgress'd the Law.

His Friend, who well his situation knew,
Convinc'd his sentiments were fair and true,
And, that such pimping conduct was compell'd,
His indignation, scorn, and wit, withheld;
While, with a delicacy meek and kind,
Such as befits a philanthropic Mind,
With that quaint archness hanging round his lids,
Which all austere severity forbids,
Ey'd the contents of the transparent flask,
With strict precision, to perform his task.
Not like a Quack his rash decision took
From one slight glance; one superficial look;
Or inadvertent, hasty, sentence drew,
By which the Patient years of pain might rue;
And, worse than instantaneous loss of breath,
Drag out a lengthen'd life of lingering death;
But, with humane benevolence endued,
And cautious care the blushing bottle view'd;
Nor with indifferent, or untender, haste,
Presum'd its ominous contents to taste;
But when he pour'd the purple treasure out,
He tried, and tried, with hesitating doubt,
Pass'd, with strong palpitations to and fro,
Then—pausing long—declar'd he did not know!
No verdict could have touch'd poor Culprit's life,
But might have introduced sad scenes of strife,
Of rooted jealousy, and dire debate,
And clos'd the climax with inveterate hate—
For thro' such climax condemnation rose,
Against suspected friends, or specious foes.

Mean-time her bosom with impatience burn'd,
Till Crispin from his embassy return'd;
And when he this uncertain sentence told,
In Fate's dread records by his Friend enroll'd,
How Disappointment prey'd on anger'd Pride,
To find a Casuist so the case decide,
Whose probity thus robb'd Suspicion's brood
Of such supply of rarest, richest, food!

Pride, in Mankind, for ever discontent,
Arm'd by fierce Anger gives full vengeance vent,
Or sinks in sullen silence, dark and dull,
Whene'er it finds its fond Opinions null;
And hates the Man who thus its wishes thwarts,
Whate'er his knowledge—judgment—wit—or parts.

No Patients, who, to Mayersbach e'er applied
To have their Water by his Wisdom tried;
No love-sick Nymph, to Hag, or Wizard, old,
Presenting palm to have her fortune told;
Or doubtful Soul, who-e'er to Delphos went,
To learn the result of some vast event;
With stronger agitation shiv'ring, shook,
Or show'd a more perturb'd, impassion'd, look,
Than, in her quivering face, and frame, appear'd,
When she the indecisive Sentence heard.
Her heart had entertain'd a strong desire
To find the Culprit both a Thief and Liar,
That she might have the lasting bliss, sublime,
To accuse him, daily, with his double Crime.
So furious was the force of sharp chagrin,
That Crispin shared some portion of her spleen;
For distant hints declar'd a lurking doubt
His mildness ne'er had trac'd the matter out—
That some conceal'd regard, or silly ruth,
Had warp'd his mind to huddle up the truth;
Or, the Delinquents kind regards to court,
Had skreen'd his perfidy by false report:
Thus, while this undecided verdict left
A fair pretence to prove the fraud and theft,
The procreant Demon found her full employ,
In brooding daily o'er this jealous joy.

She still resolv'd like system to renew,
By similar pursuit, with vengeful view—
Her Abigail, unwitting, must be weigh'd,
To try if She deputed trusts betray'd;
To see if selfish Lust would be allur'd
By some sweet baits her cunning had procur'd.

A plenteous portion of those luscious leaves,
Whose absence, Morn, or Eve, weak Woman grieves;
Which billowy waves, and wind's unvarying breeze,
Bring from the farthest Ind, or orient Seas,
Were justly balanc'd, to a single grain,
To put the project in a certain train.
These clos'd in unlockt canister of tin,
A savoury treat to tempt a Soul to Sin!
Plac'd obviously expos'd, in closet by
Which could not fail, each hour, to catch her eye,
In hope she might purloin the fragrant spoils,
Entrapp'd by her Protector's wicked wiles;
That She might have her heart's supreme delight
In vending daily portions of her spite;
Which, like a painful Abcess, closely pent,
Throbb'd till the putrid venom found a vent.

