University of Virginia Library

How very few, tho' all have Legs, can walk!
Yet fewer still, tho' all have Tongues, can talk—
Nature Capacity alone bestows,
Perfection from our own Endeavour grows.
Nothing so poor but Education mends,
Nothing so rich but on its aid depends.
The barren heath, by Culture's hand subdu'd,
Might laugh with corn, tho' now with brambles rude;
Neglected, Tempe's Vale would cease to bloom,
Nor furnish labour for the sail and loom;
The Wilds of Afric, temper'd by the plough,
In time might be what England's plains are now.
A Hottentot might wear a classic air,
If you but plant another Oxford there;
Yahoos themselves might learn to be polite,
And shine the wonder of Cornelys' night,
If to French Barbers you their Heads consign,
And send for Hart their Feet to discipline;
Hibernia's Sons might without Brogue harangue,
And Sawney, with his Country, leave his Twang;
Plain honest Taff with modish phrase concur,
And periods speak without a single hur;
Monsieur might find where Speech by Nature's hung,
Nor, shrugging, make his Scapula his Tongue;
If (for we need not call back Spirits fled,
Nor seek to raise Quintilian from the dead)
If, in our modern Rhetorician's School,
Their infant Lips were taught to speak by rule;
Steep'd in the gossip air of Pewt'rers' Hall,
Their Tongues had mov'd as Pewt'rers' hammers fall.

Deem not we praise in sport, and inly scorn
Arts which the Tongue, but not the Mind adorn.
Tho' Speech be not the choicest Fruit we see,
In mellow clusters hang on Learning's Tree,
'Tis worth the gathering still—on Reason's plan,
If not get all, at least get all we can.—
Our Tongues, altho' but Midwives to the Brain,
Like other Midwives, kind reception gain;
Our Words, altho' they're but Idea's Dress,
May oft, like other Cloaths, procure success.
Tho' this be Form—yet bend to Form we must,
Fools with it please, without it Wits disgust.
Soft tuneful Nonsense, spoke with studied Ease.
May, in a modern Conversation, please;
Tho' Butler's Wit, or Prior's graceful Sense,
Stutter'd or stammer'd, needs must give offence;
So handsome Blockheads please a Lady's eye,
And well-shap'd legs the place of Wit supply;
And hence from Pope each Belle, disgusted, fled,
His Shoulder marr'd the merit of his Head.

Enough of Form—the Muse's leading view
Is, with the Shade, to catch the Substance too.
And oh! (could Wishes serve in Study's place,
Wishes should do the cause of Letters Grace)
Oh! for that Torch, which animated Clod!
Or (such as Moses us'd of old) a Rod,
That, from the Rock of Science, could command
Fresh streams to gush, and fertilize the land!
These living Waters playing round its root,
The Tree of Knowledge, bent with Classic Fruit,
To all that pass might of its plenty give,
And all, the Curse revers'd, might eat and live.
Matter and Form might then true Friends commence,
And Sound be made the vehicle of Sense;
Words, on their airy Wings, would then convey
Ideas, ripen'd by Reflection's Ray;
And ev'ry period, polish'd high, would bear
Sense to the mind, and Music to the ear;
The Parlour-Conference might then engage,
Nor leave all Wit and Humour to the Stage.
Politeness then (nor wist that here I mean
That idle glare of manners, which is seen
'Mong travell'd Fops, who, from a three years' roam,
Bring nothing but the Grin of Monkies home)
Politeness then would teach the lib'ral plan,
To soften Manners, yet not lose the Man;
Would point the Channel, where Discourse should flow,
Nor arrogantly high, nor meanly low;
But, Def'rence to the Thoughts of others shewn,
With easy Freedom to declare our own;
Would teach gay Wit to wheel her sportive flights,
Nor let the Wanton fly-blow where she lights;
But blend Humanity with all she spoke,
And spare a Friend, altho' she lost her Joke;
Would make Sense graceful by familiar Ease,
And shew unconscious Humour how to please.
Then might we see Athenian days display'd,
In all their Classic Elegance array'd;
The Tongue of Science might again be heard
At social Boards, nor deem'd the Taste absurd;
Philosophy, that antiquated Maid,
Might sit at Table, tho' without Brocade;
Reason, altho' in Greek, were no Offence,
Nor were it Pedantry to love good Sense.
The Park the Walk of Science might be made,
And the Mall boast an Academic Shade;
Parnassus then would lose its high Renown,
And Phœbus lead the Muses all to Town.
Knights then would rove their graceful Steps to trace,
As now to shew their Star, and Suit of Lace;
And Nobles to the Man of Letters bow,
As courteous, as to Pimps and Sharpers now.
Exteriors should give up usurp'd Controul,
And Body give Precedence to the Soul.
A Socrates had then, in thread-bare Cloaths,
Been notic'd more than Troops of tinsel Beaux;
Language had MAN's distinguish'd Praise become,
Nor Critics wish'd the Species had been dumb;
Rich as Pactolus, then, had Converse roll'd,
The Stream all Chrystal, and the Sand all Gold.

Such had we been, if school'd on Reason's Plan—
And Angels had not scorn'd Discourse with Man.

View the World's Converse as it is-you'll swear
Man is a worse Companion than a Bear.—
Bulls roar more Sense, and Wolves more Knowledge howl,
Savage Hyænas more politely growl;
More Reason may be found 'mong prattling Daws,
And softer Language screaming from Macaws;
More Wit among Campeachy's grinning Race,
More Humour in an Ape's half-human Face.

