The Poems of John Byrom :: :: University of Virginia Library

My Time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phebe went with me wherever I went;
Ten thousand sweet Pleasures I felt in my Breast:
Sure never fond Shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous Change on a sudden I find!
When Things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

II

With such a Companion to tend a few Sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good-humour'd, so cheerful and gay,
My Heart was as light as a Feather all Day.
But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy, as never was known.
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd,
And my Heart,—I am sure it weighs more than a Pound.

III

The Fountain, that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the Pebbles among,
Thou know'st little Cupid, if Phebe was there,
'Twas Pleasure to look at, 'twas Music to hear.
But now she is absent, I walk by its Side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide:
“Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.”

IV

My Lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phebe and I were as joyful as they,
How pleasant their Sporting, how happy their Time,
When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime!
But now, in their Frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their Fleeces an handful of Grass;
“Be still, then,” I cry, “for it makes me quite mad
To see you so merry, while I am so sad.”

V

My dog I was ever well pleasèd to see
Come wagging his Tail to my Fair one and me;
And Phebe was pleas'd too, and to my Dog said,
“Come hither, poor Fellow,” and patted his Head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry “Sirrah,” and give him a blow with my Crook;

And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his Master, when Phebe's away?

VI

When walking with Phebe, what sights have I seen!
How fair was the Flower, how fresh was the Green!
What a lovely Appearance the Trees and the Shade,
The Corn-fields and Hedges, and ev'ry Thing made!
But now she has left me, tho' all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas naught but the Magic, I find, of her Eyes
Made so many beautiful Prospects arise.

VII

Sweet Music went with us both all the Wood thro',
The Lark, Linnet, Throstle, and Nightingale too;
Winds over us whisper'd, Flocks by us did Bleat,
And “chirp” went the Grasshopper under our Feet.
But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on,
The Woods are but lonely, the Melody's gone:
Her Voice in the Consort, as now I have found,
Gave ev'ry Thing else its agreeable Sound.

VIII

Rose, what is become of thy delicate Hue?
And where is the Violet's beautiful Blue?

Does aught of its Sweetness the Blossom beguile?
That Meadow, those Daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah, Rivals! I see what it was that you drest
And made your selves fine for,—a Place in her Breast:
You put on your Colours to pleasure her Eye,
To be pluckt by her Hand, on her Bosom to die.

IX

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phebe return,
While amidst the soft Zephyr's cool Breezes I burn;
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his Wings, and 'twould melt down the Lead.
Fly swifter, ye Minutes, bring hither my Dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.
Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay,
Nor will budge one Foot faster for all thou can'st say.

X

Will no pitying Pow'r that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear Nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor Shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah, what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye Swains, how ye part with your Fair!

HOW TO MOVE THE WORLD.

If a man do but keep himself sober and stout,
The world as he'd have it must needs turn about.

TUNBRIDGIALE,

Being a Description of Tunbridge, in a Letter to a Friend at London.

I

Dear Peter, whose Friendship I value much more,
Than Bards their own Verses, or Misers their Store:
Your Books, and your Bus'ness, and ev'ry thing else
Lay aside for a while, and come down to the Wells!
The Country so pleasant, the Weather so fine,
A World of fair Ladies, and delicate Wine!
The Proposal, I fancy, you'll hardly reject:
Then hear, if you come, what you are to expect.

II

Some sev'n or eight Mile off, to give you the Meeting,
Barbers, Dippers, and so forth, we send to you greeting.

Soon as they set Eyes on you, off flies the Hat:
“Does your Honour want this? does your Honour want that?”
That being a Stranger, by this Apparatus
You may see our good Manners, before you come at us.
Now this, please your Honour, is what we call Tooting,
A Trick in your Custom to get the first Footing.

III

Conducted by these civil Gen'men to Town,
You put up your Horse, for Rime's sake, at the Crown.
My Landlord bids welcome, and gives you his Word
For the best Entertainment the House can afford;
You taste which is better, his White, or his Red,
Bespeak a good Supper, good Room, and good Bed;
In short,—just as Travellers do when they 'light;—
So, to fill up the Stanza, I wish you Goodnight.

IV

But then the next Morning, when Phœbus appears,
And with his bright Beams our glad Hemisphere cheers,
You rise, dress, get shav'd, and away to the Walks,
The Pride of the Place, of which ev'ry one talks.

There, I would suppose you a-drinking the Waters,
Didn't I know that you come not for any such Matters;
But to see the fine Ladies in their Déshabille,
A Dress that's sometimes the most studied to kill.

V

The Ladies you see, aye, and Ladies as fair,
As charming, and bright as you'll see anywhere:
You eye and examine the beautiful Throng,
As o'er the clean Walks they pass lovely along;
And if any, by Chance, looks a little Demurer,
You fancy, like ev'ry young Fop, you could cure her;
Till from some pretty Nymph a deep Wound you receive,
And your self want the Cure, which you thought you could give.

VI

Not so wounded, howe'er, as to make you forget,
That your Honour this Morn has not breakfasted yet.

So to Morley's you go, look about, and sit down;
Then comes the young Lass for your Honour's half-Crown;
She brings out the Book, you look wisely upon her:
“What's the Meaning of this?”—“To Subscribe, please your Honour.”
So you write, as your Betters have all done before ye;—
'Tis a Custom, and so there's an End of the Story.

VII

And now, all this while, it is forty to one
But some Friend or other you've happen'd upon:
You all go to Church upon hearing the Bell,—
Whether out of Devotion, yourselves best can tell;—
From thence to the Tavern to toast pretty Nancy,
Th' aforesaid bright Nymph, that had smitten your Fancy:
Where Wine and good Victuals attend your Commands,
And Wheatears, far better than French Ortolans.

VIII

Then, after you've din'd, take a View of our Ground,
And observe the fine Mountains that compass us round;

And, if you could walk a Mile after your Eating,
There's some comical Rocks, that are worth contemplating:
You may, if you please, for their oddness and make,
Compare 'em—let's see—to the Derbyshire Peak;
They're one like the other, except that the Wonder
Does here lie above Ground, and there it lies under.

IX

To the Walks, about seven, you trace back your Way,
Where the Sun marches off, and the Ladies make Day.
What crowding of Charms: Gods,—or rather Goddésses!
What Beauties are here! What bright looks, airs, and Dresses!
In the room of the Waters had Helicon sprung,
And the Nymphs of the Place by old Poets been sung,
To invite the Gods hither they would have had Reason,
And Jove had descended each Night in the Season.

X

If with Things here below we compare Things on high,
The Walks are like yonder bright Path in the Sky,

Where heavenly Bodies in such Clusters mingle,
Tis impossible, Sir, to describe 'em all single:
But if ever you saw that sweet Creature Miss K---y,
If ever you saw her, I say,—let me tell ye,
Descriptions are needless: for surely to you,
No Beauty, no Graces, can ever be new.

XI

But when to their Gaming the Ladies withdraw,
Those Beauties are fled, which when walking you saw;
Ungrateful the Scene which you there see display'd,
Chance murd'ring those Features which Heaven had made.
If the fair Ones their Charms did sufficiently prize,
Their Elbows they'd spare for the sake of their Eyes;
And the Men too,—what Work! its enough, in good faith is't,
Of the nonsense of Chance to convince any Atheist.

XII

But now 'tis high Time, I presume, to bid Vale,
Lest we tire you too long with our Tunbridgiale;

Which if the sour Critics pretend to unravel,
Or at these our Verses should stupidly cavil,—
If this be the Case, tell the Critics, I pray,
That I care not one Farthing for all they can say.
And so I conclude, with my Service, good Peter,
To yourself and all Friends. Farewell, Muse; farewell, Metre!

THE ASTROLOGER.

I

Fellow-Citizens all, for whose Safety I peep
All Night at the Stars, and all Day go to sleep;
Attend, while I shew you the Meaning of Fate
In all the strange Sights we have seen here of late;
And thou, O Astrology, Goddess divine,
Celestial Decipheress, gently incline

Thine Ears, and thine Aid, to a Lover of Science,
That bids to all Learning but thine a Defiance.

II

For what Learning else is there half so engaging
As an Art where the Terms of themselves are presaging;
Which by muttering o'er, any gentle Mechanic
May put his whole Neighbourhood into a Panic;
Where a Noddle well turn'd for Prediction, and Shoes,
If it can but remember hard Words, cannot choose,
From the Prince on his Throne to the Dairy Maid milking,
But read all their Fortunes in yonder blue Welkin?

III

For the sky is a Book, where, in Letters of Gold,
Is writ all that Almanacs ever foretold;
Which he that can read and interpret also—
What is there, which such a one cannot foreshow?
When a true Son of Art ponders over the Stars,
They reflect back upon him the Face of Affairs;
Of all Things of Moment they give him an Inkling,
While Empires and Kingdoms depend on their Twinkling.

IV

Your Transits, your Comets, Eclipses, Conjunctions,
Have all, it is certain, their several Functions;
And on this Globe of Earth here, both jointly and singly,
Do influence Matters most ástonishingly.

But to keep to some Method, on this same Occasion,
We'll give you a full and true Interpretation
Of all the Phenomena we have rehearst.
Of which in their Order: the first, of the first.

V

As for Mercury's travelling over the Sun,
There's Nothing in that, Sirs, when all's said and done;
For what will be, will be; and Mercury's Transit,
I'm pos'tive, will neither retard, nor advance it.
But when a Conjunction or Comet takes Place,
Or a total Eclipse, that's a different Case:
They that laugh at our Art may here see with their Eyes,
That some Things, at least, may appear from the Skies.

VI

A Conjunction of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars,
You may turn, if you please, Gentlemen, to mere Farce:
But what if it plainly appear, that three Men
Are foretold by three Planets—what will ye say then?
Now, to prove this, I'll only make one small Request,
That is, that you'll all turn your Faces to th' East;

And then you shall see, ere I've done my Epistle,
If I don't make it out, ay, as clear as a Whistle.

VII

In the first Place, old Saturn, we very well know,
Lost his Kingdom and Provinces some while ago;
Nor was it long after old Saturn's Disgrace,
That Jupiter mov'd to step into his Place;
And Mars, we all know, was a quarrelsome Bully,
That beat all his Neighbours most únmercifully;
And now, who can doubt who these Gentlemen are,
Saturn, Jupiter, Mars?—Sophy, Sultan, and Czar.

VIII

But to prove, nearer Home, that the Stars have not trifl'd,
Pray have we not lost, cruel Star, Doctor Byfield?
Alas! Friends at Richard's, alas! what a Chasm
Will be made in the Annals of Enthusiasm!
As soon as the Comet appear'd in the Sky,
Pray did not the Doctor straight fall sick and die?
I wonder how Folk could discover a Comet,
And yet never draw this plain Consequence from it.

IX

The death of the Regent might show, if it needed,
Why they saw it in France fo much plainer than we did;
And how well it forebodes to our Nobles and Princes,
That its Tail was here shorter by several Inches.

But so near to the Eagle this Comet appear'd,
That something may happen, it is to be fear'd:
Great Men have been known by the Arms which they bore,
But “God bless the Emperor,”—I say no more.

X

And now for th' Eclipse, which is such an Appearance
As perhaps will not happen this many a Year hence.
The King of France died, the last total Eclipse,
Of a Mortification near one of his Hips;
From whence by our Art may be plainly made out,
That some great Man or other must die at this Bout;
But as the Eclipse is not yet, nor that neither,
You know 'tis not proper to say more of either.

XI

Yet two that are false I shall venture to name,
Men of Figure and Parts, and of unspotted Fame;
Who, all Parties will own, are and always have been
Great Ornaments to the high Station they're in,
Admir'd of all Sides; who will therefore rejoice,
When, consulting the Stars, I pronounce it their Voice,
That, for all this Eclipse, there shall no Harm befall
Those two honest—Giants, that are in Guildhall.