Here was a downright diabolic plan,
Well worthy Satan, murderous Foe of Man!
Who strove, with tempting Fruitage, to entice
A female Dupe to forfeit Paradise,
Such foul, insidious Artifice was worse,
And merited a more opprobrious Curse;
For tho' he thus endeavoured to betray,
'Twas Heav'n that hung the Apple in His way;
Not with a hope, like her's, well understood,
But from that ill, to bring forth greater good.

Her scheme was so contriv'd, in every part,
She rivall'd Satan in his subtilest Art;
But, like reward by Providence was dealt,
The Tempted's painful fate the Tempter felt:
In each the forfeiture was fitly thrown,
On Sin's malicious Manager alone.
In this a most essential difference lay,
Betwixt her simple plan, and Satan's prey—
Had each design completely taken place
She'd ruin'd only One—He, all the Race.
There flattery, with the fruit, in part, prevail'd—
But here the fancied scheme completely fail'd;
For, tho' the tempting fruit still daily stood,
And Abigail well knew 'twas very good;
The scales declar'd it neither more nor less
Than when first plac'd within the snug recess.

When proud Belshazzar, with his festal band,
Beheld with wonder the suspended hand,
Whose fingers, most miraculously scrawl
Mysterious types, athwart his palace wall;
He trembled o'er those oracles of fate,
While shocking words declar'd Him short of weight—
But tho' her tremblings much resembled those,
They from a very different interest rose;
For, when Crispinus pois'd the fateful stuff,
She shook to find the weight was just enough.
What raptures would have fill'd her ravish'd frame,
Had her experiment but proved the same;
Her looks had lit with transport had She found
One pennyweight was wanting in the pound!

Who but a Slave secur'd with links of steel,
Form'd with a Mind Love's living fires to feel,
Would not, when suffering proud Oppression's stroke,
With earnest ardour wish his bonds were broke!
Wish Providence would soon dissolve the chain
That link'd him with licentious fools, profane—
Had made him leap the legislative line
That should the compound mass of Man confine—
Thus caus'd him to comply with base behests,
Which Probity abhors, and Truth detests!
Unwilling Party in each wicked plot,
Which tends to sever every social knot—
Diffuse Confusion through Man's wretched Race,
And deal Distrust, and Spite, in every place;
Till, cruel Cunning, overwhelming Worth,
One Sea of Sin and Misery floods the Earth!

Tho' thus repell'd in both these paltry Schemes,
And finding all such doubts but Fancy's dreams,
Yet still the Demon, with undaunted face,
Involv'd her daily in some new disgrace;
Not only finding fresh, and specious, plea,
That Butler lapp'd the Wine—Housekeeper Tea—
But every Housemaid, every Footman, stole
The Bread—the Meat—the Candles—or the Coal—
The Coachman pillag'd Corn—the pilfering Cook,
To help her kitchen-stuff the Butter took—
And wiley Laundress well deserv'd a rope
For filching Indigo—and Starch—and Soap.

A simple Anecdote, in aftertimes,
My Muse may well recite in simple rhymes,
Still to poor Butler's character unkind
She still suppos'd her precious Wine purloin'd
When, to demonstrate bottles ne'er were full,
But his parch'd throat had had a pull—
To prove before his presence all was true
The cork, undoubting, tremulously drew,
Push'd down her finger far within the place,
To show her shrewdness and his deep disgrace,
Forced out the foaming Wine, o'er all her neck and face.
She took peculiar care none could purloin
Her number'd Notes, or calculated Coin,
But gave Invention amplest exercise,
To find fresh coverts for each precious prize;
Her Spirit suff'ring a perpetual chafe,
Contriving where to lodge those Lares safe.
Each corner of each Closet well was tried
Where she might sure her those household Idols hide;
And, to secure them from each Pilferer's pow'r,
Chang'd those choice places almost every hour.

To ease her memory, and all tricks detect,
Each separate sum specific figures chequ'd,
Lest some vile Plunderer, searching for such prey,
Should find the whole, yet filch but part away;
No weighing well how thieves small sums might steal,
Destroy the tally, and the crime conceal.