The Ladies (Blessings on 'em) look me blind,
They have no Faults, or I no Faults can find;
Too weak my Sight their Brightness to behold,
Who see no Flaws in Women till they're old.
But there are Eyes of stronger ken, that dare,
With microscopic search, explore the Fair;
That can, with stedfast look, on Beauty gaze,
And find out Spots in its meridian Blaze.
“Women (say they) (and blister'd be the Tongue,
From whence the vile Insinuation sprung!)
“Are Ideots in a beauteous Form array'd,
“Whose Lips to kiss, and not to speak were made;
“A Jay, a Starling, or a Parroquet,
“Can scream a more engaging Tête à Tête;
“A few stale Words are all a Lady knows,
“Which serve to prate to Lap-dogs and to Beaux.”

Let envious Wits at Beauty Censures fling,
And, 'cause they cannot steal its Honey, sting;
With undiscerning rage discharge their Gall,
And, for a giddy few, bespatter all.—
Candour must combat 'gainst a charge so rude,
And Truth proclaims it doth not all include.—

Some bright exceptions to the charge I know,
Whose Words with more than honied Sweetness flow;
Whose Voice within it bears a Siren Charm;
Whose Thoughts might Critics of their Spleen disarm;
Who breathe the sugar'd Breath of Eloquence,
And speak in sweetest Strains the purest Sense;
Whose Wit might from Apollo steal a Sigh,
And from the Muses draw an envious Eye.—
But tho' the Sex had ne'er known Pallas' Care,
And ev'ry Girl was foolish as she's fair,
No fleering Jests should ever slip my Tongue,
But they shall all be Wits, while fair and young;
No flippant Joke one blooming Nymph shall vex,
They all are safe—for Chloe's of the Sex.

Yet while of Speech we descant, while the Tongue,
And all its Tilts and Tournaments are sung,
To leave out Woman were as foul a Blot,
As Hector in the Tale of Troy forgot;
A fault as gross, as if some Critic Lowt
Should write of Poets, and leave Shakespeare out;
Should Legge omit, when Patriots are the Theme,
Or speak of Acting without Garrick's Name;
Should Virtue's Throne, and that of Beauty trace,
Nor think of Chloe's Heart, and Chloe's Face.

Draw we the World then as it strikes the View,
And be our Picture general, but true;
Its Words, and not its Actions would we scan,
The speaking now, anon the moral Man.

Note well the Speech of Men—from what they say,
You'd think some Mortar-maker mix'd their Clay,
And swear he was a Novice at his Trade,
Their Tongues are so abominably made.
Here Critics frown, and, with a Sneer profound,
Call for the Proofs on which the Charge I ground;
Defy the Muse fair Instances to shew,
From real Life to prove the World is so.
“These are but random Censures (they contend),
By hungry Poet in a Garret penn'd;
Who, all indignant that the World should dine,
While he is cooking up some tuneful Line,
And send no Footman with a civil Card
Of Invitation, to so sweet a Bard,
For such Contempt poetic Vengeance takes,
And, where he finds no real Faults, he makes;
Then random Censures are at Random hurl'd,
And thus in Effigy he hangs the World.”

Truce with your World in Effigy—and know
I found it faulty, and not made it so!

Come then, attesting Muse, be Truth thy Care—
Invest thee with thy Robe of thinnest Air,
Wove by capricious Fancy's Hand, and chuse
The lightest Steed that ever bore a Muse,
To bear thee, rapid, on his fiery Hoofs,
While the wide World you traverse o'er for Proofs—
Proofs what base Lumber in the Brain is laid,
And of what homely Stuff Discourse is made.
Let Memory lead on th' ideal Chace,
And be Thou Mistress of unbounded Space,
The private Parlour and the crowded Hall,
Closet or Cabinet lie open all
To thy exploring Eye—nor Bars nor Doors
Shall stop thy Entrance, who, thro' smallest Pores
Of Brass, or denser Gold, can'st find a way,
And pass as free as Winds on Mountains play.

But be not You, ye conscious Fair, afraid,
That what in Secret pass'd, shall be display'd,
And on the House-top trumpeted aloud,
To please the Ear of a malicious Crowd;
Think not the Muse profanely will reveal
What Lovers whisper when Night's Shades conceal;
Think not that She will publish in the Streets
The tender Wishes mutter'd to your Sheets;
Or the less guarded Thoughts you prattle o'er,
When met to do—what Cælia did before.
Impress'd with Silence' sacred Seal, let these
Pass among Nature's loose Extempores;
Secret as Masons' Rites be these—the Muse
Scorning to poach, a lawful Game pursues,
Open to ev'ry Ear, to ev'ry Eye,
Where ev'ry Fool may sport as well as I.
It lies in Court, in Coffee-house, in Club,
Sometimes my Lord's the Game, and sometimes Scrub;
And oft, so various is this shifting Hare,
It loves to lie 'mong China's glittering Ware,
Where, while Miss prattles, that her Tea may cool,
The Muse sits list'ning to the pretty Fool.
Sometimes at Arthur's, near my Lord she sits,
While he is handling Dice and Cards by fits,
And hears him while with Lust of Gain he burns,
Now curse, now pray, to God and Devil by turns:
Sometimes upon the Tankard's Edge she sits,
Noting the Humour of the Porter-Wits;
Candid to all—for she is heav'nly free,
And keeps her Judgment's Independency.