XII

So much for great Men;—I come now to predict
What Evils in gen'ral will Europe afflict:
Now, the Evils that Conjurers tell from the Stars,
Are Plague, Famine and Pestilence, Bloodshed and Wars,
Contagious Diseases, great Losses of Goods,
Great Burnings by Fire, and great Drownings by Floods;
Hail, Rain, Frost and Snow, Storms of Lightning and Thunder:
And if none of these happen,—'twill be a great Wonder.

ON THE AUTHOR'S COAT OF ARMS.

I

The Hedge-hog for his Arms, I would suppose,
Some Sire of ours, beloved Kinsfolk, chose,
With aim to hint Instruction wise and good
To us Descendants of his Byrom Blood:
I would infer, if you be of his Mind,
The very Lesson that our Sire design'd.

II

He had observ'd that Nature gave a Sense
To ev'ry Creature of its own Defence,—
Down from the Lion with his tearing Jaws
To the poor Cat that scratches with her Paws:
All show'd their Force, when put upon the Proof,
Wherein it lay,—Teeth, Talons, Horn, or Hoof.

III

Pleas'd with the Porcupine, whose native Art
Is said to distance Danger by his Dart,
To rout his Foes, before they come too near,
From ev'ry Hurt of close Encounter clear:
This, had not one Thing bated of its Price,
Had been our worthy Ancestor's Device.

IV

A Foe to none, but ev'ry Body's Friend,
And loth, altho' offended, to offend,—
He sought to find an Instance, if it could
By any Creature's Art be understood,
That might betoken Safety when attack'd,
Yet where all Hurt should be a Foe's own Act.

V

At last the Hedge-hog came into his Thought,
And gave the perfect Emblem that he sought.
This little Creature, all Offence aside,
Rolls up itself in its own prickly Hide,
When Danger comes; and they that will abuse,
Do it themselves, if their own Hurt ensues.

VI

Methinks, I hear the venerable Sage:
“Children! Descendants all thro' ev'ry Age!
Learn from the prudent Urchin in your Arms,
How to secure yourselves from worldly Harms!
Give no Offence,—to you if others will,
Firmly wrapt up within yourselves, be still.

VII

“This Animal is giv'n for outward Sign
Of inward, true Security Divine.

Sharp on your Minds let pointed Virtues grow,
That, without injuring, resist a Foe;
Surround with these an honest, harmless Heart,
And He that dwells in it will take your Part.

VIII

“Whatever Ills your christian Peace molest,
Turn to the Source of Grace within your Breast;
There lies your Safety. O that all my Kin
May ever seek it, where 'tis found,—within!
That Soul no Ills can ever long annoy,
Which makes its God the Centre of its Joy.”

A LETTER TO R. L., ESQ.

If Senesino do but rift,
“O caro, caro!” that flat fifth:
I'd hang if e'er an Opera Witling
Could tell Cuzzoni from a Kitling!

I

Dear Peter, if thou can'st descend
From Rodelind to hear a Friend,
And if those Ravish'd Ears of thine
Can quit the shrill celestial Whine
Of gentle Eunuchs, and sustain
Thy native English without pain,
I would, if t'ain't too great a Burden,
Thy ravish'd Ears intrude a Word in.

II

To Richard's and to Tom's full oft
Have I stept forth, O Squire of Toft,
In hopes that I might win, perchance,
A sight of thy sweet Countenance;
Forth have I stept, but still, alas!
Richard's, or Tom's, 'twas all a Case:
Still met I with the same Reply—
“Saw you Sir Peter?”—“No, not I.”

III

Being at length no longer able
To bear the dismal Trissylláble,
Home I retir'd in saunt'ring Wise,
And inward turning all my Eyes,
To seek thee in the friendly Breast
Where thou hast made a kind of Nest,
The gentle Muse I 'gan invoke,
And thus the Neck of Silence broke:

IV

“Muse!” quoth I, treading on her Toes,
“Thou sweet Companion of my Woes,
That whilom wont to ease my Care,
And get me now and then — a Hare:

Why am I thus depriv'd the Sight
Both of the Alderman and Knight?
Tell me, O tell me, gentle Muse,
Where is Sir Peter, where is Clowes?”

V

“Where your Friend Joseph is, or goes,”
Reply'd Melpomene, “Lord knows;
And what Place is the fairest Bidder
For the Knight's presence—. Let's consider:
Your wandering Steps you must refer to
Rehearsal, Op'ra, or Concerto;
At one or other of the three
You'll find him most undoubtedly.”

VI

Now Peter, if the Muse says true,
To all my Hopes I bid adieu;
Adieu, my hopes, if Op'ramanie
Has seiz'd on Peter's Pericranie,
Drunk with Italian Siren's Cup!
Nay then, in troth, I give him up:
The Man's a Quack, whoe'er pretends he
Can cure him of that fiddling Phrenzy.

EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS BETWEEN HANDEL AND BONONCINI.

Some say, compar'd to Bononcini,
That Mynheer Handel's but a Ninny;
Others aver, that he to Handel
Is scarcely fit to hold a Candle.
Strange all this Difference should be
'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

A LETTER TO R. L., ESQ.,

On His Departure from London.

I

Dear Peter, whose Absence, whate'er I may do
In a Week or two hence, at this Present I rue:
These Lines, in great Haste, I convey to the Mitre,
To tell the sad Plight of th' unfortunate Writer.

You have left your old Friend so affected with Grief,
That nothing but Riming can give him Relief;
Tho' the Muses were never worse put to their Trumps,
To comfort poor Bard in his sorrowful Dumps.

II

The Moment you left us, with Grief be it spoken,
This poor Heart of mine was as thoff it were broken;
And I almost faint still if a Carriage approach
That looks like a Highgate or Barnet Stage-coach;
And really, when first that old Vehicle gap'd
To take in Friend Pee—so the Fare had but scap'd,
If I did not half wish the Man might overturn it,
And swash it to Pieces, I am a sous'd Gurnet.

III

The Rhenish and Sugar, which at your Departure
We drank, would have made me, I hop'd, somewhat heartier;
Yet the Wine but more strongly to Weeping inclin'd,
And my Grief by the sugar was double-refin'd.

It is not to tell how my Breast fell a-throbbing,
When at the last Parting our Noses were bobbing!
Those sad farewell Accents—I think on 'em still—
“You'll remember to write, John?”—“Yes, Peter, I will.”

IV

You no sooner was gone, but this famous Metropolis,
That seem'd just before so exceedingly populous,
When I turn'd me towards it, seem'd all of a sudden
As if it was gone from the Place it had stood in.
But for Squire Hazel's Brother, sagacious Jack,
I should hardly have known how to find my Way back;
How he brought me from Smithfield to Dick's I can't say,
But remember the Charter-House stood in our Way.

V

At Dick's I repos'd me, and call'd for some Coffee,
And sweeten'd, and supt, and still kept thinking of ye;

But not with such Pleasure as when I came there
To wait 'till Sir Peter should chance to appear.
There, while I was turning you o'er in my Mind,
“Doctor, how do you do?” says a Voice from behind;
Thought I to myself: “I should know that same Organ;”—
And who should it be but my Friend Doctor Morgan?

VI

The Doctor and I took a small walk, and then
He went somewhere else, I to Richard's again.
All Ways have I try'd the sad Loss to forget.
I have saunter'd, writ Short-hand, eat Custard, et cet.
With honest Duke Humphrey I pass the long Day,
To others, as yet, having little to say;

For indeed, I must own, since the Loss of my Chum,
I am grown, as it were, a mere Gerund in Dumb.

VII

But, Muse! we forget that our Grief will prevent us
From treating of Matters more high and momentous.
Poor Jonathan Wild!—Clowes, Peer Williams and I
Have just been in waiting to see him pass by:

Good law! how the Houses were crowded with Mobs,
That lookt like Leviathan's Picture in Hobbes,
From the very ground Floor to the Top of the Leads,
While Jonathan past thro' a Holborn of Heads.

VIII

From Newgate to Tyburn he made his Procession,
Supported by two of the nimble Profession:

Between the unheeded poor Wretches he sat,
In his Night-gown and Wig, but without e'er a Hat;
With a Book in his Hand he went weeping and praying,
The Mob all along, as he pass'd 'em, huzzaing;
While a Parcel of Verses the Hawkers were hollowing,
Of which I can only remember these following:

IX

“The cunning old Pug ev'ry Body remembers,
“That, when he saw Chesnuts a roasting i'th' Embers,
“To save his own Bacon, took Puss's two Foots,
“And so out o'th' Embers he tickl'd his Nuts.
“Thus many a poor Rogue has been burnt in the Hand,
“And 'twas all Nuts to Jonathan, you understand;
“But he was not so cunning as Æsop's old Ape,
“For the Monkey has brought himself into the Scrape.”

X

And now, Peter, I'm come to the end of my Tether;
So I wish you good Company, Journey, and Weather,

When Friends in the Country enquire after John,
Pray tender my Service t'em all every one,
To the Ladies at Toft, Legh of High-Legh,
To the Altringham Meeting, if any there be,
Darcy Lever, Will Drake, Cattell and Cottam,—
An excellent Rhime that, to wind up one's Bottom!

Richard's Monday Night May 24, 1725.

P.S.

What News? Why the Lords, if the Minutes say true,
Have past my Lord Bolingbroke's Bill three to two,—

Three to one, I would say; and resolvèd also
That the Commons have made good their Articles—ho!
And To-morrow, Earl Thomas's Fate to determine,
Their Lordships come arm'd both with Judgment and Ermine;
The Surgeons, they say, have got Jonathan's Carcase,
If so, I'll go see't, or it shall be a hard Case.

EXTEMPORE VERSES

Upon a Trial of Skill Between the Two Great Masters of the Noble Science of Defence, Messrs. Figg and Sutton.

I

Long was the great Figg by the prize fighting Swains
Sole Monarch acknowledg'd of Marybone Plains;
To the Towns, far and near, did his Valour extend,
And swam down the River from Thame to Gravesend;
Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, Pipe-maker by Trade,
Who, hearing that Figg was thought such a stout Blade,
Resolv'd to put in for a Share of his Fame,
And so sent to challenge the Champion of Thame.

II

With alternate Advantage two Trials had past,
When they fought out the Rubbers on Wednesday last.
To see such a Contest the House was so full,
There hardly was room left to thrust in your Skull.
With a Prelude of Cudgels we first were saluted,
And two or three Shoulders most handsomely fluted;
Till, wearied at last with inferior Disasters,
All the Company cry'd: “Come, the Masters! the Masters!”

III

Whereupon the bold Sutton first mounted the Stage,
Made his Honours, as usual, and yearn'd to engage;
Then Figg, with a Visage so fierce and sedate,
Came and enter'd the List with his fresh-shaven Pate.
Their Arms were encircled by Armigers two,
With a red Ribbon Sutton's and Figg's with a blue.
Thus adorn'd, the two Heroes, 'twixt Shoulder and Elbow,
Shook Hands, and went to't, and the Word it was “Bilbo.”

IV

Sure such a Concern in the Eyes of Spectators
Was never yet seen in our Amphitheátres:

Our Commons and Peers, from their several Places,
To half an Inch Distance all pointed their Faces;
While the Rays of old Phœbus, that shot thro' the Sky-light,
Seem'd to make on the Stage a new kind of Twilight;
And the Gods, without doubt, if one could but have seen 'em,
Were peeping there thro' to do Justice between 'em.

V

Figg struck the first Stroke, and with such a vast Fury,
That he broke his huge Weapon in Twain, I assure you;
And, if his brave Rival this Blow had not warded,
His Head from his Shoulders had quite been discarded.
Figg arm'd him again, and they took t'other Tilt,
And then Sutton's Blade run away from its Hilt.
The Weapons were frighted, but as for the Men,
In Truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.