Sometimes the practice of this curious Part
Produc'd full trouble for hand, head and heart;
For when fresh whims had from her memory 'ras'd
The new asylum where her pelf was plac'd—
When anxious thought and study could not tell
The squeez'd and crumpled Papers' secret cell,
Nor could her peeping diligence explore
The hiding-place of such important store,
What wild distraction then her looks display'd—
Suspecting every Man, and every Maid—
Who, with unfeeling frolic, deem'd it fun,
While, raving round, her frantic footsteps run;
Searching each secret draw'r, with haggard eye,
While arch Attendants all stood simp'ring by,
And every blameless Soul about her chid
For stealing treasure harsh Suspicion hid.

On such occasions oft she'd cant and whine,
As tho' she little cared for Notes, or Coin,
Yet urging still this striking apophthegm,
That, “Tho' it hurt not Her, it ruin'd them!”
To give this argument its greatest force,
Religion still was made her Stalking-horse;
And thus brought home to every human Mind,
“All would be curs'd who robb'd a Friend, so kind!”

Before her minish'd Frame was full undrest,
And duteous Abigail retir'd to rest,
The bed was search'd beneath, with cautious care,
Each sheltering corner, and each cover'd chair,
Lest murderous Caitiff there conceal'd should lie
To pilfer Property, or Life destroy.
That wealth to guard, and Life, still valued more,
Alarum-bells were fix'd in every floor;
But chief beside Crispinus' couch was hung
The most vociferous, with stout iron tongue,
By clamerous call to press his prompt relief,
When restless Fancy should create a Thief.

If Hives of Wealth such cares, and curses bring,
The honey ne'er repays such painful sting;
And Crispin justly felt his heart rejoice
That Heav'n had chose for him far happier choice;
For tho' his best-lov'd Friends had scanty Fare,
They 'scap'd Wealth's curses, and its wearying Care—
Bless'd Providence, each day, for each repast,
Leant close on Christ, and look'd for Heav'n at last!

Some half-taught Mind, from this half-stated Case,
May think a Miser's management to trace;
But let me here correct that rash mistake—
She lov'd not Money for mere Money's sake,
But long'd for more than manag'd Farms afford,
To deck her Buildings, and adorn her Board;
And teeming Mines, when added, could bestow,
To furnish private shine and public show—
Yea, more than princely Income e'er supplied,
To satiate Vanity, and silence Pride—

From that foul Fiend not Crispin was exempt—
She knew him poor, and Pelf might Penury tempt—
For all her dry Benevolence decreed,
Kept not his Family from suffering Need,
Tho' strict Economy and constant toil,
Were wisely exercis'd, by each the while.
'Tis true he sometimes took such bits and scraps,
As must have cramm'd low Pimp's, or Pauper's laps.
For as all were well-meant for Penury's Race,
He found they could not find a properer Place.

Fames lying lips of liberal Bounty spoke—
Poor Crispin found, and felt, that all a joke—
Tho' in kind Greaves's Recollections found;
But all was built on Fancy's fairy ground;
For all her Liberality adjudg'd,
Was grievous pittance—and that pittance grudg'd!

To her sound Wisdom much might seem unfit;
Her politics all bore the stamp of Pitt—
Submission tallies not with ample store;
To keep Men humble you must keep them poor.

She felt amazement, and full well she might,
How Crispin's Income kept his matters tight.
She knew what Families must needs require,
For hire of Lodgings—Food—and Clothes—and Fire—
And, that those Friends might clothe—and drink—and eat,
Thought Satan's chousing tricks might make him cheat—
That Poverty might make the paltry Wretch
Put moral rules a little on the stretch;
Till Conscience, cauteriz'd by anxious care
To yield those Friends both more, and better, Fare,
More warmth, and light, till Want, still waxing bold,
Might steal her stores tho' not her notes nor gold—
For on the grants her hand, or heart, would give,
His Family might starve, but could not live.
Himself, tho' ne'er o'er-nice in meat and drink,
Was fond of Books, and she might, aptly, think,
While stores of Knowledge, now, were in his way,
His Mind might prompt to make a part his prey;
And Conscience, still becoming more relax'd,
Her stock of literature would oft be tax'd.
His past experience would most truly teach,
That, tho' such treasures, now, his hand could reach;
Yet, haply, in some unauspicious hour,
Caprice, or Passion, might withdraw that Pow'r;
And, should fresh Providence repeat his fate,
He'd find such cool reflection come too late.