'Tis done—the Muse, her Task perform'd, has brought
The World's Discourse upon the Wings of Thought.—

First tow'rd the City lay the Muse's Flight,
And reach'd to Cornhill with the Fall of Night.
Curious to know how City-Wights converse,
If course the Style, or classical and terse;
If good the Matter, elegant the Dress,
And if their Speech is season'd like their Mess;
Silent as Ghosts enwrapp'd in Winding-sheet,
She glided in where Cits each Evening meet.
Amaz'd, altho' she saw some Sign of Lungs,
She found much room to doubt if they had Tongues.—
Molasses humm'd and haw'd his so's and ifs,
Mundungus answer'd with protracted Whiffs;
Bumbo his Neighbour's Elbow bobs, and hems,
Rumbo responds, with scraping up some Phlegms;
Strasburgius smiles, and takes a Pinch of Snuff,
Glysterus answers with a serious Puff.
Ocellus winks a Patriot Piece of Wit,
And drinks to Magna Charta and to Pitt;
When lo! unpledg'd he sees his fav'rite Toast;
Acetus archly cries, “D'ye mean his Ghost?
C****** will ne'er make P***, nor twenty such,
For all that's left's—a Coronet and Crutch.”
Loud Laughs approve the Joke—and now begin
Their boist'rous Joys, with more than Babel's Din—
Politics, Snuff, Tobacco, Pipes, and Smoak,
The senseless Argument, and heavy Joke,
False Concord, Phrase that wounds a Classic Ear,
It do not argufy, that there, this here,
Jumble so strangely, that, at all that's said,
Poor Priscian well may tremble for his Head.

The Muse, affrighted, wav'd her airy Wings,
And, from a Groupe of such mechanic Things,
She flew in Search of Men of Parts and Wit,
And next alights in Drury's crowded Pit.
Nor less was her Disgust, when here she found
The Change was not for Sense, but barren Sound.
Here Critics Characters of Plays declare,
Talk learned Nonsense with a solemn Air;
Of Fable, Language, Sentiments, and Plot,
Character, Unity, Incidents—What not?
Much deep Discourse they hold; but you'll descry,
From the insipid Sameness of the Eye,
That, meaning less, they censure or extol,
Than the pert Bird that cries out, “Pretty Poll!”
Much too of Play'rs they prate, cry, “Great, Immense,”
But this is Play-house Pedantry, not Sense.—
When Lear's Fall makes feeling Garrick weep,
You'll find these mighty Critics fast asleep.

Dull as we find the Critics of the Pit,
Replete with ev'ry thing but Sense and Wit,
Yet still the Box more flagrant Fools affords,
More rude to Nature, in young travell'd Lords,
And by the Voice of Reason 'tis confest,
They are but modish Nuisances at best;
Emetics to good Manners, and good Sense,
Pictures of Fortune, Shades of Consequence,
Embroider'd Nothings, Pegs from Monmouth-Street,
The grinning Spawn of Democritic Gleet;
These, while the Muse of Shakespeare, Passion's Queen,
In buskin'd Grandeur on the Stage is seen,
Sweeping with Grace and Dignity along,
In all the Majesty of Tragic Song.
Whether she Lear's matchless Sorrows sing,
Madd'ning with base Ingratitude's sharp Sting;
Or the grim Horrors of Macbeth, possess'd
With all th' avenging Spirits that molest
The Murd'rer's Bosom, and, with Knives more keen
Than those he steep'd in Duncan's Blood, unseen
Deep stab his Rest, place Scorpions in his Bed,
While Conscience' Vipers hiss around his Head;
Or if the Touch of Pity she would move,
By the sad Story of too jealous Love,
And call the tender sympathetic Tear,
To strew the hapless Desdemona's Bier;
Whether with these, or kindred Scenes of Woe,
The Muse of Shakespeare bids Compassion flow,
Which none, but Coxcombs, without Tears e'er saw,
Which, from the iron Cheeks of Death might draw
Soft Drops of Pity; and, altho' her Choice,
To have them truly spoke, takes Garrick's Voice,
Such Marble are these Fops, that, all the while,
They simper, titter, chatter, prattle, smile—
Talk louder than the Play'rs, bow, nod, and grin,
To shew those Teeth which Lodomee put in;
In a loud Whisper cry, “My Lord, D**n'd Stuff”—
Then pick their Teeth, or take a Pinch of Snuff—
“Let's quit this horrid Place, my Dear, and out,
“To join the World at Lady Trump'em's Rout,
“Or any where but this dull pedant Waste,
“Without Divertimenti, Goût, or Taste;
“Nothing but Shakespeare, Garrick, and such Geer,
“We pretty Fellows make no Figure here;
“As well to strut on Lapland's desart Snows,
“As well be dress'd to visit Kites and Crows
“As Drury's barb'rous Throng—where oft I came
“A Laceman's Show-board, all a golden Flame,
“Yet scarce an Eye my Figure could engage,
“All were Attention-fix'd upon the Stage,
“And slighting Beaux in Têtes, in Queues and Bags,
“Preferr'd old Lear's Caxen, and his Rags.”

Ye Play-frequenting Dames! permit a Bard
To teach you how your gentle Hearts to guard;
To shew you how these Foplings to descry,
Who are not worthy one superfluous Sigh.—
Whene'er the Scene afflicted Virtue paints,
Orphans oppress'd, or persecuted Saints'
Patriots who freely for their Country bleed,
Lovers to Death or Banishment decreed;
When such a Scene's on Foot, if't chance your Eye
Some vacant Phantom in a Box should spy,
Prattling in Tooth-pick, Tittle-tattle way,
Ogling, or bowing, heedless of the Play—
Shewing his trump'ry Trinkets, brought from far,
His Ring, or Ruffles, Buckles, Seal, or Star;
Note him, ye gentle Fair ones, in your Book,
Scorn his protesting Speech, and cringing Look,
Shun, shun the Wretch, and case your Heart in Steel,
Lose not a Thought on those who cannot feel;
Cast not on such a casual rambling Glance,
Better to wed some Hero of Romance.
He to the God of Love can ne'er be true,
Who laughing can his bleeding Vot'ries view,
And they who can on Romeo's Fortune's smile,
Have Hearts each real Juliet to beguile.—

