 | Poems |  |
Mr. QUICK.
With his gibes and his quiddities, cranks, and his wiles,
His croak and his halt, and his smirks and his smiles;
View the smart tiny Quick, giving grace to a joke,
With a laugh-loving eye, or a leer equivoke.—
Madam Spleen shuns that rogue with particular care,
And flies to a palace, to keep from Despair:
She hates the blythe dwarf with immoderate rage,
And for fear of his power ne'er visits the stage;
Or e'en ventures abroad, her fix'd dreads have so won her,
Except with a duchess or stray maid of honour.
His croak and his halt, and his smirks and his smiles;
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With a laugh-loving eye, or a leer equivoke.—
Madam Spleen shuns that rogue with particular care,
And flies to a palace, to keep from Despair:
She hates the blythe dwarf with immoderate rage,
And for fear of his power ne'er visits the stage;
Or e'en ventures abroad, her fix'd dreads have so won her,
Except with a duchess or stray maid of honour.
Of all the bright parts which he fills with high credit,
His Drugget's the best, and 'tis Judgment has said it:
There are others more priz'd by a common affection,
But none that so nearly approaches perfection.—
A great part of the audience alone feel delight,
When the heart can be mov'd thro' the medium of sight;
Tho' the sound's as important, when artfully stealing
Thro' the chinks of the ear it alarms all our feeling;
But seeing's the grand and the primary sense,
Thro' which every nerve receives bliss or offence;
Turns the force of the relative four to a jest;
For the sight, like a bawd, prostitutes all the rest.
His Drugget's the best, and 'tis Judgment has said it:
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But none that so nearly approaches perfection.—
A great part of the audience alone feel delight,
When the heart can be mov'd thro' the medium of sight;
Tho' the sound's as important, when artfully stealing
Thro' the chinks of the ear it alarms all our feeling;
But seeing's the grand and the primary sense,
Thro' which every nerve receives bliss or offence;
Turns the force of the relative four to a jest;
For the sight, like a bawd, prostitutes all the rest.
With an inborn regret, and a sigh that's conceal'd,
He joins Mummery's flag in the dramatic field;
Yet the act's not his own, 'tis swoln Folly demands it,
And he must be obedient, when Fashion commands it:
There's sorcery in nonsense which leads us astray,
Tho' Wisdom attempts to exorcise the way;
We're bewitch'd from ourselves, in an imbecile nick,
And subscribe to the art, tho' we talk 'gainst the trick;
As prudes rail at passion, with vehement din,
And profess to chain sense, tho'—they privately sin.—
He joins Mummery's flag in the dramatic field;
Yet the act's not his own, 'tis swoln Folly demands it,
And he must be obedient, when Fashion commands it:
There's sorcery in nonsense which leads us astray,
Tho' Wisdom attempts to exorcise the way;
We're bewitch'd from ourselves, in an imbecile nick,
And subscribe to the art, tho' we talk 'gainst the trick;
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And profess to chain sense, tho'—they privately sin.—
It is strange to assert, but 'tis Truth tells the story,
That your small individuals are dearest to Glory:
It should seem that the souls of diminutive men,
Are too vast for their brittle corporeal den;
And impel their possessors o'er mountains to leap,
While the big race of mortals half petrified sleep:
Hence Berlin's late lord made the world kiss his rod,
And the victor of India was hail'd as a god;
While chiefs full as valiant are kept from the fray,
As their minds are depress'd—by the weight of their clay.
That your small individuals are dearest to Glory:
It should seem that the souls of diminutive men,
Are too vast for their brittle corporeal den;
And impel their possessors o'er mountains to leap,
While the big race of mortals half petrified sleep:
Hence Berlin's late lord made the world kiss his rod,
And the victor of India was hail'd as a god;
While chiefs full as valiant are kept from the fray,
As their minds are depress'd—by the weight of their clay.
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