Such wretched reasonings must in Minds arise
Whose fond affections ne'er can reach the Skies—
Which weakly hope to find substantial bliss
In such a frail and fickle World as this:
But when the Soul perceives all wanting weight,
As time approaches near the eternal state,
If Heav'n the heart has truer wisdom taught,
Such baseless visions vanish into nought.
The intellect that feels their trifling force
Derives no nurture from celestial source—
Such dull desires, and gross suspicions, grow,
Fed by foul fountains bubbling from below.

The sordid Frame, that such surmises fill,
Ne'er feels Love's thriving fires, nor Friendship's thrill;
Tho' plausibly it plead the poor pretence,
That bosom never knew such blissful Sense!

Souls that suspect, without some striking cause,
Are neither bound by Love's, nor Honour's, laws;
Their jealous judgments, casually declare,
What their own hearts, and inclinations, are.

No mind can weigh, or measure, Fellow-Elf,
By any standard but frail, sinful, Self!
And as its pure, or impure, views, prevail,
Will frame the measure or will poise the scale—
Will, when it feels pure philanthropic fire,
Make others heavier, and their standard high'r;
While Knaves will take off weight, or twist each Wight,
Till, like themselves, quite crooked—base—or light—
For every Parent, thro' all Nature, known,
Gives hues, and shapes, to Offsprings, like its own;
And every Object still appears to view
Like the stain'd Medium Mind's thrall'd eye looks through.

That such suspicions patient Crispin shar'd
His patronesses Eloquence declar'd;
For oft that favourite faculty display'd,
Her breast's most secret sentiments, betray'd;
Proclaiming with a proud intemperate tongue
Her own reproof, while figuring fancied wrong.
For thus she spoke—“His Wife's apartments search'd,
Much treasure might be trac'd which theft had lurch'd,”
And, tho' this accusation lay at large,
Books were chief objects of specific charge;
Remarking keen, but cautiously, that, “He
From such base fault, might, possibly, be free;
Yet would his Children, wanting good advice,
Not find their moral feelings quite so nice;
But when they left their little nasty nooks,
And loung'd, at large amongst her tempting Books,
The luscious Novels, and enticing tracts,
That warm the Fancy with their wanton facts,
Or lead the Mind, by lustful sentiments,
To meditate on vicious Love's events—
These, ne'er arrang'd in catalogue, or list,
Were more than their weak Reason would resist.”

This offer'd policy a fair pretence
To keep the persecuted Culprits thence;
Endeavouring hard his confidence to chouse,
To keep the blameless Victims from her House—
Yea forg'd still darker, falsehoods to condemn,
And keep their Friend and Father far from them.
Scarce e'er one wintry Sun arose and set
But he experienc'd some intemperate pet;
Which from a vile inveterate wish arose
To treat his Wife, and Family, as Foes;
While striking looks, and phrases, daily strove
To alienate a Sire's, and Husband's, love.
Her jealous Fancy frequent would suggest,
Those close attachments were too much caress'd;
When tattling tongues of servile Slaves would tell,
His love had led him to their humble Cell.

Nor all this satisfied her furious hate,
To drive his Children from her churlish Gate;
His Conduct, still, interpreted a crime,
Which gave his Family one moment's time;
And all attentions to a tender Wife,
Were fruitful causes of continual strife.
Her pestilential breath was taught to broach
Illiberal speech, with warrantless reproach,
In all the foul-mouth'd diction which defiles
The lips of Billingsgate, or broad St. Giles!
Diction which would gross Demirep degrade
In any tolerable way of trade—
What meanest prostitute, perhaps, might meet,
From filthy Nightman, as she traips'd the Street;
Or some abandon'd Nymph, from next of kin,
When just full-flush'd with Insolence and Gin—
What decent Courtezans would scorn to use,
To Sister-trader, in most polish'd Stews—
Would all the sinful Sisterhood disgrace,
In Jermyn Street, or more polite King's Place.