VI

Such a Force in their Blows, you'd have thought it a Wonder
Every Stroke they receiv'd did not cleave them asunder;
Yet so great was their Courage, so equal their Skill,
That they both seem'd as safe as a Thief in a Mill:
While in doubtful Attention Dame Victory stood,
And which Side to take could not tell for her Blood,
But remain'd, like the Ass 'twixt two Bottles of Hay,
Without ever moving an Inch either way.

VII

Till Jove to the Gods signified his Intention
In a Speech that he made them, too tedious to mention;
But the Upshot on't was, that, at that very Bout,
From a Wound in Figg's Side the hot Blood spouted out.
Her Ladyship then seem'd to think the Case plain;
But Figg stepping forth with a sullen disdain,
Shew'd the Gash, and appeal'd to the Company round,
If his own broken Sword had not given him the Wound?

VIII

That Bruises and Wounds a Man's Spirit should touch,
With Danger so little, with Honour so much!—
Well, they both took a Dram, and return'd to the Battle,
And with a fresh Fury they made the Swords rattle;
While Sutton's Right Arm was observèd to bleed
By a Touch from his Rival,—so Jove had decreed,—
Just enough for to shew that his Blood was not Ichor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red Liquor.

IX

Again they both rush'd with so equal a Fire on,
That the Company cry'd: “Hold, enough of cold Iron!
To the Quarter Staff now, Lads.” So first having dram'd it,
They took to their Wood, and i'faith never sham'd it.
The first Bout they had was so fair and so handsome,
That, to make a fair Bargain, 'twas worth a King's Ransom;

And Sutton such Bangs to his Neighbour imparted,
Would have made any Fibres but Figg's to have smarted.

X

Then after that Bout they went on to another,—
But the Matter must end on some Fashion or other:
So Jove told the Gods he had made a Decree,
That Figg should hit Sutton a stroke on the Knee.
Tho' Sutton, disabled as soon as he hit him,
Would still have fought on, but Jove would not permit him.
'Twas his Fate, not his Fault, that constrain'd him to yield:
And thus the great Figg became Lord of the Field.

XI

Now, after such Men, who can bear to be told
Of your Roman and Greek puny Heroes of old?
To compare such poor Dogs as Alcides and Theseus
To Sutton and Figg would be very facetious.
Were Hector himself, with Apollo to back him,
To encounter with Sutton,—zooks! how he would thwack him!
Or Achilles, tho' old Mother Thetis had dipt him,
With Figg—odds my Life! how he would have unript him!

XII

To Cæsar and Pompey, for want of Things juster,
We compare these brave Boys; but 'twill never pass Muster.
Did those mighty Fellows e'er fight Hand to Fist once?
No, I thank you; they kept at a suitable Distance.
What is Pompey the Great, with his Armour begirt,
To the much greater Sutton, who fought in his Shirt?
Or is Figg to be pair'd with a Cap-a-pee Roman.
Who scorn'd any Fence but a jolly Abdomen?

THE DISSECTION OF A BEAU'S HEAD.

From The Spectator, No. 275.

I

We found by our Glasses, that what at first sight
Appear'd to be Brains was another Thing quite;
A heap of strange stuff fill'd the holes of his Skull,
Which, perhaps, serv'd the Owner as well to the full.
And as Homer acquaints us (who certainly knew),
That the Blood of the Gods was not real and true,
Only something that was very like it: just so,
Only something like Brain is the Brain of a Beau.

II

The Pineal Gland, where the Soul's Residénce is,
Smelt desperate strong of Perfúmes, and Essénces,

With a bright horny Substance encompast around,
That in numberless Forms, like a Diamond, was ground:
Insomuch that the Soul, if there was any there,
Must have kept pretty constant within its own Sphere;
Having Bus'ness enough, without seeking new Traces,
To employ all its Time with its own pretty Faces.

III

In the hind part o'th' Head there was Brussels and Mechlin,
And Ribands, and Fringes, and such kind of Tackling;
Billet-doux and soft Rimes lin'd the whole Cerebellum,
Op'ra songs and prickt Dances, as 'twere upon Vellum.
A brown kind of Lump, that we ventur'd to squeeze,
Disperst in plain Spanish, and made us all sneeze.
In short, many more of the like kind of Fancies,
Too tedious to tell, fill'd up other Vacáncies.

IV

On the Sides of this Head were in several Purses,
On the Right, Sighs and Vows,—on the Left, Oaths and Curses.

These each sent a Duct to the Root of the Tongue,
From whence to the Tip they went jointly along.
One particular place was observèd to shine
With all sorts of Colours, most wonderful fine;
But when we came nearer to view it, in Troth,
Upon Éxamination 'twas nothing but Froth.

V

A pretty large Vessel did plainly appear
In that part of the Scull 'twixt the Tongue and the Ear;
With a spongy Contrivance distended it was,
Which the French Virtuosos call Galimatiás,
We Englishmen, nonsense: a Matter indeed
That most Peoples Heads are sometimes apt to breed.
Entirely free from it, not one Head in twenty;
But a Beau's, 'tis presum'd, always has it in plenty.

VI

Mighty hard, thick, and tough was the Skin of his Front,
And, what is more strange, not a Blood Vessel on't;
From whence we concluded, the Party deceast
Was never much troubled with Blushing at least.
The Os Cribriforme as full as could stuff
Was cramm'd, and in some Places damag'd, with Snuff:
For Beaux with this Ballast keep stuffing their Crib,
To preserve their light Heads in a true Æquilib.

VII

That Muscle, we found, was exceedingly plain,
That helps a Man's Nose to express his disdain,
If you chance to displease him, or make a Demand,
Which is oft the Beau's Case, that he “don't understand.”
The Reader well knows, 'tis about this same Muscle
That the old Latin Poets all make such a Bustle,
When they paint a Man giving his Noddle a Toss,
And cocking his Nose, like a Rhínocerós.

VIII

Looking into the Eye, where the Musculi lay
Which are call'd Amatorii, that is to say,
Those Muscles, in English, wherewith a Man ogles,
When on a fair Lady he fixes his Goggles,
We found 'em much worn; but that call'd th' Elevator,
Which lifts the Eyes up tow'rds the summit of Nature,
Seem'd so little us'd, that the Beau, I dare say,
Never dazzled his Eyes much with looking that way.

IX

The outside of this Head, for its Shape and its Figure,
Was like other Heads, neither lesser nor bigger;

Its Owner, as we were inform'd, when alive,
Had past for a Man of about thirty-five.
He ate, and he drank, just like one of the Crowd;
For the rest, he drest finely, laught often, talkt loud;
Had Talents in's way; for sometimes at a Ball
The Beau shew'd his Parts, and outcaper'd 'em all.

X

Some Ladies, they say, took the Beau for a Wit;
But in his Head, truly, there lay—deuce a bit.
He was cut off, alas! in the Flow'r of his Age
By an eminent Cit, that was put in a Rage:
The Beau was, it seems, complimenting his Wife,
When his éxtreme Civility cost him his Life;
For his Eminence took up an old paring-Shovel,
And on the hard Ground left my Gem'man to grovel.

XI

Having finish'd our Work, we began to replace
The Brain, such as 'twas, in its own proper Case.
In a fine Piece of scarlet we laid it in State,
And resolv'd to prepare so extraordinary a Pate;
Which would eas'ly be done, our Anatomist thought,
Having found many Tubes that already were fraught
With a kind of a Substance he took for Mercurial,
Lodg'd there, he suppos'd, long before the Beau's Burial.

XII

The Head laid aside, he then took up the Heart,
Which he likewise laid open with very great Art;
And with many Particulars truly we met
That gave us great insight into the Coquette.
But having, kind Reader, already transgrest
Too much on your Patience, we'll let the Heart rest;
Having giv'n you the Beau for To-day's Speculation,
We'll reserve the Coquette for another Occasion.

A Full and True Account of an Horrid and Barbarous Robbery, Committed on Epping Forest upon the Body of the Cambridge Coach.

In a Letter to M. F., Esq.

Arma Virunque Cano.

I

Dear Martin Folkes, dear Scholar, Brother, Friend,
And Words of like Importance without End:
This comes to tell you, how in Epping Hundred
Last Wednesday Morning I was robb'd and plunder'd.
Forgive the Muse, who sings what, I suppose,
Fame has already trumpeted in Prose;
But Fame's a lying Jade: the turn of Fate
Let poor Melpomene herself relate;
Spare the sad Nymph a vacant Hour's Relief,
To rime away the Remnants of her Grief.

II

On Tuesday Night, you know with how much Sorrow
I bid the Club farewell: “I go To-morrow.”

To-morrow came, and so accordingly
Unto the place of Rendezvous went I.
Bull was the House, and Bishopgate the Street,
The Coach as full as it could cram: to wit,
Two Fellow-Commoners de Aulâ Trin.,
And eke an honest Bricklayer of Lynn,
And eke two Norfolk Dames, his Wife and Cousin,
And eke my Worship's self, made half a Dozen.

II

Now then, as Fortune had contriv'd, our Way
Thro' the wild Brakes of Epping-Forest lay:
With Travellers and Trunks, a hugeous Load,
We hagg'd along the solitary Road;
Where nought but Thickets within Thickets grew,
No House nor Barn to cheer the wand'ring View;
Nor lab'ring Hind, nor Shepherd did appear,
Nor Sportsman with his Dog or Gun was there;
A dreary Landscape, bushy and forlorn,
Where Rogues start up like Mushrooms in a Morn.

III

However, since we, none of us, had yet
Such Rogues but in a Sessions Paper met,
We jok'd on Fear; tho', as we past along,
Robbing was still the Burden of the Song.
With untry'd Courage bravely we repell'd
The rude Attacks of Dogs—not yet beheld,
With val'rous Talk still battling, till at last
We thought all Danger was as good as past.
Says one,—too soon, alas!—“Now let him come:
Full at his Head I'll fling this Bottle of Rum.”

IV

Scarce had he spoken, when the Brickman's Wife
Cry'd out “Good Lord! he's here, upon my Life!”
Forth from behind the Wheels the Villain came,
And swore such Words as I dare hardly name;
But you'll suppose them, Brother, not to drop
From me, but him—: “G---d d---n ye, Coachman, stop!
Your Money, Z---ds, deliver me your Money!
Quick, d---n ye, quick: must I stay waiting on ye?
Quick, or I'll send,”—and nearer still he rode,—
“A Brace of Balls amongst ye all, by ---!”

V

I leave you, Sir, to judge yourself, what Plight
We all were put in by this cursèd Wight.
The trembling Females into Labour fell;
Big with the sudden Fear, they Pout, they Swell;
And soon, deliver'd by his horrid Curses,
Brought forth two Strange and Preternatural Purses,

That look'd indeed like Purses made of Leather;—
But let the sweet-tongu'd Maningham say whether
A common Purse could possibly conceal
Shillings, Half-crowns, and Half-pence by piece-meal.

VI

The Youth, who flung the Bottle at the Knave
Before he came, now thought it best to wave
Such Resolution, and preserve the Liquor,
Since a round Guinea might be thrown much quicker.
So, with impetuous Haste he flung him that,
Which the sharp Rascal parried with his Hat.
His right-hand Man, a Brother of our Quill,
Prudently chose to shew his own good Will
By the same Token, and without much Scruple
Made the Red-rugg'd Collector's Income duple.

VII

My Heart (for Truth I always must confess)
Did sink—an Inch exactly—more or less.

With both my Eyes I view'd the Thief's Approach;
And read the Case of—Pistol versus Coach;
A woeful Case, which I had oft heard quoted,
But ne'er before in all my Practice noted.
So, when the Lawyers brought in their Report,
“Guinea per Christian to be paid in Court:”
“Well off, thinks I, “with this same Son of a ---,
“If he prefers his Action for no more!