Sick of the Box, disgusted with the Pit,
The errant Muse adventuring for Wit,
Led by the Voice of Fame, next hies to Men
Of lib'ral Converse deem'd, and, Night now ten,
Arrives where Statesmen out of Place resort;
Let it suffice, it is not far from Court.
Here Bankrupt Machiavels at Night retire,
And study Politics, to save their Fire.
Here grey-beard Politicians, out of play,
Profoundly whisper what the Papers say;
Their turn for Secrecy by this they hint,
Altho' mere Advertizers out of Print.
A Groupe of comic Features, and grotesque,
That asks no Hogarth's Pencil to burlesque;
For Nature stamp'd them in a laughing Vein,
And sav'd the Mimic, Ridicule, to feign.
Wigs run to Seed on Men who're long run out,
And into Chalk-stones petrified by Gout,
Dependent hang, like Signs before an Inn,
And seem to say, “Rare Politics within.”
In the lean skinny Regions of each Face,
Taxes and Scarcity of Corn You trace;
And pine, not for their own, but Nation's Debts,
They seem to feed on nothing but—Gazettes—
On high-bridg'd Noses polish'd Glasses ride
(For Glasses are the Politician's Pride)
Noses so ill fix'd on, so long, so thin,
Would fall, unless supported by the Chin;
The friendly Chin curls up half-way, to meet,
And keep the Sign of Manhood from the Street.
They once had Bodies, in Life's earlier Day,
But Death, as earnest, took their Trunks away,
And now the Skeleton remains, with Thighs
Scarce able to support two Summer-Flies;
On two shrunk Shanks, too weak for Spider's Weight,
Totter and reel, these Atlases of State.
Solemn they purse the Brow, contract the Eyes,
(Wisdom, true Wisdom ne'er look'd half so wise)
Then bark a Minute-Cough, and shrilly hem;
And having prefac'd with an ancient Phlegm,
The Face they lengthen, gravely stroke the Chin,
Then thus these Spectre-Machiavels begin.—
“This Scarcity's not Nature's—(Oh! my Corn!
“We shall have Rain before To-morrow Morn)—
“England could well herself maintain from Need,
“But she has hungry Scotland too to feed,
“Great Plenty in the Nation—(Oh! my Back!
“'Tis now become a very Almanack!
“And tells, too plainly tells, in shooting Pain,
“The Harvest will be damag'd much by Rain)—
“The King an Airing took—the Lords adjourn'd—
“I find the Chester Waggon's overturn'd—
“Hot Work among the Commons—there 'twas said,
“This Nation's ruin'd by One gouty Head—
“C****** was seen at Court To-day with B***;
“'Tis said, he has bespoke a Highland Suit.”—
Then, fearful turning up the Eye, they pray
“All may be well”—and snore the rest away.

So broken, and disjointed—often worse,
These Self-surviving Skeletons' Discourse—
Leave we them at their Nap then—by and by
They'll wake to read the Evening-Post, and die.

Herculean Labour were it to describe
The various Prattle of the Coffee-Tribe;
This were to write the Chaos-heap of News,
Which in the public Journals we peruse;
Where, as if Chance had held the Writer's Hand,
Contending Opposites together stand,
So crossly purpos'd, and so much perplext,
Papyrius' Reading best restores the Text.
Things of no Kin are jumbled in a Breath,
A Kitt'ning coupled with a Monarch's Death;
Monkeys and Ministers together cling,
And Buckhorse stands by Prussia's Warrior King;
Here Bishops make the Orphan's Cause their Care,
Next Mrs. Philips recommends her Ware;
There a Maid's ravish'd by a neighb'ring 'Squire,
Next Love for Love is acted, by Desire;
Here the Asylum guards from vicious Men,
Ill-coupled Neighbour stands the Magdalen,
(For had Propriety been kept, I ween,
The Purgatory Lock had stood between);
This Patriot Page condemns the venal Bribe,
And Probus d**ns th' electioneering Tribe;
A Cornish Member, with a Purse annext,
Shall court your Vote and Int'rest, in the next;
Then Advertisement comes, and with her brings
A random Concourse of discordant Things.
Nostrums with Poisons, Quacks with Murd'rers meet,
And Chancellors with Pris'ners in the Fleet;
Authors ill-neighbour'd here incessant jarr,
And all the Alphabet is up in War.
Pray'rs next to Novels stand, by Sermons Plays,
And Swift by Burnet, Tillotson by Bayes;
Here Shakespeare flashes with all Phœbus' Fire;
There Mason tinkles on his wooden Lyre;
Here, Cheek by Jowl, as if no more at odds,
O*f**d and Gl***t*r shake their Critic Rods,
And pull up Rachel's Cloaths—for smuggled Gods;
Here Gospel Truths in Sherlock's Censer blaze,
There glimmer in a Weekly Paraphrase;
Here Shandy revels in salacious Wit,
There Wesley issues out Damnation's Writ;
Here Foote at Squintum squints—There (dire to tell!)
Squintum sends: Foote into the Pit of Hell;
Here Johnson rolls old Shakespeare in the Mud,
And by Subscription sheds his sacred Blood;
There Kenrick, to revenge the Poet's Fate,
Pelts Johnson with the Dirt of Billinsgate.

Enough of jarring Elements—Enough
Of Anti-pro-ish—Water-landish Stuff.
Let it suffice that (some Exceptions made)
The Coffee-Orators are here display'd.
From Paragraph to Paragraph they stray,
And change the Subject ev'ry Word they say;
Their medley Sentences as ill agree,
As Fellows with Licentiates—Prudes with me.