Such monstrous phrases did but ill befit
The tongue of Knowledge—Wisdom—Taste—and Wit!
Such Language Wit and Prudence must despise—
A shame to Wealth—and shocking to the Wise!
Such Words as ill comport with those pure lips
So wont to watch against ungraceful trips!
So long train'd up most pleasantly to ope
With apt comparison, or witty trope!
With lucid simile, so us'd to shine,
And manly eloquence, almost divine!
So seldom opening but with views to vent
Some friendly flattery, or court compliment;
Or to display, by self-applauding grin,
The knowledge—genius—wit—all hearts to win!
That mouth, so moulded into mimic shapes,
With simpering smiles, to greet a group of Apes;
Such as must every female Mind excite,
To imitate her tones, or prompt their spite—
Might make ev'n Bramin's gravity grow bland,
Or cold Archbishop break the tenth Command!
Ought such sweet mouth, stretch'd with Æolian storm—
Lose its fond blandishments and beauteous form,
Distorted and enlarg'd like gulph profound,
To vent such Sentences, with vulgar sound!
Such as might startle clamorous Neighbour, near,
And shock coarse Cook's, or Washerwoman's, ear!
Such sordid speeches as were never spoke
By London's lowest rabble, but in joke!
Were ne'er pronounc'd, before, by Wit and Taste,
In Spite, or Spleen, or Anger's utmost haste!
Never before in Passion, or in Sport,
By keen Admirer of a polish'd Court;
Much less exprest by literary Pride,
Where Phœbus and his Progeny preside!
Such epithets would meet contempt and scorn
In humblest Votaries of the Muses born!
The meanest Minstrel of the tuneful Train,
Would feel such phraseology profane!
His Fancy's flights would, instant, startled, stop;
The Pen, with trembling, from his fingers drop;
And black Ink blush, as conscious of a crime,
Should he record such ribaldry in Rhyme:
But should he, shameless, labour to rehearse,
In vocal accents such vile, doggrel Verse,
When Venus and her vilest Nymphs were by,
With flaming faces every one would fly—
Ev'n Bacchus, with his drunken Crew, retire,
Abuse the Bard, and loath his blackguard Lyre!
What then must Father—Friend—and Husband feel,
Whose bosom always beat with wedded zeal,
When hearing her base calumny accuse
His beauteous Consort, and her virtuous views?
Nor could his Offspring or Himself escape,
Her black abuse, in every varied shape—
While witnessing the Wrath, with Outrage roar'd,
Against a Saint, his Soul almost ador'd—
Thus breaking down all binding Institutes,
Form'd to distinguish Men from lawless Brutes!

Not only, thus, his conduct was arraign'd,
And Her, most priz'd, on Earth, intensely pain'd—
Not only, then, his tenderest heart-strings torn,
But day by day fresh crucifixions borne,
For Prejudice had so absorb'd her Soul,
No longer subject to divine controul,
But Pride—Caprice—and Passion—so possest
The stormy mansion of her boiling breast,
That oft she blam'd the Bard, in wicked Whim,
About the Being crucified for Him:
Yea, worldly-wisdom fix'd affection so
On Pomps and Pleasures of the State below,
Her Soul would Sin's false blandishments prefer,
To Christ's free Love, tho' crucified for Her!

Crispinus found Suspicion's pow'r increase
As Conscience clos'd with that bless'd Prince of Peace;
Malevolence encount'ring heavenly Love,
While Pride with Piety continual strove;
And base Oppression aim'd a desperate blow,
When he was found unchristian Custom's Foe—
For Fashion's hostile flags are still unfurl'd
When genuine Wisdom wars against the World—
And Persecution's poniard quits the sheath,
To stab each Soul that soars o'er Brutes beneath.