VIII

“No more! why, hang him, is not that too much,
“To pay a Guinea for his vile High-Dutch?
“'Tis true, he had us here upon the hank
“With Action strong, and swears to it point blank;
“Yet why resign the yellow One Pound One?
“No, tax his Bill, and give him Silver, John.”
So said, so done, and, putting Fist to Fob,
I flung th' apparent value of the Job,

An Ounce of Silver, into his Receiver,
And mark'd the Issue of the Rogue's Behaviour.

IX

He, like a thankless Wretch that's overpaid,
Resents, forsooth, th' Affront upon his Trade;
And treats my Kindness with a—“This won't do:
Look ye here, Sir, I must ha' Gold from you.”
To this Demand of the ungrateful Cur
Defendant John thought proper to demur.
The Bricklayer, joining in the White Opinion,
Tender'd five Shillings to Diana's Minion;
Who still kept threatning to pervade his Buff,
Because the Payment was not prompt enough.

X

Before the Women with their Purses each
Had Strength to place Contents within his reach,
One of his Pieces, falling downwards, drew
The Rogue's Attention hungrily thereto.
Straight he began to damn the Charioteer:
“Come down ye Dog, reach me that Guinea there!”
Down jumps th' affrighted Coachman on the Sand,
Picks up the Gold, and puts it in his Hand,

Missing a rare Occasion, tim'rous Dastard,
To seize his Pistol, and dismount the Bastard.

XI

Now, while in deep and serious Ponderment
I watch'd the Motions of his next Intent,
He wheel'd about, as one full bent to try
The Matter in Dispute 'twixt him and I,
And how my Silver Sentiments would hold
Against that hard Dilemma, Balls or Gold.
“No Help,” said I, “no Tachygraphic Pow'r
“To interpose in this unequal Hour?
“I doubt—I must resign—there's no defending
“The Cause against that murderous Fire-Engine.”

XII

When lo! descending to her Champion's Aid,
The Goddess Short-Hand, bright Celestial Maid,
Clad in a letter'd Vest of silver Hue,
Wrought by her fav'rite Phebe's Hand, she flew.

Th' unfolded Surface fell exactly neat,
In just Proportions, o'er her Shape complete;
Distinct with Lines of purer flaming White,
Transparent Work, Intelligibly bright;
Form'd to give Pleasure to th' ingenious Mind,
But puzzle and confound the stupid Hind.

XIII

Soon as the Wretch the Sacred Writing spy'd,
“What Conjuration-Sight is this?” he cry'd.
My Eyes meanwhile the Heav'nly Vision clear'd;
It shew'd how all his hellish Look appear'd.
(Heav'n shield all Travellers from foul Disgrace,
As I saw Tyburn in the Ruffian's Face!
And, if aright I judge of human Mien,
His Face ere long in Tyburn will be seen.)
The Hostile Blaze soon seiz'd his miscreant Blood;
He star'd,—turn'd short,—and fled into the Wood.

XIV

Danger dismist, the gentle Goddess smil'd
Like a fond Parent o'er her fearful Child,
And thus began to drive the dire Surprise
Forth from my anxious Breast in jocund wise:

“My Son,” said she, “this Fellow is no Weston,
“No Adversary, Child, to make a Jest on.
“With Ink Sulphureous upon Human Skin
“He writes, indenting horrid Marks therein;
“But—thou hast read his Fate—the halter'd Slave
“Shall quickly sing his Penitential Stave.

XV

“Pursue thy Route; but when thou tak'st another,
“Bestride some generous Quadruped or other.
“Let this enchanted Vehicle confine,
“From this Time forth, no Votaries of mine;
“Let me no more see honest Short-hand Men
“Coop'd up in Wood, like Poultry in a Pen.
“And at Trin. Coll. when e'er thou art enlarging
“On Epping-Forest, note this in the Margin:
‘Let Cambridge Scholars, that are not quite bare,
‘Shun the dishonest Track, and ride thro' Ware.’”

XVI

“Adieu, my Son! resume thy wonted Jokes;
“And write Account hereof to Martin Folkes.”

This said, she mounts; the Characters divine
Thro' the bright Path immensely brilliant shine.—
Now safe arriv'd, first for my Boots I wrote;
I tell the Story, and subjoin the Note;
And lastly, to fulfil the dread Commands,
These hasty Lines presume to Kiss your Hands.
Excuse the tedious Tale of a Disaster;
I am
Your Humble Servant
and
Grand-Master.

THE POETASTER.

I

When a Poet, as Poetry goes now-a-days,
Takes it into his Head to put in for the Bays,
With an old Book of Rimes and a Half-pint of Claret
To cherish his Brains, mounted up to his Garret,
Down he sits with his Pen, Ink and Paper before him,
And labours as hard as his Mother that bore him.

II

Thus plac'd, on the Candle he fixes his Eyes,
And upon the bright Flame on't looks wonderful wise;
Then, snuffing it close, he takes hold of his Pen,
And, the Subject not starting, he snuffs it again;
Till perceiving at last that not one single Thought,
For all his wise Looks, will come forth as it ought,
With a Bumper of Wine he emboldens his Blood,
And prepares to receive it, whenever it should.

III

Videlicet: first, he invokes the nine Muses,
Or some one of their Tribe for his Patroness chooses;
The Girl, to be sure, that of all the long Nomine
Best suits with his Rime, as for instance, Melpomene.
And what signifies then this old Bard-beaten Whim?
What's he to the Muses, or th' Muses to him?
Why, the Bus'ness is this: the poor Man, lack-a-day,
At first setting out, don't know well what to say.

IV

Then he thinks of Parnassus and Helicon Streams,
And of old musty Bards mumbles over the Names;
Talks much to himself of one Phœbus Apollo,
And a Parcel of Folk that in's Retinue follow;

Of a Horse namèd Pegasus that had two Wings,
Of Mountains, and Nymphs, and a hundred fine Things:
Tho' with Mountains and Streams, and his Nymphs of Parnáss,
The Man, after all, is but just where he was.

TO HENRY WRIGHT OF MOBBERLEY, ESQ.

On Buying the Picture of Father Malebranche at a Sale.

I

Well, dear Mr. Wright, I must send you a line:—
The purchase is made, Father Malebranche is mine;
The adventure is past which I long'd to achieve,
And I'm so overjoy'd, you will hardly believe.
If you will but have patience, I'll tell you, dear friend,
The whole history on't, from beginning to end.
Excuse this long tale,—I could talk, Mr. Wright,
About this same picture from morning to night.

II

The morning it low'r'd, like the morning in Cato,
And brought on, methought, as important a day too.
But about ten o'clock it began to be clear;
And, the fate of our capital piece drawing near,
Having supp'd off to breakfast some common decoction.
Away trudgèd I in all haste to the Auction.
Should have call'd upon you, but the Weaver Committee
Forbade me that pleasure,—the more was the pity!

III

The clock struck eleven as I enter'd the room,
Where Rembrandt and Guido stood waiting their doom,
With Holbein and Rubens, Van Dyck, Tintoret,
Jordano, Poussin, Carlo Dolci, et cet.
When at length in the corner perceiving the Père,
“Ha!” quoth I to his face, “my old friend, are you there?”
And methought the face smil'd, just as tho' it would say:
“What, you're come, Mr. Byrom, to fetch me away!”

IV

Now, before I had time to return it an answer,
Comes a Short-hander by,—Jemmy Ord was the man, Sir:—
“So, Doctor! good morrow!”—“So Jemmy! bon jour!
Some rare pictures here!”—“So there are, to be sure.
Shall we look at some of them?”—“With all my heart, Jemmy!”
So I walk'd up and down, with my old pupil wi' me;
Making still such remarks as our wisdom thought proper,
Where things were hit off in wood, canvas, or copper.

V

When at length, about noon, Mr. Auctioneer Cox
With his book and his hammer mounts into his box:
“Lot the first, number One.” Then advanced his upholder
With Malebranche,—so Atlas bore Heav'n on his shoulder.
Then my heart, Sir, it went pit-a-pat, in good sooth,
To see the sweet face of The Searcher of Truth.
“Ha!” thought I to myself, “if it cost me a million,
This right honest head, then, shall grace my pavilion.”

VI

Thus stood Lot the first,—both in number and worth,
If pictures were priz'd for the men they set forth.

I'm sure, to my thinking, compar'd to this number,
Most lots in the room seem'd to be but mere lumber.
The head then appearing, Cox left us to see't,
And fell to discoursing concerning the feet:
“So long, and so broad!—'Tis a very fine head!
Please to enter it, gen'men,”—was all that he said.

VII

Had I been in his place, not the stroke of a hammer,
Till the force had been tried both of rhet'ric and grammar.
“A very fine head!”—Had thy head been as fine,
All the heads in the house had vail'd bonnets to thine!—
Not a word, whose it was; but, in short, 'twas a head—
“Put it up what you please.” So, somebody said:
“Half-a-piece,” and so on. For three pounds and a crown,
(To sum up my good fortune) I fetch'd him me down.

VIII

There were three or four bidders,—I cannot tell whether,—
But they never could come two upon me together;
For as soon as one spoke, then immediately, pop!
I advanc'd something more, fear the hammer should drop.
I consider'd, should Cox take a whim of a sudden,
What a hurry 'twould put a man's Lancashire blood in!
“Once—twice—three pounds five”—so, nemine con.,
Came an absolute rap, and thrice happy was John.

IX

“Who bought it?” quoth Cox. “Here's the money,” quoth I,
Still willing to make the securest reply;
And the safest receipt that a body can trust
For preventing disputes, is “Down with your dust!”
So I bought it, and paid for 't; and boldly I say,
'Twas the best purchase made at Cadogan's that day:
The works the man wrote are the finest in nature;
And a most clever piece is his genuine portraíture.

X

For the rest of the pictures, and how they were sold,
To others there present I leave to be told.
They seem'd to go off, as at most other sales,
Just as folk's money, judgment or fancy prevails,
Some cheap, and some dear. Such an image as this
Comes a trifle to me, and an odd wooden Swiss
Wench's head—God knows, who?—forty-eight guineas, if her
Grace of Marlborough likes it:—so fancies will differ.

XI

When the bus'ness was o'er, and the crowd somewhat gone,
Whip, into a coach I convey Number One.
“Drive along, honest friend, fast as e'er you can spin.”
So he did; and 'tis now safe and sound at Gray's Inn;

“Done at Paris,” it says, “from the life by” one “Gery,”—
Who that was, I can't tell, but I wish his heart merry,—
“In the year Ninety-eight,”—sixty just from the birth
Of the greatest divine that e'er liv'd upon earth.

XII

And now, if some evening, when you are at leisure,
You'll come and rejoice with me over my treasure,
With a friend or two with you, that will in free sort
Let us mix Metaphysics and Short-hand and port:
We'll talk of his book, or what else you've a mind
Take a glass, read or write, as we see we're inclin'd;
Such friends and such freedom!—What can be more clever?
Huzza! Father Malebranche and Short-hand for ever!

ADVICE TO THE Rev. Messrs. H--- and H--- to Preach Slow.

I

Brethren, this comes to let you know
That I would have you to preach slow;
To give the Words of a Discourse
Their proper Time, and Life, and Force;

To urge what you think fit to say,
In a sedate, pathetic Way,
Grave and delib'rate, as 'tis fit
To comment upon Holy Writ.

II

Many a good Sermon gives Distaste
By being spoke in too much Haste;
Which, had it been pronounc'd with Leisure,
Would have been listen'd to with Pleasure;
And thus the Preacher often gains
His Labour only for his Pains;
As (if you doubt it) may appear
From ev'ry Sunday in the Year.