Of Coffee-Houses sick, the roving Muse
Through splendid Drawing-Rooms her Game pursues—
How gay the Scene! how elegant the Cloaths!
A Constellation bright of Belles and Beaux!
How sweet they ogle! and how nice they walk!
How fine!—But can the pretty Creatures talk?
Talk!—they can lisp, and drawl, and whine, and squeak;
'Tis too robust for Beaux and Belles to speak.
Young sapling Lords can prattle of Brocades,
And Trunks of Dukes can sigh for Masquerades;
My Lady too can chat of dear Quadrille,
And Miss can flirt, can murmur, coo and bill;
A Duck intriguing, and a building Daw,
The nearest Semblance of this Scene can draw;
Let Ducks and Daws, then, eke the Picture out,
While we a Cruise make to a Lady's Rout.

Here Critics question—“Wherefore leave the Shore?
Now move by Sails, on Hoofs and Wings before?”
Know then, the Muse builds Fleets—without a Bill,
And travels in what Vehicle she will.

What strange fantastic Things we now explore!
Better be wreck'd, than landed on this Shore!
A Land of Gypsies, Jugglers, Jonases,
Thy Monsters, Gulliver, were Gods to these!
Better with Lilliputian Dwarflings dwell,
Or where to Mountains Brobdingnagians swell;
The Shape of Man among Houyhnhnms lose,
Or quit the human Manners 'mong Yahoos:
Than be those coz'ning Things that flirt about,
And live by sharping at a modern Rout;
Who have all Sense and Honesty disgrac'd,
And pick a Pocket—to display their Taste.—

How maim'd the Language of this gambling Junto—
Mere Fragments all—“Manille, Spadille, and Punto,
“Odd Trick, and two by Honours! such Cards! well!—
“A fine Finesse your last, my Lady Bell!
“Col'nel, your Lead—so! Lord ha' Mercy 'pon us!—
“Your La'ship sartinly has been with Jonas—
“I wish (excuse my Rudeness so to tell ye)
“Jonas and you in some great Fish's Belly—.”
But it were Waste of Ink, and Loss of Time,
To put the Nothing of their Prate in Rhime,
When two poor Words may comprehend their Chat,
'Tis only—Matt and Fish—and Fish and Matt—

'Twere well the Rage of Cards, from Av'rice sprung,
Had spread its Taint no further than the Tongue,
But the Infection reach'd another Part,
And sent malignant Poison to the Heart.

Far from each Gambler's Breast is Honour flown,
And Love is banish'd from his hearted Throne!
The Lust of Gold is all that they have left,
Their Gallantry is but to varnish Theft.
Miss, with the liquid Light'ning of her Eyes,
Strikes blind the Gazer, while she steals the Prize;
With like Finesse each sharping Son of Hoyle,
Squints at the Ladies, but would chuse the Spoil;
With wishing Eyes their snowy Breasts he views,
But would the Necklace far before them chuse;
Talks of their ruby Lips, and brilliant Eyes,
But courts her brilliant Earings, in Disguise;
Swears that their braided Locks are Cupid's Net,
But all he longs for is her rich Aigrette;
Will praise the Foot—while he'd the Buckles take,
And squeese the Hand, but for the Di'monds' Sake.

These are thy Triumphs, Gambling! this the Fruit,
The bitter Produce of thy poison'd Root!
Innocent Pastime once! a simple Fraud,
Which Honesty itself might well applaud,
To cheat old Time, and, at Reprisal's Call,
Steal something from the Thief, who steals from all.

Ye Paper-Kings! how fall'n!—from Play to Crime!
Once ye beguil'd, but now ye murder Time;
Your playful Tricks are turn'd to serious Sin,
And now ye rob, tho' once content to win.
Your Queens too, dead to Honour, condescend
To filch a Purse, and be the Sharper's Friend.
Your Knaves (when Kings do so, are Knaves to blame?)
Play knavish Tricks, and ratify their Name.
And all the shuffling Subjects of your Reign
As treach'rous grown, as Jesuits in Spain;
From the rich Di'mond to the humble Spade,
All, all combine to help the sharping Trade.
Quit then such trump'ry Kings, ye gambling Crew,
And scorn those Honours which are not your Due!
Spurn all Success that's coupled with Deceit,
And, tho' it be the Fashion, scorn to cheat;
Draw not the Stream of Gain thro' Falshood's Pump,
But in Life's Game make Honesty the Trump.

Now is her Subject grown the Muse's Curse,
And she must Shift the Scene from bad to worse—
What Midnight Hags are these? Bluemantles all!
Archives of Spleen! a Factory of Gall!
A Club of Witches! whose malicious Bliss,
Those Joys they share not, from the World to hiss;
With venom'd Tongue each venial Slip t'arraign,
And glut their Spleen on Reputation slain.—
Wrinkled each Hag and shrivell'd; meagre, grim,
Their Eyes with Envy, more than Age, grown dim;
The Tooth of Rancour on their Flesh has din'd,
And only left the Skeleton behind;
One only fleshy Part remains, as young
And full of Motion, as when Girls—their Tongue.
Like Ravens they on mangled Carrion feed,
And then live best, when Reputations bleed;
O'er ev'ry Theme of Calumny they run,
And make malicious Sport with Maids undone.