When first her subtle intellect perceiv'd
His humbled heart pure Gospel truths believ'd;
Still fresh offence, and mad surmises, grew,
As practice warranted profession true,
And on his head and heart with fury fell,
The more his footsteps left the track to Hell.

She needed not an Argus' hundred Eyes,
While Wealth could multiply her watchful Spies;
Nor had she cause to dread a dearth of Ears
While promis'd favours influenc'd hopes and fears,
And prompted Parasites to diligence
In spying real, or suppos'd, Offence,
Who would, like Pimps, around superior Courts,
Convey to Dupe supreme their dark Reports.

By close attention, in their crafty way,
They possibly might hear the Culprit pray;
And, like Chaldee's assassinating Troop,
Make his religion, and pure practice stoop
Till every prompt devoir, and rite, divine,
Were offer'd up before her sovereign Shrine.
Pimps heard, perhaps, his raptur'd tones aspire
In thanks and praises to his heavenly Sire,
And secretly report, or she suspect
Her temporal Interest suffer'd some neglect—
Or when his Spirit, with aspiring wing,
In pure Affection's flights, presum'd to sing,
What Justice—Truth—Love—Gratitude, would claim,
In honour of the dear Redeemer's Name;
Some genuine Psalm or Hymn, of holy Joy,
Whilst listening Sycophant was lounging nigh,
Whose eager tongue would pantingly repeat,
What Phrenzy seiz'd him in his lone retreat.
Might sometimes represent him so absurd
As wasting time o'er what's well call'd Christ's Word—
Not only conning scraps on those blest Nights
That Heav'n demands of Man, as sacred Rites
Which dissipation spends in wearying sports,
Cut off from Operas, Plays, and crowding Courts;
But plies long lessons in those useful hours,
With all the promptness of his mental Pow'rs,
Which, in her Business ought to be employ'd,
And not by Superstition so destroy'd
With meditation studying every part,
To plant some portions in his head, and heart,
That he, with gloomy look, and accent gruff,
Might frequently relate the tiresome stuff,
When chearful freedom, or some sprightly speech,
Supplied some opening for the fool to preach.
They might, at length, each circumstance relate,
How oft he tried to read, or preach, or prate,
When left to winter on the dreary plain,
With numerous members of her menial Train—
How he coax'd Housemaids—Footmen—Sempstress—Cook—
To hear long Lectures from that stupid Book,
With comments, vended by Dissenter, vile!
In vulgar Tongue, and low, familiar, Style,
Till he almost persuaded each poor Elf,
To be a silly Christian, like Himself—
Which, if accomplish'd ne'er could recommend
To higher Place, or make fall'n Man a Friend.

The more his Mind engag'd in such pursuits
The more she fed him with her bitter fruits.
Not only gave his feeling Soul offence
By urging all her Tools to insolence;
Nor only damp'd his bosom to behold
Her Friendship, once tho' warm, now cutting cold,
But supercilious, irksome hatred rose
To higher pitch than o'er profanest Foes;
By Names, and treatment, his true honour torn,
Which prov'd at once her pride, contempt, and scorn.

No harmony can ever long exist
Where Soldiers under adverse Leaders list;
For while opposing Chiefs their pow'rs engage,
Each bosom bubbles with infernal rage,
Till bursting forth, with violence and brawls
All truth—humanity—and justice—falls:
So 'twixt the earthly and the heavenly Broods
The fondest Friendships turn to deadliest Feuds.
Earth's Demon's daggering the celestial Race
With cruel Calumny, and deep Disgrace—
While Christians only show their shining arms
To strike injurious Vice with just alarms;
Or startle proud Impiety with awe,
Which breaks or banishes Heav'n's holy Law—
Aim no fierce blows to make blind Worldlings feel,
But slightly pierce with tender hopes to heal;
Just probing gently, every rankling wound,
To search their sores, and make each ulcer sound;
While pouring in specific balsams, pure,
Which can, alone, complete a lasting cure.
They simply prove, to Honesty and Sense,
How Christians ought to strive, in self-defence—
While Foes, for Pow'rs of Darkness, fiercely fight,
They wield their weapons pure for Pow'rs of Light,
As justling objects urge their jealous Love,
Shadows below, or Substances above.