III

For how indeed can one expect
The best Discourse should take Effect,
Unless the Maker thinks it worth
Some Care and Pains to set it forth?
What! does he think the Pains he took
To write it fairly in a Book,
Will do the Bus'ness?—Not a Bit:
It must be spoke as well as writ.

IV

What is a Sermon, good or bad,
If a Man reads it like a Lad?

To hear some People, when they preach,
How they run o'er all Parts of Speech,
And neither raise a Word, nor sink:
Our learned Bishops, one would think,
Had taken School-boys from the Rod,
To make Ambassadors of God.

V

So perfect is the Christian Scheme,
He that from thence shall take his Theme;
And Time to have it understood,
His Sermon cannot but be good.
If he will needs be preaching Stuff,
No Time indeed is short enough;
E'en let him read it like a Letter:
The sooner it is done, the better.

VI

But for a Man that has a Head,
(Like yours or mine, I'd like t' have said,)
That can upon Occasion raise
A just Remark, a proper Phrase:
For such a one to run along,
Tumbling his Accents o'er his Tongue,
Shows only that a Man at once
May be a Scholar and a Dunce.

VII

In point of Sermons, 'tis confest,
Our English Clergy make the best.

But this appears, we must confess,
Not from the Pulpit, but the Press.
They manage, with disjointed Skill,
The Matter well, the Manner ill;
And, what seems Paradox at first,
They make the best, and preach the worst.

VIII

Would they but speak as well as write,
Both Excellences would unite:
The outward Action being taught
To show the Strength of forward Thought.
Now, to do this, our Short-hand School
Lays down this plain and general Rule:
“Take Time enough;”—all other Graces
Will soon fill up their proper Places.

TO THE SAME.

I

To Haddon John, and Heyward Thomas, greeting!
On Friday next there is to be a meeting
At ancient Bufton's, where the brethren, Wright,
Baskervyle, Swinton, Toft's facetious knight,

[And] Lancaster, and Cattel, if he can,
And, on the same terms, Clowes the alderman,
Have all agreed to hold, upon the border
Of Altrincham, a Chapter of the Order.

II

Now then, sagacious brethren, if the time
Suits with convenience, as it does with rime,
I hope we safely may depend upon
The representatives of Warrington.
See that no business contradict your journey;
If any should, transact it by attorney;
On Friday morn be ready spurred and booted,
That your convenience may not be non-suited.

III

Moreover, brethren, if the time permit,
Bring something in your pockets neatly writ;

For thus it was agreed by all our votes,
That ev'ry member should produce his notes.
“Bring every man some writing of his own
That we mayn't meet for theory alone,”
Said the Grand-Master, “but for practice also;”—
To which the general answer was: “We shall so.”

IV

Could but I once a country congress fix,
Before the winter calls me up to Dick's,
And tie therewith, as with a shorthand tether,
My Lancashire and Cheshire sons together:
Then, emulation would perhaps inspire,
And one example set the rest on fire;
So should my sons of Lancashire and Cheshire
Work ev'ryone at shorthand like a thresher.

V

Yea, meet, my sons; appoint a shorthand feast
Each fortnight, three weeks, or each month at least;
Lest it be said by longhand men profane,
We caught so many clever folk in vain!
Be not discouraged, then, if one by one—
Dull solitude!—you go but slowly on:
For, when you meet together in a bundle,—
Adzooks! you cannot think how fast you'll trundle!

VI

So saith the simile: we mortal people
Are like the bells that hang within a steeple;
Where one poor, solitary, single bell
Working alone, prolongs a dismal knell;
But all together, with one common zeal,
Join merrily enough to ring a peal.

VERSES SPOKEN EXTEMPORE

At the Meeting of a Club, Upon the President's Appearing in a Black Bob-Wig, Who usually wore a White Tie.

I

Our President, in Days of Yore,
Upon his Head a Caxen wore;
Upon his Head he wore a Caxen,
Of Hair as white as any Flaxen:
But now he cares not of a Fig;
He wears upon his Poll a Wig,—
A shabby Wig upon his Poll,
Of Hair as black as any Coal.

II

A sad and dismal Change, alas!
Choose how the Deuce it came to pass!

Poor President! what evil Fate
Revers'd the colour of his Pate?
For if that lamentable Dress
Were his own choosing, one would guess,
By the deep Mourning of his Head,
His Wits were certainly gone dead.

III

Sure, it could ne'er be his own choosing
To put his Head in such a Housing.
It must be ominous, I fear;
Some Mischief, to be sure, is near.
Nay, should that black, fore-boding Phiz
Speak from that sturdy Trunk of his,
One could not help but think it spoke
Just like a Raven from an Oak.

IV

A Caxen of so black a Hue,
On our Affairs looks plaguy blue.
We do not meet with such an Omen
In any Story, Greek or Roman;
A Comet, or a blazing Star
Were not so terrible by far.
No, in that Wig the Fates have sent us
Of all Porténts the most portentous.

V

Who does not tremble for the Club,
That looks upon his Wig so scrub?
Without a Knot! without a Tie!—
What can we hang together by?
So scrub a Wig to look upon,—
How can the dire Phænomenon
Be long before it has undone us?
Oh! 'Tis a cruel Bob upon us.

VI

The President, when's Wig was white,
He was another Mortal quite;
Nay, when he sprinkled it with Powder,
No Man in Manchester talk'd louder.
How blest were we! but now, alack!
The wearing of a Wig so black
Such a Disgrace has brought about—
Burn it! 'twill never be worn out.

VII

Thou art a Lawyer, honest Joe,
I prithee, wilt thou let us know,

Whether the black Act won't extend,
So as to reach our worthy Friend?
What! can he wear a Wig so shabby,
When Folks are hang'd from Waltham Abbey,
For loving Ven'son, and appearing
So like that Head there, so like Fearing?

VIII

You're a Divine, Sir: I'll ask you,
Is that a Christian, or a Jew,
Or Turk? “Aye, Turk, as sure as Hops,
You see the Saracen in his Chops.”
And yet these Chops, tho' now so homely,
Were Christian-like before, and comely.
That wicked Wig! to make a Face
So absolutely void of Grace!

IX

You, Master Doctor, will you try
Your skill in Physiognomy?
Of what Disease is it a Symptom?
Don't look at me, but look at him, Tom.
Is it not Scurvy, think you?—“Yes;
If any thing be Scurvy, 'tis.”
A Phrenzy? or a Periwigmanie
That over-runs his Pericranie?

X

“It seems to me a Complication
Of all Distempers, o' some Fashion;
It is a Coma, that is plain,
A great Obstruction of the Brain.
A Man to take his Brains, and bury 'em
In such a Wig!—a plain Delirium!
I never saw a human Face
That suffer'd more by such a Case.

100

XI

“If you examine it, you'll see 'tis
P---burnt: that shows a Diabetes.
Bad Weather has relaxt, you see,
The Fibres to a great Degree;
Certès, the Head, in these black Tumours,
Is full of vitiated Humours,—
Of vitiated Humours full,
Which shows a Numbness of the Scull.

XII

“So of the rest.”—But now, Friend Thomas,
The Cure will be expected from us;
For while it hangs on him, of course,
It will, if possible, grow worse.
“Habit so foul! there is, in short,
Nothing but Salivation for't.”
But what can Salivation do?
It has been fluxt, and refluxt too.

XIII

But why to Doctors do I urge on
The Bus'ness of a Barber-Surgeon?
Your Barber-Surgeon is the Man
It must be cur'd by, if it can.
Ring for my Landlord Lawrenson;
Come, let's e'en try what can be done;
A Remedy there may be found,
Provided that the Brain be sound.

101

TO THE REV. MESSRS. H--- AND H---

On Preaching Extempore.

102

I

The Hint I gave sometime ago,
Brethren, about your preaching slow,
You took, it seems; and thereupon
Could make two Sermons out of one.
Now this Regard, to former Lines
Paid so successfully, inclines

103

To send Advice the second Part:
“Try if you cannot preach by Heart.”

II

Be not alarm'd, as if Regard
To this would prove so very hard.
The first Admonishment you fear'd
Would so turn out, till it appear'd
That Custom only made to seem
So difficult in your Esteem
What, upon Trial, now procures
Your Hearers' Ease, and also yours.

III

Do but consider how the Case
Now stands in fact in ev'ry Place,
All Christendom almost around,
Except on our reformèd Ground.
The greatest Part, untaught to brook
A Preacher's reading from a Book,
Would scarce advance within his reach,
Or then acknowledge him to preach.

IV

Long after preaching first began,
How unconceiv'd a reading Plan!
The rise of which, whatever Date
May be assign'd to it, is late;—

104

From all Antiquity remote
The manuscriptal reading Rote;
No Need, no Reason prompted then
The Pulpit to consult the Pen.

V

However well prepar'd before,
By pond'ring, or by writing o'er
What he should say, still it was said
By him that preach'd,—it was not read.
Could ancient Memory, then, better
Forbear the poring o'er the Letter,
Brethren, than yours? If you'll but try,
That Fact I'll venture to deny.

VI

Moderns, of late, give Proofs enow
(Too many, as it seems to you),
That Matters of religious Kind,
Stor'd up within the thoughtful Mind,
With any Care and Caution stor'd,
Sufficient Utterance afford
To tell an Audience what they think,
Without the Help of Pen and Ink.

VII

How apt to think too, is the Throng,
A Preacher short, a Reader long!

105

Claiming itself to be the Book
That should attract a Pastor's Look.
If you lament a careless Age,
Averse to hear the Pulpit Page,
Speak from within, not from without,
And Heart to Heart will turn about.

VIII

Try it; and if you can't succeed,
'Twill then be right for you to read;
Altho' the Heart, if that's your choice,
Must still accompany the Voice.
And tho' you should succeed, and take
The Hint, you must not merely make
Preaching extempore the View,
But ex Æternitate too.

106

ON CLERGYMEN PREACHING POLITICS.

To R--- L---, Esq.

I

Indeed, Sir Peter, I could wish, I own,
That Parsons would let Politics alone!
Plead, if they will, the customary Plea
For such like Talk, when o'er a Dish of Tea;
But when they teaze us with it from the Pulpit,
I own, Sir Peter, that I cannot gulp it.

107

II

If on their Rules a Justice should intrench
And preach, suppose, a Sermon from the Bench,
Would you not think your Brother Magistrate
Was touch'd a little in his hinder Pate?
Now, which is worse, Sir Peter, on the total,—
The Lay Vagary, or the Sacerdotal?

III

In ancient Times, when Preachers preach'd indeed
Their Sermons, ere the Learnèd learnt to read,
Another Spirit and another Life
Shut the Church Doors against all Party strife.
Since then, how often heard from sacred Rostrums
The lifeless Din of Whig and Tory Nostrums!

IV

'Tis wrong, Sir Peter, I insist upon't;
To common Sense 'tis plainly an Affront.
The Parson leaves the Christian in the Lurch,
Whene'er he brings his Politics to Church.
His Cant, on either Side, if he calls Preaching,
The Man's wrong-headed, and his Brains want Bleaching.

V

Recall the Time from conquering William's Reign,
And guess the Fruits of such a preaching Vein:

108

How oft its Nonsense must have veer'd about,
Just as the Politics were in or out;—
The Pulpit govern'd by no Gospel Data,
But new Success still mending old Errata!

VI

Were I a King (God bless me!) I should hate
My Chaplains meddling with Affairs of State;
Nor would my Subjects, I should think, be fond,
Whenever theirs the Bible went beyond.
How well, methinks, we both should live together,
If these good Folks would keep within their Tether!

THE PLEASURES OF CHESS.

Checkmate, dear Doctor! Well, I do profess,
It is an admirable game, this chess,—
A sweet device; whoever found it out,
He was a clever fellow, without doubt.

109

BONE AND SKIN.

AN EPIGRAM.