Has “the soft Nature of some easy Maid”
By some gay false Lothario been betray'd?
Has she, while Honour slept, to Danger blind,
Her Virgin Treasure to her Love resign'd?
Tho' all her Sex's Virtue made her more,
Than ever Virtue made a Nymph before,
In vain shall all her Merit for her plead,
In vain this Slip of Nature strive to shade;
These Maiden Furies shall, by Envy stung,
Rouse ev'ry Viper twisted round their Tongue;
In ten-fold Venom ev'ry Viper steep,
To wound the wounded Beauty still more deep.
“Did you not note ('twill make us precious Sport)
“Belinda's Apron looks a little short?
“You could not but observe the other Day,
“What Qualms oppress'd her at her Morning Tea;
“My Maiden-head to a Button—I could name
“Why short the Apron, whence her Qualms too came.
“So—so—my dainty Miss! the Secret's out—
“No Wonder 'bout the Captain such a Rout—
“Nothing but Captain—Captain—all the Day—
“Captain at Church—the Captain too at Play—
“This was your daily Airing in the Park!
“These were your Jaunts to Richmond with your Spark!
“A precious Spark indeed!—tho' (entre nous)
“I could forgive him this, and thank him too—
“For, by the Heart of Zoilus, I swear,
“Her horrid—pretty Eyes I ne'er could bear—
“No, nor the nasty—Roses on her Cheek,
“While mine is more the Colour of the Leek—
“Much less her shocking—ruby Lips—whose Joke
“Was stale Virginity whene'er they spoke—
“We'll Virgin her, a saucy Puss—sweet Life
“'Shall Madam lead, now neither Maid, nor Wife.
“The odious Delicacy of her Waist
“Will soon be lost—her Stays a Mile unlac'd—
“Nine Months shall make her cheap to all the Men—
“Laugh, if she can, at us stale Virgins then;
“A squeaking Brat shall fully all her Fame,
“And give her up to Misery and Shame.
“A Prison's harshest Rigours shall she prove,
“Bridewell may cool the Fever of her Love;
“Her dainty Shoulders then shall Madam strip,
“Not for her Lover's Arms, but Beadle's Whip.”

Unnat'ral Hags! with ruthless Fang to gore
A helpless Wretch, too much distress'd before!
Too plain from whence your Spleen to be denied;
It is not Love of Virtue—but your Pride;
Pride and rejected Love impel you all,
On wretched Beauty thus to vent your Gall.
For had not Nature, in a sullen Mood,
Cast you in hideous Mold, and sour'd your Blood,
Some am'rous Rake you nothing loth had led
To Love's soft Couch, altho' your Honour bled.—
Hence then, Detractors base! and own it true,
Your Face, not Virtue, kept you from the Stew.

Shift we the Scene to quit these Beldames' Din,
Who boast their Vartue, while they long to sin;
Who rail at all who've dar'd to taste Delight,
And curse by Day the Thing they wish at Night;
Who slander Women, and the Men condemn,
'Cause none was kind enough to ruin them.

Leave we these Beldames now—and next be shewn,
Where Folly sits triumphant on her Throne.
Good Sense avaunt! and Reason come not near!
Fly Taste! behold the Cubs of Humour here!
Choice Spirits, Genii—any thing but Sense,
Grimace their Wit, their Jest, Impertinence.
Their Stye, another Ark, each Brute admits,
And they must first be Beasts, who would be Wits.
Here may you find a Love-sick Cat outmew'd,
An Ape outgrinn'd, an old Church-Spout outsp***,
A Bird outwhistled, and outsnarl'd a Dog,
A Hog outgrunted, and outcroak'd a Frog,
The mewling Infant, or the Tyger's Growl,
The cooing Turtle, or the Irish Howl;
Cocks, Bulls, and Horses, Owls, Geese, Mice, and Rats—
They take off ev'ry thing, except their Hats.
The Indian War-whoop, Canon, Catch, or Glee,
Nonsense in Crotchets, Sense in Travestie—
A Hiccup—Belch—bravissimo—Encore,
Huzza!—and all the Table on a roar.

But let us not decree with too much Phlegm,
Nor rashly these amphibious Wits condemn;
Let them still grunt and gabble, howl and squeak,
They ne'er disgust so much, as when they speak.
If on this Jaunt of Folly you would ride,
S**t*r and F**te will Choice of Nags provide,
Stables they keep, your Servants at Command,
In which at Liv'ry Hobby-Horses stand.

There are (I would there were not) but there are,
Who would not have Discourse consist of Air;
Who scorn in arbitrary Types to deal,
And would not have th' Impression, but the Seal!
Would, à là Laputa, use Things, not Signs,
And bring out Bottles when they'd speak of Wines;
And when a Dinner is the Topic, wish
They cou'd, instead of Words, produce each Dish.
How much a nobler Orator were he,
Who, when describing some high Luxury,
Instead of barren Sound should, from a Sack,
Bring out good Ven'son, Claret and Arrack,
Than he, who speaking of some luscious fare,
Gives us, instead of Turtle, empty Air!
The Souls of Gluttons in their Mouths are plac'd,
And all their Senses are reduc'd to Taste.
They love a Cook far better than a Muse,
And 'fore the Attic, Kitchen Salt would chuse;
And, so deprav'd their Appetite, and vile,
Would rather belch, than speak in Chatham's Style.