No cordial Love, or Friendship, e'er can dwell
In princely Palace, or in sordid Cell,
Where inclinations clash from day to day,
And different interests work a different way—
Nor can Companions in one path proceed,
Unless the line get previously agreed;
Whether the track they travel clearly go
To bliss, above, or banishment, below.

Such was the direful Case where Crispin dwelt,
Where all those Pow'rs were found fell Darkness felt.
Still 'twas his lot, while there he kept his post,
To war with Wealth's high, formidable, Host!
While feeble were the pow'rs he dar'd oppose,
Against that might, and multitude of Foes!
Where'er Simplicity's weak front appear'd,
Her warlike standard Ostentation rear'd;
And Falshood put on Probity's disguise,
To battle Truth with blustering troops of Lies.
High Pow'r and Influence issued sly commands,
To raise recruits among domestic Bands:
While Prejudice engender'd deep disgust,
When Conscience thwarted Vanity and Lust—
Soft smiles, and friendly favours, were denied,
Proportion'd to the Bard's abuse of Pride;
While Cunning exercis'd both Wit and Whim,
To fix foul stigma, wrongfully, on Him.
When Truth appear'd, Hypocrisy would try
To rob his Spirit of its promis'd Joy;
Inflicting, strongly, her chastizing rod
For talking too familiar of his God.
Conscious all Pow'r belong'd to Him, alone,
And Man had none which he could call his own;
He suffer'd not his daring tongue to say
I will do this to-morrow, or to-day,
But still referr'd to His transcendent Will,
To furnish strength all duties to fulfil.
But grave Hypocrisy, grown a prim Prude,
Deem'd such pure freedom impious, rash, and rude;
And seem'd so fearful of that unknown Friend,
“It made her startled hair all stand on end!”

From such emotions Wisdom would have thought,
Her Heart was stricken by what Moses taught—
That such deep deference thro' God's Grace was given,
From His known Love and Truth to hope for Heav'n—
Or partial knowledge made her Spirit sad,
And fear profound, such Liberty forbad.
Does this respectful reverence purely spring
From clear conceptions of Heav'n's holy King:
Or was it knowledge of His holy Law,
Or firm Affection kept her Heart in awe?
No! her condemning Mind dislik'd to hear
The dread omniscient Being dwelt so near;
Or, like old Athens, to avert His rod,
Gave ignorant worship to an unknown God!

How could she deem Him like Earth's temporal Pow'rs,
Where each a People's peace, and wealth, devours;
Suffer not such low Subjects near their Shrine,
To tender truth, or offer dues divine—
None but few Favourites boasting titl'd birth,
With Wealth, and Grandeur, dug from abject Earth;
Or those that clearly plead some special claim,
From riches—honours—Influence—or Fame—
Nor those permitted near their Seat—sublime,
But with restrictions both of Place and Time;
Nor there—nor then—the smallest favour craves,
Or plea present, but cringing just like Slaves,
As tho' unworthy each attention shown
From Fellow-mortal perch'd upon a Throne;
While Kings, themselves can boast no better Stem,
But each draws all he hath, from Heav'n like Them.

Not so that Being whence all others flow,
Angels, above, and mortal Men below;
Whose Pow'r and Glory's infinitely high'r
Than all Earth's boasting Kings, or Heav'n's bright Choir;
Yet He imposes no peculiar Forms
On those whom fear awakes, or favour warms;
Or, who by sense of Sin, and Misery, mov'd,
Approach with hope to have their Suit approv'd—
All but mere Mockers; who, like Courtiers, come,
With ceremonious, and unmeaning, hum,
In false, or flattering terms, their God to greet,
Or cold, or false, request, for Christ unmeet!