110

Bone and Skin,
Two millers thin,
Would starve the town, or near it;—
But be it known
To Skin and Bone,
That Flesh and Blood can't bear it.

111

CONTENTMENT,

OR THE HAPPY WORKMAN'S SONG.

I

I Am a poor Workman as rich as a Jew,—
A strange sort of Tale, but however 'tis true;
Come listen a while, and I'll prove it to you
So as Nobody can deny, &c.

II

I am a poor Workman, you'll easily grant;
And I'm rich as a Jew, for there's nothing I want;

112

I have Meat, Drink, and Cloaths, and am hearty and cant,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

III

I live in a Cottage, and yonder it stands;
And while I can work with these two honest Hands,
I'm as happy as they that have Houses and Lands,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

IV

I keep to my Workmanship all the Day long,
I sing and I whistle, and this is my Song:
“Thank God, That has made me so lusty and strong,”
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

V

I never am greedy of delicate Fare;
If He give me enough, tho' 'tis never so bare,
The more is His Love, and the less is my Care,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

VI

My Clothes on a Working-day looken but lean;
But when I can dress me—on Sundays, I mean,—
Tho' cheap, they are warm, and tho' coarse, they are clean,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

113

VII

Folk cry'n out “hard Times,” but I never regard,
For I ne'er did, nor will set my Heart upo'th' Ward;
So 'tis all one to me, bin they easy or hard,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

VIII

I envy not them that have thousands of Pounds,
That sport o'er the Country with Horses and Hounds;
There's nought but Contentment can keep within bounds,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

IX

I ne'er lose my Time o'er a Pipe, or a Pot,
Nor cower in a Nook like a sluggardly Sot;
But I buy what is wanting with what I have got,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

X

And if I have more than I want for to spend,
I help a poor Neighbour or diligent Friend;
He that gives to the Poor, to the Lord he doth lend,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XI

I grudge not that Gentlefolk dressen so fine;
At their Gold and their Silver I never repine,

114

But I wish all their Guts were as hearty as mine,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XII

With Quarrels o'th' Country, and Matters of State,
With Tories and Whigs, I ne'er puzzle my Pate;
There's some that I love, and there's none that I hate,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XIII

What tho' my Condition be ever so coarse,
I strive to embrace it for better and worse;
And my Heart, I thank God, is as light as my Purse,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XIV

In short, my Condition, whatever it be,
'Tis God that appoints it, as far as I see;
And I'm sure I can never do better than He,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

115

A SONG.

[Why, prithee now, what does it signify]

I

Why, prithee now, what does it signify
For to bustle and make such a Rout?
It is Virtue alone that can dignify,
Whether clothèd in Ermine or Clout.
Come, come, and maintain thy Discretion,
Let it act a more generous Part;
For I find, by thy honest Confession,
That the World has too much of thy Heart.

II

Beware, that its fatal Ascendancy
Do not tempt thee to mope and repine;
With an humble and hopeful Dependency
Still await the good Pleasure Divine.
Success in a higher Beatitude
Is the End of what's under the Pole;
A Philosopher takes it with Gratitude,
And believes it is best on the whole.

116

III

The World is a Scene, thou art sensible,
Upon which, if we do but our best,
On a Wisdom That's incomprehensible
We may safely rely for the rest:
Then trust to Its kind Distribution;
And, however Things happen to fall,
Prithee, pluck up a good Resolution
To be cheerful and thankful in all!

117

CARELESS CONTENT.

I

I Am Content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the World for me;
When Fuss and Fret was all my Fare,
It got no ground, as I could see:
So, when away my Caring went,
I counted Cost, and was Content.

II

With more of Thanks, and less of Thought,
I strive to make my Matters meet;
To seek, what ancient Sages sought,
Physic and Food in sour and sweet;
To take what passes in good Part,
And keep the Hiccups from the Heart.

118

III

With good and gentle-humour'd Hearts
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the Subject be that starts;
But if I get among the Glum,
I hold my Tongue to tell the Troth,
And keep my Breath to cool my Broth.

IV

For Chance or Change, of Peace or Pain,
For Fortune's Favour, or her Frown,
For Lack or Glut, for Loss or Gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down;
But swing what Way the Ship shall swim,
Or tack about, with equal Trim.

V

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the Turn of ev'ry Tide;
If simple Sense will not succeed,
I make no Bustling, but abide:
For shining Wealth, or scaring Woe,
I force no Friend, I fear no Foe.

119

VI

Of Ups and Downs, of Ins and Outs,
Of “they're i' th' wrong,” and “we're i' th' right,”
I shun the Rancours, and the Routs;
And, wishing well to every Wight,
Whatever Turn the Matter takes,
I deem it all but Ducks and Drakes.

VII

With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the Folks should flout me, faint;
If wonted Welcome be withdrawn,
I cook no Kind of a Complaint,—
With none dispos'd to disagree;
But like them best, who best like me.

VIII

Not that I rate myself the Rule
How all my Betters should behave;
But Fame shall find me no Man's Fool,
Nor to a Set of Men a Slave;
I love a Friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a Hank.

IX

Fond of a true and trusty Tie,
I never loose where'er I link;

120

Tho', if a Bus'ness budges by,
I talk thereon just as I think:
My Word, my Work, my Heart, my Hand,
Still on a Side together stand.

X

If Names or Notions make a noise,
Whatever Hap the Question hath,
The Point impartially I poise,
And read or write, but without Wrath:
For, should I burn or break my Brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my Pains?

XI

I love my Neighbour as myself,
Myself like him too, by his Leave;
Nor to his Pleasure, Pow'r or Pelf,
Come I to crouch, as I conceive;
Dame Nature doubtless has design'd
A Man the Monarch of his Mind.

XII

Now taste and try this Temper, Sirs,
Mood it and brood it in your Breast;
Or, if ye ween, for worldly stirs
That Man does right to mar his Rest,
Let me be deft and debonair:
I am Content, I do not care.

121

A DIALOGUE ON CONTENTMENT.

J.
What Ills, dear Phebe, would it not prevent,
To learn this one short lesson: “Be content!”
No very hard Prescription, in effect,
This same Content; and yet, thro' its neglect,
What mighty Evils do “we human Elves,”
As Prior calls us, bring upon ourselves!
Evils that Nature never meant us for,
The Vacuums that she really does abhor.
Of all the Ways of judging Things amiss,
No Instance shows our Weakness more than this:
That Men on Earth won't set their Hearts at rest,
When God in Heaven does all Things for the best.
What strange, absurd Perverseness!

122

P.
Hold, good Brother!
Don't put yourself, I pray, in such a Pother;
“'Tis a fine Thing to be Content;” why, true;
'Tis just and right, we know as well as you;
And yet, to be so, after all this Rout,
Sometimes has puzzled you yourself, I doubt.
Folks in the Vigour of their Health and Strength
May rail at Discontent in Words at length,
Who yet, when disappointed of their Wishes,
Will put you off with surly “Humphs” and “Pishes.”
“Let's be content and easy!”—gen'ral Stuff!
Your happy People are content enough.
If you would reason to the Purpose, show
How they who are unhappy may be so;
How they who are in Sickness, Want, or Pain,
May get their Health, Estate, and Ease again;
How they—

J.
Nay, Phebe, don't go on so fast;
Your just Rebuke now suits yourself at last.
Methinks you wander widely from the Fact:
'Tis not how you or I or others act
That we are talking of, but how we should.
A Rule, tho' ill observ'd, may still be good.
Nor did I say that a contented Will
Would hinder all, but many Sorts of Ill.
This it will do, and, give me Leave to say,
Much lessen such as it can't take away.
You said your-self, 'twas just; I think you did—

123

P.
Yes, yes; I don't deny it—

J.
Sense forbid
That e'er you should! Its Practice then, perchance,
Is monstrous hard in many a Circumstance?

P.
“Monstrous?” why Monstrous? Let that Word be barr'd,
And I shan't stick to say, I think it “hard,”
And very hard; nay, I could almost add
That, in some Cases, 'tis not to be had.

J.
“Not to be had?” Content? It costs'us naught;
'Tis purchas'd only with a little Thought;
We need not fetch it from a distant Clime,
It may be found at Home at any Time;
Our very Cares contribute to its Growth,
It knows no Check but voluntary Sloth;
None but ourselves can rob us of its Fruit;
It finds, whene'er we use it, fresh Recruit;
The more we gather, still the more it thrives,
Fresh as our Hopes and lasting as our Lives:
“Not to be had” is wrong;—but, I forgot,
You did not say quite absolutely “not,”
But could “almost” have said so; the “almost”
Perhaps was meant against a florid Boast
Of such Content as, when a Trial came
Severe enough, would hardly own its Name.

P.
Perhaps it was; and, now your Fire is spent,
You can reflect, I find, that this Content,
Which you are fond of celebrating so,
May, now and then, be difficult to show:
So difficult that—

124

J.
Hold a bit, or ten
To one the Chance, that I shall fire again!
“'Tis just and right,” you own as well as me.
Now, for my Part, I rather choose to see
The Easiness of what is just and right,
Which makes it more encouraging to Sight,
Than scarecrow Hardships that almost declare
Content an un-come-at-able Affair,
And consequently tempt one to distrust
For Difficulties what is right and just.
Thus I object to Hardship; if you please,
Show for what Reason you object to Ease.

P.
Why, for this Reason:—tho' it should be true
That what is just and right, is easy too,
Such Ease is nothing of a talking kind,
But of right Will, that likes to be resign'd,
And cherishes a Grace which, with regard
To the unpractis'd, may sometimes be hard.
You treat Content as if it were a Weed
Of neither Cost nor Culture; when indeed
It is as fine a Flower that can be found
Within the Mind's best cultivated Ground;
Where, like a Seed, it must have light and Air
To help its Growth, according to the Care
That Owners take, whose philosophic Skill
Will much depend upon the Weather still.
Good should not make them careless, nor should bad
Discourage—

125

J.
Right, provided it be had.
I'll not dispute, but own, what you have said
Has hit the Nail, directly, on the Head:
Easy or hard, all Pains within our Pow'r
Are well bestow'd on such a charming Flow'r.

126

ON PATIENCE.

Written at the Request of a Friend.

PART I.

I

“A verse on Patience?” Yes; but then prepare
Your Mind, Friend H---c---t, with a reading Share;
Or else 'twill give you rather less than more,
To hear it mention'd, than you had before:
If mine to write, remember, 'tis your Task
To bear the Lines which you are pleas'd to ask.

II

Patience the Theme.—A blessèd Inmate this,
The nursing Parent of our Bosom Bliss:

127

Abroad for Bliss she bids us not to roam,
But cultivate is real Fund at Home,—
A noble Treasure, when the patient Soul
Sits in the Centre, and surveys the whole.

III

The bustling World, to fetch her out from thence,
Will urge the various, plausible Pretence;
Will praise Perfections of a grander Name,
Sound great Exploíts, and call her out to Fame;
Amuse and flatter, till the Soul, too prone
To Self-activity, deserts her Throne.

IV

Be on your Guard; the Bus'ness of a Man
Is, to be sure, to do what good he can,—
But first at Home: let Patience rule within,
Where Charity, you know, must first begin;
Not money'd Love is fondly understood,
But calm, sedate Propensity to Good.

V

The genuine Product of the Virtue, Friend,
Which you oblige me here to recommend;
The Trial this of all the rest beside,
For, without Patience, they are all but Pride;
A strong Ambition shines within its Sphere,
But proves its Weakness when it cannot bear.

128

VI

There lies the Test; bring ev'ry thing to that;
It shows us plainly what we would be at:
Of gen'rous Actions we may count the Sum,
But scarce the Worth, till Disappointments come.
Men oft are then most gen'rously absurd:
Their own good Actions have their own bad Word.