In Conversation's Page another Blot
The Punster is, and in our Feasts a Spot.
To the plain Sense his Mind he ne'er will stint,
But construes Words, as if they look'd asquint,
And gives such antic Turns to ev'ry Word,
As make the Tenor of Discourse absurd.
Should you a serious Comment give on War,
Ancient or modern, Guns, or scythed Carr,
If, among Mars's Implements, you chance
A Word in Praise of Powder to advance,
And, ere you bring the Subject to an End,
Your Praise from Powder should to Balls extend,
He bows, begs Pardon he should be so rude,
Opinions downright opposite t' obtrude,
But freely must confess, if his Decree
Were made a military Law, that he
Would break, cashier, ay whip each Mother's Son,
Who durst use Powder while he bore a Gun;
And they who to their Powder must have Balls,
Should be drumm'd out, to jig among the Gauls.—
While in Amazement buried you attend,
And wonder where this Paradox will end;
To clear the Point a waggish Hint he'll drop,
He meant the Powder of a Barber's Shop,
And that nor Lead, nor Steel his Balls compose,
But softer Matter much—call'd, Belles and Beaux.—
Speak of a Tempest which makes mad the Waves,
Bursting their monstrous Heads, to be the Graves
Of the wreck'd Mariners, while Whirlwinds roar,
And castled Cliffs with Ruins strew the Shore;
While the Earth shakes, and like a Drunkard reels,
And at her Centre strong Convulsions feels;—
While these tumultuous Horrors fright the Soul,
Ambiguously gay, he cries—“'Twas droll—
D**n'd droll to see the Devils dance a Jigg,
And hear the growling of that Fish—Man—Pig;
Were ev'ry Tempest such, it were an Alms
To rid the World, of such dull Things, as Calms.”
Strange and untoward as this Speech may seem,
Remove the Cloud, and Truth's fair Ray will beam,
And point out where this Proteus' Meaning lay—
You mean a real Tempest, He the Play.

Yet Puns there are, to give to Puns their due,
Wit's genuine Offspring, and good Humour's too;
Which to our graver Thinking give Relief,
As Syllibubs regale us after Beef.
But let the Punster's Tongue be ever mute,
Unless the Subject and the Season suit;
Nor Sense nor Feeling can forgive the Pun,
That would be witty on a Friend undone.
When dire Misfortune is the Theme, a Joke
Must give Offence, altho' by Comus spoke;
And when we speak of God's supreme Behests,
A serious Sigh is worth a thousand Jests.
But some, so much they love this wordy Game,
Must vent a Pun, tho' punning they blaspheme.

One Brute there is, more monstrous than the rest,
Whom all, that Sense or Breeding love, detest;
Whose Speech but serves to make him more a Brute—
He must throw out gross Bawdry, or be mute;
From whose licentious Tongue there's none secure,
Nor the chaste Matron, nor the Virgin pure;
His ev'ry Word is sure to give disgust,
And prove his School a Bagnio, Tutor, Lust.
Let not the Muse in this be thought a Prude,
As if she call'd each Double-meaning rude;
No—Let each sprightly Ranger, if he can,
At once display the Rake and well-bred Man;
Let Wit equivocate as Fancies strike,
And look at Venus too—but look oblique.

When Nymphs and Swains, in Youth's warm jocund Day,
While Reason's playful, and the Fancy gay,
In festive Choirs are met—Let then go round
Shandëan Jests, and Love's salt Wit abound;
'Tis Nature's Will—and who shall dare gainsay
Her sacred Laws, while Nature cries, “obey?”—

If Tetonilla, more to catch the Eye,
Short prunes the Stays, nor lets them rise too high,
Tell us, grave Sir—wherein the mighty Harm
To hint of Drums, where Love beats his Alarm;
Or if, regardless whether Prudes will sneer,
All Gauze and Fig-Leaf, Nivea shou'd appear;
What if some Rake, with Wit and Passion big,
Should praise the Fig-Leaf, and request the Fig?
What mighty Harm is in the roguish Jest,
If by the Hand of Decency 'tis drest?
—But when rank Fools their bawdry Nonsense blurt,
And hurl lewd Words, as Scavengers fling Dirt,
Steep'd be their Tongues in Mercury at Rock's,
To cure at least their Language of the P---.

What Phantom's this by Affectation led?
Convuls'd each Limb, and palsy'd seems his Head;
So full of Whim and Harlequino-Tricks,
Kittens wou'd scorn in such a Farce to mix.
Survey him from the Bottom to the Top,
He's a mere Compound of a Toyman's Shop;
Made up of Essence-bottles, Seals, and Rings,
Of Tooth-picks, Snuff-box, and such gewgaw Things;
His Grammar, These,—His Rhetorician, Deard,
His Eloquence is to be seen, not heard.
His Learning dangles in his golden Chain,
Sense, fine as Amber, in his clouded Cane;
A glittering Box for Repartee he brings,
And his Wit sparkles in his Di'mond Rings;
His Sword displays his military Art,
His Love, his bleeding Love—a Garnet-heart;
Oft languid Sweets, his languid Passion tell,
And Miss is woo'd in aromatic Smell—
Such his Discourse—No Matter for his Name—
All very pretty Fellows are the same:
Such dangling Puppets we each Day may see
Display their Etiquette of Gallantry,
Where foreign Fashions stamp each Coxcomb right,
And high-bred Folly passes for polite.

One Fool there is, more desp'rate than the rest,
In too much Peril to be made a Jest;
Revers'd is Folly's Nature here;—for while
He plays the Fool, 'tis Cruelty to smile;
Reason beholds him with a weeping eye,
And pays his ill-tim'd Fool'ry with a Sigh;
And, while he throws about his Grin, and Leer,
Reward his impious Pastime with a Tear.
Is the Muse bound by any Critic Law,
This Fool Superlative more full to draw?
Must she in more explicit Verse declare
She means the Wretch, who, in the House of Pray'r,
I'th' holy Temple, laughs, jests, speaks aloud,
To the Annoyance of the kneeling Crowd;
Who, when the Church her Adoration pays,
And chants in solemn Strains th' Almighty's Praise,
As if he proudly scorn'd on God to call,
Hums out a Ballad pick'd up at Vauxhall!
And, while the Priest, low bends to Jesus' Name,
Pays his Devotion to some flirting Dame;
And, grown more senseless than his parent Clod,
Prefers his own, before the Word of God.