Such foul Dissemblers ne'er must hope to share
Ought but the sad reverse of mimic Pray'r;
While Heav'n's great God each simple Soul approves,
When Christ's true Spirit pure emotion moves.
Ev'n earthly Kings who o'er each Subject swell
Their own imperial Offspring ne'er repel,
But woo the peerless Progeny They own
To throng, without reserve, around Their Throne—
So each adopted Child of Heav'n appears
To spread before their Prince fond hopes, and fears;
Nor deem His institutes impose restraints
On lowly Sinners more than lauding Saints—
Yet spurns all pray'r, in frail, self-seeking, fits,
From Scribes—proud Pharisees—and Hypocrites!

Thus Christians mark how Majesty, divine,
Distinctly, draws one universal line,
Accepting rich, and poor, and Age, and Youth,
Who worship Him in Spirit, and in Truth;
But setting every spurious plea aside,
Presented by base Passion—Lust—or Pride.
Unlike the Conduct of mere mortal Kings,
Whose highest Favourites, hung with Stars and Strings,
Must, thus bedeck'd, at aweful distance bend—
Not hail them, Father! nor salute them, Friend!
Nor, while they lowly bow, once look above,
Or feel a sense of ought but selfish Love.
The Poor—in Raiment mean, must ne'er approach,
One prayer to utter, one complaint to broach;
But still, for ever, at a distance keep,
And, still, midst want and tatters, work, and weep!
Kind Heav'n pays no respect to pomp and show,
The diamond's glitter, or the ruby's glow;
Nor will more pleas'd the Prince than Boor, behold,
Tho' clad in silk and silver, pearls and gold;
But meet apparel for the mental part,
The holy ardour in the humble heart—
The simple, and sincere—the mild, and meek—
His perfect Spirit condescends to seek;
Which copy Him who came from realms above,
A Pattern pure, of Holiness and Love!
Who left those realms of everlasting light,
To shew Heav'n's character to human sight.
Not here selecting, while in lowly guise,
The worldly-wealthy, worldly-learn'd and wise—
Chose not his Friends, or Ministers of State,
From proud High-priests, or those mis-call'd the Great—
But Men despis'd, or poor, whose hearts He knew
Were fashion'd humble—honest—just—and true.
Nor did His Greatness—Glory—Pomp—display,
To make them Subjects of tyrannic sway;
But made His lov'd Companions every hour,
The gifted Partners of His Grace—and Pow'r—
To share His cup—participate His meat,
And sit, like Equals, at His temperate Treat—
Ev'n rustic youthful Fisherman might rest
His harmless head upon His princely breast!
But Pow'r, upon that Bosom, tho' divine,
Or Pomp, or Pride, ne'er covet to recline!
They hanker more to rest their recreant heads,
With brute-indulgence, on adulterous Beds!
With pamper'd Profligates would sooner sit,
To share their Flattery, Foolish, filthy Wit
Than hear soft soothings of celestial sound,
Where Wisdom, Goodness, Grace, Faith, Love, abound!
Would sooner join in lewd, licentious, Songs,
Than virtuous Hymns from evangelic tongues!
Much rather try their speech in impious Toast;
Make beastly Lust, or Blasphemy, their boast,
Or mock remarks on Heav'n, and Truth, restor'd,
Than mix in blessings, at some humbler Board!
Rather with Prince, or Potentate, reside
Whose Wealth might raise their Riches—Pomp—and Pride,
Than with that high, that holy, heavenly Pow'r,
Who deals to Kings, and Courtiers, all their Dow'r—
Much less with Need, and Self-denial, live,
Which Arrogance and Greatness nought can give;
Nought to indulge Ambition's base desires,
Or feed Lust's, Pride's, or Passion's, lawless fires!
But would, in kindness, carnal things withhold,
Intemperance—Tyranny—and graceless Gold—
All that would weaken Worth, or strengthen Strife,
Or furnish vain frivolities of Life;
All that would heighten Fashion—Folly—Lust—
But lay Self-preference prostrate in the Dust!
All that would pamper Vanity and Pride,
Feed flames within, or gild a gay outside—
All that would make vile Flesh forget its fate,
And steal Affection from ye heavenly State;
Still urging on the Heart all strong restraints
That fence the footsteps of ascending Saints!