VII

Impatience hates Ingratitude, forsooth!
Why? It discovers an ungrateful Truth:
That, having done for Interest or Fame
Such and such doings, she has lost her Aim;
While thankless People, really in her Debt,
Have all got theirs, and put her in a Fret.

VIII

Possest of Patience, a right humble Mind
At all Events is totally resign'd;
Does good for sake of good, not for th' Event,
Leaves that to Heav'n, and keeps to its Content;
Good to be done or, to be suffer'd, Ill,
It acts, it bears, with meek, submissive Will.

129

IX

“Enough, enough! Now tell me, if you please,
“How is it to be had, this mental Ease?”
God knows, I do not, how it is acquir'd;
But this I know: if heartily desir'd,
We shall be thankful for the Donor's Leave
To ask, to hope, and wait till we receive.

PART II.

I

“Virtues,” you say, “by Patience must be tried;
“If that be wanting, they are all but Pride.”
“Of Rule so strict I want to have a Clue.”
Well, if you'll have the same Indulgence too,
And take a fresh Compliance in good Part,
I'll do the best I can, with all my Heart.

II

Pride is the grand Distemper of the Mind,
The Source of ev'ry Vice of ev'ry Kind.
That Love of self, wherein its Essence lies,
Gives Birth to vicious Tempers, and supplies;
We coin a world of Names for them, but still,
All comes to Fondness for our own dear Will.

130

III

We see, by Facts, upon the triple Stage
Of present Life, Youth, Manhood, and old Age,
How, to be pleas'd, be honour'd, and be rich,—
These three Conditions commonly bewitch.
From young to old, if human Faults you weigh,
'Tis selfish Pride that grows from green so grey.

IV

Pride is, indeed, a more accustom'd Name
For quest of Grandeur, Eminence, or Fame;
But that of Pleasure, that of Gold betrays
What inward Principle it is that sways;
The Rake's young Dotage, and the Miser's old,
One same enslaving Love to Self unfold.

V

If Pride be thus the Fountain of all Vice;
Whence must we say that Virtue has its rise
But from Humility? and what the sure
And certain sign, that even this is pure?
For Pride itself will in its Dress appear,
When nothing touches that same Self too near.

131

VI

But when provok'd, and, say, unjustly too,
Then Pride disrobes; then, what a huge ado!
Then, who can blame the Passion of a Pride,
That has got Reason, Reason of its Side?
“He's in the wrong, and I am in the right;—
Resentment, come! Humility, good Night!”

VII

Now, the Criterion, I apprehend,
On which, if any, one may best depend,
Is Patience; is the “Bear” and the “Forbear,”
To which the truly virtuous adhere;
Resolv'd to suffer, without Pro and Con,
A thousand Evils rather than do one.

VIII

Not to have Patience, and yet not be proud,
Is Contradiction not to be allow'd:
All Eyes are open to so plain a Cheat,
But of the blinded by the Self-deceit;
Who, with a like Consistency, may tell
That nothing ails them, tho' they are not well.

IX

Strict is the Rule, but, notwithstanding, true,
However I fall short of it, or you:

132

Best to increase our Stock, if it be small,
By dealing in it with our Neighbours all;
And then, who knows but we shall, in the End,
Learn to have Patience with ourselves,—and mend?

133

A HINT TO A YOUNG PERSON,

For his better Improvement by Reading or Conversation.

I

In reading Authors, when you find
Bright Passages that strike your Mind,
And which perhaps you may have Reason
To think on at another Season:
Be not contented with the Sight,
But take them down in Black and White.
Such a Respect is wisely shown
That makes another's Sense one's own.

II

When you're asleep upon your Bed,
A Thought may come into your Head,
Which may be of good use, if taken
Due Notice of when you're awaken.

134

Of midnight Thoughts to take no heed
Betrays a sleepy Soul indeed;
It is but dreaming in the Day
To throw our nightly Hours away.

III

In Conversation, when you meet
With Persons cheerful and discreet,
That speak or quote, in Prose or Rime,
Things or facetious or sublime,
Observe what passes, and anon,
When you come home, think thereupon;
Write what occurs, forget it not;
A good Thing sav'd's a good Thing got.

IV

Let no remarkable Event
Pass with a gaping Wonderment,—
A Fool's device: “Lord, who would think!”—
Commit it safe to Pen and Ink,
Whate'er deserves Attention now;
For, when 'tis pass'd, you know not how,
Too late you'll find it, to your Cost,
So much of human Life is lost.

V

Were it not for the written Letter,
Pray, what were living Men the better
For all the Labours of the Dead,
For all that Socrates e'er said?

135

The Morals brought from Heav'n to Men
He would have carried back again:
'Tis owing to his Short-hand Youth
That Socrates does now speak Truth.

136

ABSENT FRIENDS.

137

What! be a Niger? No, my absent friend!
Whoever talks against him, I'll defend.

POWDER WITHOUT SHOT.

For sixty-five if sixty-eight were laid,
A compliment to Bentley would be paid;
Like to a Prince, to celebrate whose birth
The rusty cannons are stuck deep in earth;
Well-primed, they fire; give ev'ry year a stroke
And so discharge their powder and their smoke.

138

EPILOGUE TO HURLOTHRUMBO,

OR, THE SUPERNATURAL.

143

Enter Hurlothrumbo.
Ladies and Gentlemen, my Lord of Flame
Has sent me here to thank you in his Name.

144

Proud of your Smiles, he's mounted many a Story
Above the tip-top Pinnacle of Glory:
Thence he defies the Sons of Clay, the Critics,—
“Fellows,” says he, “that are mere Paralytics,
With Judgments lame and Intellects that halt,
Because a Man outruns them, they find fault.”
He is indeed, to speak my poor Opinion,
Out of the reach of critical Dominion.
[Enter Critic.
Adso! here's one of 'em.
Cr.
A strange odd Play, Sir;

[Enter Author; pushes Hurlothrumbo aside.
Au.
Let me come to him! Pray, what's that you say, Sir?

Cr.
I say, Sir, Rules are not observ'd here—

Au.
Rules,
Like Clocks and Watches, were all made for Fools.
Rules make a Play? that is—

Cr.
What, Mr. Singer?

Au.
As if a Knife and Fork should make a Finger.

Cr.
Pray, Sir, which is the Hero of your Play?

Au.
Hero? Why, they're all Heroes in their Way.

145

Cr.
But, here's no Plot!—or none that's understood.

Au.
There's a Rebellion, tho'; and that's as good.

Cr.
No Spirit, nor Genius in't.

Au.
Why, didn't here
A SPIRIT and a GENIUS both appear?

Cr.
Poh! 'tis all Stuff and Nonsense—

Au.
Lack-a-day!
Why, that's the very Essence of a Play.
Your Old House, New House, Opera, and Ball,—
'Tis NONSENSE, Critic, that supports'em all,
As you yourselves ingeniously have shown,
Whilst on their Nonsense you have built your own.

Cr.
Here wants—

Au.
Wants what? Why now, for all your canting,
What one Ingredient of a Play is wanting?
Music, Love, War, Death, Madness without Sham,
Done to the Life, by Persons of the Dram.;
Scenes and Machines, descending and arising;
Thunder and Lightning;—ev'rything surprising!

Cr.
Play, Farce, or Opera is't?

146

Au.
No matter whether;
'Tis a Rehearsal of 'em all together.
But come, Sir, come! Troop off, old Blundermonger,
And interrupt the Epilogue no longer!
[Author drives the Critic off the Stage.
Hurlo, proceed!

Hurlo.
Troth! he says true enough;
The Stage has given Rise to wretched Stuff.
Critic or Player, a Dennis or a Cibber,
Vie only which shall make it go down glibber.
A thousand murd'rous Ways they cast about
To stifle it; but, Murder-like, 'twill out.
Our Author fairly, without so much Fuss,
Shows it in puris Naturalibus;
Pursues the Point beyond its highest Height;
Then bids his Men of Fire and Ladies bright
Mark how it looks, when it is out of sight.
So true a Stage, so fair a Play for Laughter,
There never was before, nor ever will come after,—
Never, no never! Not while vital Breath
Defends ye from that long-liv'd mortal, Death.

147

“Death!”—Something hangs on my prophetic Tongue;
I'll give it Utterance, be it right or wrong:
“Handel himself shall yield to Hurlothrumbo,
And Bononcini too shall cry ‘Succumbo;’”—
That's, if the Ladies condescend to Smile:
Their Looks make Sense or Nonsense in our Isle.

151

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

A TALE.

152

I.

“Tale?” That will raise the Question, I suppose:
“What can the Meaning be of the three black Crows?”
It is a London Story, you must know,
And happen'd, as they say, some Time ago.
The Meaning of it Custom would suppress,
Till at the End;—but come, nevertheless,
Tho' it may vary from the Use of old
To tell the Moral till the Tale be told,
We'll give a Hint, for once, how to apply
The Meaning, first—and hang the Tale thereby.

II.

People full oft are put into a Pother,
For want of understanding one another;
And strange, amusing Stories creep about,
That come to Nothing, if you trace them out;
Lies of the Day, or Month perhaps, or Year,
That serve their Purpose and then disappear;
From which, meanwhile, Disputes of ev'ry Size,
That is to say, Misunderstandings, rise,
The Springs of Ill, from Bick'ring up to Battle,
From Wars and Tumults down to Tittle-Tattle:
Such as, for Instance (for we need not roam
Far off to find them, but come nearer Home)
Such as befall by sudden misdivining
On Cuts, on Coals, on Boxes, and on Signing,

153

Or (may good Sense avert such hasty Ills
From this Foundation, this Assembly),—Mills!
It may, at least it should, correct a Zeal
That hurts the public or the private Weal,
By eager giving of too rash Assent,
To note, how Meanings that were never meant
Will fly about, like so many black Crows,
Of that same Breed of which the Story goes.

III.

Two honest Tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the Hand;
“Hark-ye,” said he, “'tis an odd Story this
About the Crows!”—“I don't know what it is,”
Replied his Friend.—“No? I'm surprised at that;
Where I come from it is the common Chat.
But you shall hear:—an odd Affair indeed!
And, that it happen'd, they are All agreed.
Not to detain you from a Thing so strange,
A Gentlemen, that lives not far from 'Change,
This Week, in short, as all the Alley knows,
Taking a Puke, has thrown up Three black Crows.”

IV.

“Impossible!” “Nay, but it's really true;
I have it from good Hands, and so may You.”

154

“From whose, I pray?”—So, having nam'd the Man,
Straight to enquire his curious Comrade ran.
“Sir, did you tell”—relating the Affair—
“Yes, Sir, I did; and if it's worth your Care,
Ask Mr. Such a-one, he told it me;—
But, by the Bye, 'twas Two black Crows, not Three.”

V.

Resolv'd to trace so wond'rous an Event,
Whip, to the third the Virtuoso went.
“Sir”—and so forth;—“Why yes; the Thing is Fact,
Tho' in regard to Number not exact:
It was not Two black Crows, 'twas only One:
The Truth of that you may depend upon.
The Gentleman himself told me the Case.”
“Where may I find him?”—“Why, in such a Place.”

VI.

Away goes he, and having found him out:
“Sir, be so good as to resolve a Doubt.”
Then to his last Informant he referr'd,
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard;
“Did you, Sir, throw up a black Crow?”—“Not I!”
“Bless me, how People propagate a Lie!
Black Crows have been thrown up, Three, Two and One;
And here, I find, all comes at last to None!

155

Did you say Nothing of a Crow at all?”—
“Crow? Crow?—perhaps I might, now I recall
The Matter over.”—“And, pray Sir, what was't?”—
“Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my Neighbour so,
Something that was—as black, Sir, as a Crow.”

156

VERSES On the Danger and Impropriety of Hastily Attaching Wrong Ideas to Words or Epithets.

I.