From Life's fresh Morning, when, with fellow Boys,
I play'd with Rattles, Marbles, Gewgaws, Toys,
To the rash Moment, when my riper Days
Urg'd me to stray Parnassus' Hill for Bays;
And, tho' scarce Master of an Oxford Hack,
Boldly to vault on Pegasus's Back,
To offer Incense at Apollo's Shrine,
And court poetic Glances from the Nine;
Time's Glass was shaken with too free a Hand,
And no Heed taken of his ebbing Sand;
Days, Months, and Years no Estimation bore—
The dubious Future must be valued more.
Else should the Muse, a Prodigal of Thought,
Bestow her Verse upon a Thing of Nought,
An hour consume to shadow forth a Shade,
To paint mere Echo by mere Nothing made;
The Antiquarian's Prate should tell, which springs
And draws its Life from mutilated Things:
From Otho's Chin, or Cleopatra's Brows,
From the green Rust that cankers Cæsar's Nose;
From Faces long, long moulder'd in the Grave,
And thrown by Time into Oblivion's Cave;
A thousand Charms they find in Charnel Dust,
And what are Flow'rs compar'd to Mould and Rust?
Things bear with them no Value till they rot,
Not worth their Mem'ry, till by Time forgot;
Hence, Dotards, hence! and know, tho' Verse be Air,
The Muse for You has not a Verse to spare.

Ye Virtuosos too! from me depart—
You have kill'd Nature to make room for Art!
To Thee, great Nature, I would fain be true,
Save me then from the Vices of Virtù!
Beauties are fancied where no Beauties are,
And Stains aud Blots where all is heav'nly fair.
So by the jaundic'd Eye is Yellow seen,
Altho' the Objects round are blue or green.
Pass by a Church of common Churchlike Form,
The Connoisseur, with Admiration warm,
Palladio's Strokes discerns in ev'ry Line,
And cries—'Tis great! 'tis elegant! 'tis fine!”
Approach a Barn, a Hovel, or a Stye—
He sees 'tis Inigo's with half an Eye.
The Mountain Mansion-House' enormous Pile
Seems highly finish'd in Vitruvius' Style;
While Walbroke's Church, unless its Name be known,
To him's an awkward Heap of Lime and Stone—
Shew him a Picture, and you will be sure
To hear of Raphael, Reubens, Clear-Obscure;
Titian's soft Tints, and Guido's graceful Lines,
He traces in the Daub of common Signs,
Whilst to the Master-Strokes of Genius blind,
Faults with the Paul of Mortimer he'll find;
Where, while to Druids Gospel-Truths he'd teach,
You see him live, and almost hear him preach.—
He cannot give to Nature's Self her Due,
He's so sophisticated by Virtù.
Shew him some living Beauty, whose Excess
Of Charms might tempt a Seraph to transgress,
Where it were downright rudeness to be chaste,
And blushing Modesty mere want of Taste,
The Virtuoso, full of Critic Doubt,
His Compass draws to find her Beauty out,
Gravely applies it to the Lady's Toes,
Then cries, “She wants the Medicæan Nose.”
'Tis Poison to mine Ear—such vile Pretence
To Taste refin'd, without plain Common Sense.

When from the World, and ev'ry biting Care,
To some convivial Tavern I repair,
With chosen Friends to laugh the Hours away,
And lose at Night the Troubles of the Day;
You of the sullen Spirit! come not near,
Nor with your Melancholy damp our Cheer—
Thou Man of Politics! elsewhere to fret,—
Hence with thy trump'ry Nonsense of Gazette,
Memorials, Proclamations, and Couriers,
Envoys, Expresses, Plenipo's, and Peers,
Pack up thy Paper-Lumber—and depart—
We Nature love, and Thou the Harlot, Art.
Ye Lawyers! when to Tavern-Bar ye roam,
Leave good Lord Coke to take a Nap at Home—
And ye Divines! so orthodox and wise!
(Suffer for once a Curate to advise)
If to the Devil you repair till Ten,
Remember you're not Doctors there, but Men;
And, tho' your holy Function be to teach,
'Tis 'gainst the Rubrick o'er your Wine to preach;
Bacchus will excommunicate you all,
If you will cant, when you a Toast should call;
Keep—keep your Gravity till Sunday come,
Nor always beat th' ecclesiastic Drum;
Ev'n as your Gown your Sanctity 'll decay,
Neither were meant for wearing ev'ry Day;
Put on the Face of Chearfulness, and learn
To laugh as much, tho' not so well as Sterne.
Thou Fool of Bus'ness too! we well can spare
That pursed Brow, Down-look, and plodding Air,
Thy Absence is a Blessing—Stocks and Scrip
Will throw gay Poverty into the Hip;
To Gresham's busy Acre with them—there
They best will flourish, 'tis their native Air—
On other Funds we'd trade—for mental Bales—
While Humour's laughing Breezes fill our Sails;
Brisk Gales of Wit on purple Seas of Wine,
Should to us waft Apollo and the Nine.
Ideal Worlds of Intellect we'd roam,
To bring the golden Fleece of Learning home;
The Fleece of Learning having drank its Fill,
Its classic Nectar freely would distill:
From the Charybdis of Dispute we'd steer,
And keep from Contradiction's Scylla clear;
The pointed Rocks of Captiousness would shun,
Nor on the Shoals of Contumacy run;
Tempests may rise, but cannot overwhelm
The Crew, that sails with Nature at the Helm.