'Tis not to tell what various Mischief springs
From wrong Ideas fix'd to Words or Things,
When Men of hasty and impatient Thought
Will not examine Matters, as they ought,
But snatch the first Appearance, nor suspect,
What is so oft the Case, their own Defect.

II.

Defect—which, if occasion offers, makes
The most absurd, ridiculous Mistakes,

157

To say no worse;—for Evils to recite
Of deeper kind is not our Task to-night,
But just to versify a case or two
That grave Divines relate, and, when they do,
Justly remark that, in effect, the prone
To hasty Judgment make the case their own.

III.

When Martin Luther first grew into fame,
His Followers obtain'd a double Name:
Some call'd 'em Martinists, and some again
Express'd by Lutherans the self-same Men.
Meaning the same, you see, and same the Ground;
But mark the force of Diff'rence in the Sound.

IV.

Two zealous Proselytes to his Reform,
Which then had rais'd an universal Storm,
Meeting by chance upon a publick Walk,
Soon made Religion Subject of their talk;
Its low Condition both dispos'd to own,
And how corrupt the Church of Rome was grown.
In this preliminary Point indeed,
Tho' Strangers to each other, they agreed;
But, as the Times had bred some other Chiefs,
Who undertook to cure the common Griefs,
They were oblig'd, by further hints, to find,
If in their choice they both were of a Mind.
After some winding of their Words about,
To seek this secondary Problem out,

158

“I am,” declar'd the bolder of the two,
“A Martinist, and so, I hope, are you.”
“No,” said the other, growing somewhat hot,
“But I'll assure you, Sir, that I am not;
I am a Lutheran; and, live or die,
Shall not be any thing beside, not I.”
“If not a Martinist,” his Friend replied,
“Truly, I care not what you are beside.”
Thus Fray began, which, Critics may suppose,
But for Spectators would have come to Blows;
And so they parted, Matters half discuss'd,
All in a huff, with mutual disgust.

V.

The prose Account of Dr. More, I think,
Relates the Story of two Clowns in Drink.
The Verse has cloth'd it in a different strain;
But, either way, the gentle Hint is plain,
That 'tis a foolish Bus'ness to commence
Dispute on Words, without regard to Sense.

VI.

Such was the case of these two Partizans;
There is another of a single Man's
Still more absurd, if possible, than this
Must I go on, and tell it you? (Chorus:)
“Yes, Yes.”

VII.

A certain Artist, I forget his Name,
Had got for making Spectacles a Fame,
Or “Helps to read,”—as, when they first were sold,
Was writ, upon his glaring Sign, in Gold;

159

And, for all Uses to be had from Glass,
His were allow'd by Readers to surpass.
There came a Man into his Shop one Day:
“Are you the Spectacle-Contriver, pray?”
“Yes, Sir,” said he; “I can, in that Affair,
Contrive to please you, if you want a Pair.”
“Can you? pray, do then!” So at first he chose
To place a youngish Pair upon his Nose,
And Book produc'd, to see how they would fit;
Ask'd how he lik'd 'em. “Like 'em? Not a bit.”
“Then, Sir, I fancy, if you please to try,
These in my Hand will better suit your Eye.”
“No, but they don't.” Well, come Sir, if you please,
Here is another Sort, we'll e'en try these;
Still somewhat more they magnify the Letter:
Now, Sir?” “Why, now—I'm not a bit the better.”
“No? Here, take these that magnify still more;
How do they fit?” “Like all the rest before.”

VIII.

In short, they tried a whole Assortment thro',
But all in vain; for none of them would do.
The Operator, much surpris'd to find
So odd a Cast, thought, sure the Man is Blind!
“What sort of eyes can you have got?” said he.
“Why, very good ones, Friend, as you may see.”
“Yes, I perceive the clearness of the Ball;
Pray, let me ask you: can you read at all?”
“No, you great Blockhead; if I could, what need
Of paying you for any Helps to Read?”
And so he left the Maker in a Heat,
Resolv'd to post him for an arrant Cheat.

160

THE APE AND THE FOX.

A FABLE.

I

Old Æsop so famous was certainiy right
In the Way that he took to instruct and delight,
By giving to Creatures, Beasts, Fishes, and Birds,
Nay to Things, tho' inanimate, Language and Words.
He engag'd by his Fables th' Attention of Youth,
And forc'd even Fiction to tell them the Truth;

II

Not so quickly forgot, as the Mind is more able
To retain a true Hint in the shape of a Fable;
And Allusions to Nature insensibly raise
The Reflection suggested by fabular Phrase,

161

That affords less exception for Cavil to find,
While the Moral more gently slides into the Mind.

III

Thus, to hint that a Kingdom will flourish the most,
Where the Men in high Station are fit for their Post,
And disgraces attend both on Person and Station,
If Regard be not had to due Qualification,
He invented, they tell us, this Fable of old,
Which the Place I am in now requires to be told.

IV

The Beasts, on a Time, when the Lion was dead,
Met together in Council to choose them a Head;
And, to give to their new Constitution a Shape
Most like to the human, they fix'd on the Ape;
They crown'd, and proclaim'd him by Parliament Plan,
And never was Monkey so like to a Man.

V

The Fox, being fam'd for his Cunning and Wit,
Was propos'd to their Choicc, but they did not think fit
To elect such a Sharper, lest, watching his Hour,
He should cunningly creep into absolute Pow'r;
No fear of King Ape, or of being so rid:
He would mind his Diversion, and do as they did.

162

VI

Sly Reynard, on this, was resolv'd to expose
Poor Pug, whom the Senate so formally chose;
And having observ'd in his Rambles a Gin
Where a delicate Morsel was nicely hung in,
He let the King know what a Prize he had found,
And the Waste, where it lay, was his Majesty's Ground.

VII

“Show me where,” said the Ape; so the Treasure was shown,
Which he seiz'd with Paw Royal, to make it his own;
But the Gin, at same time, was dispos'd to resist,
And clapping together caught Pug by the Wrist,
Who perceiv'd, by his Fingers laid fast in the Stocks,
What a Trick had been play'd by his Subject the Fox.

VIII

“Thou Traitor!” said he, “but I'll make thee anon
An Example of Vengeance”; and so he went on,
With a Rage most Monarchical. Reynard, who ey'd
The Success of his Scheme, gave a Sigh, and reply'd:
“Well, adieu, Royal Sir! 'twas a cruel Mishap,
That your Majesty's Grace did not understand Trap!”

163

DULCES ANTE OMNIA MUSÆ.

I

Of all Companions that a Man can choose,
Methinks the sweetest is an honest Muse,
Ready, the subject proper and the Time,
To cheer Occasion with harmonic Rime.
Of all the Muses (for they tell of nine),
Melpomene, sweet flowing Mel., be mine!

164

II

Her's the judicious and the friendly Part
To clear the Head, to animate the Heart;
Their kindred Forces, tempering, to unite;
Grave to instruct, and witty to delight;
With Judgment cool, with Passions rightly warm,
She gives the Strength to Numbers and the Charm.

III

Her Lines, whatever the Occasion be,
Flow without forcing, natural and free:
No stiff'ning of 'em with poetic Starch,
Whether her Bard is to be grave or arch:
Of diff'rent Topics which the Times produce
She prompts the fittest for the present Use

IV

She decks, when call'd, when honour'd to attend
On sacred Piety, her best lov'd Friend,
Decks with a Grace, and arms with a Defence,
Religion, Virtue, Morals, and good Sense;
Whatever tends to better human Mind
Sets Mel. at Work, a Friend to all Mankind.

V

A Foe, but void of any Rancour, Foe
To all the noisy Bustlings here below;

165

To all Contention, Clamour, and Debate
That plagues a Constitution, Church, or State,
That plagues a Man's ownself, or makes him will
His other Self, his Neighbour, any Ill.

VI

Life, as Mel. thinks, a short, uncertain Lease,
Demands the fruits of Friendship, and of Peace.
“Arms and the Man” her sister Clio sings;
To her she leaves your Heroes and your Kings,
To sound the Present, or to act the Past,
And tread the Stage in Buskin and Bombast.

VII

With Nymphs and Swains fond Mel. would strew the Fields,
With Flocks and Herds, instead of Spears and Shields;
Recall the Scenes that blest a golden Age
Ere mutual Love gave way to martial Rage;
And Bards, high soaring above simpler Phrase,
To genuine Light preferr'd the glaring Blaze.

VIII

She scorns alike ignobly to rehearse
The spiteful Satire, or the venal Verse;
Free in her Praise, and in her Censure too,
But Merit, but Amendment, is her view;

166

A rising worth still higher to exalt,
Or save a Culprit from a future Fault.

IX

No sour, pedantical, abusive Rage,
No vicious Rant defiles her freest Page;
No vile, indecent Sally, or profane,
To pleasure Fools, or give the Wise a Pain;
Her Mirth is aim'd to mend us, if we heed,
And what the chastest of her Sex may read.

X

She looks on various Empires, various Men,
As all one Tribe, when she directs the Pen;
She loves the Briton, and she loves the Gaul,
Swede, Russ, or Turk,—she wishes well to all:
They all are Men, all Sons of the same Sire,
And must be all belov'd, if Mel. inspire.

XI

It would rejoice her Votaries to see
All Europe, Asia, Africa agree;
“But the New World, New-England's dire Alarms?
“Should not Melpomene now sing to Arms?”—
No, she must ever wish all War to cease;
While Folks are fighting, she must hold her Peace;

XII

Content to hope that, what Events are due
Will bless New-England, and old England too;

167

Friend to fair Traders and free Navigation,
And Friend to Spain, but Foe to Depredation;
And Friend to France, but let heroic Clio
Demolish French Encroachments at Ohio.

XIII

Safe from all foreign, and domestic Foes
Be all your Liberties in Verse or Prose!
Be safe Abroad your Colonies, your Trade,
From Guarda-costas, and from Gasconade:
At Home your Lives, your Acres and your Bags;
And Plots against ye vanish all to Rags!

XIV

But much of Safety, let concluding Line
Observe, depends upon yourselves;—in fine,
Home, or Abroad, the World is but a School,
Where all Things roll to teach one central Rule:
That is: “If you would prosper and do well,
Love one another, and remember Mel.”

168

THE COUNTRY FELLOWS AND THE ASS.

A FABLE.

I

A Country Fellow and his Son, they tell
In modern Fables, had an Ass to sell.
For this intent they turn'd it out to play,
And fed so well, that by the destin'd Day

169

They brought the Creature into sleek Repair,
And drove it gently to a neighb'ring Fair.

II

As they were jogging on, a rural Class
Was heard to say: “Look! Look there, at that Ass
And those two Blockheads trudging on each Side,
That have not, either of 'em, Sense to ride!
Asses all Three!”—And thus the Country Folks
On Man and Boy began to cut their Jokes.

III

Th' old Fellow minded nothing that they said,
But ev'ry Word stuck in the young one's Head;
And thus began their Comment thereupon:
“Ne'er heed 'em Lad!” “Nay, Faither, do get on!”
“Not I, indeed!”—“Why then, let me, I pray!”
“Well, do; and see what prating Tongues will say!”

IV

The Boy was mounted; and they had not got
Much further on, before another Knot,
Just as the Ass was pacing by, pad, pad,
Cried: “O! that lazy Looby of a Lad!

170

How unconcernedly the gaping Brute
Lets the poor aged Fellow walk afoot!”

V

Down came the Son on hearing this Account,
And begg'd and pray'd, and made his Father mount;
Till a third Party, on a further Stretch,
“See! See,” exclaim'd, “that old hard-hearted Wretch!
How like a Justice there he sits, or Squire,
While the poor Lad keeps wading thro' the Mire!”

VI

“Stop!” cried the Lad, still deeper vexed in Mind,
“Stop, Father, stop! let me get on behind!”
Thus done, they thought they certainly should please,
Escape Reproaches, and be both at Ease;
For, having tried each practicable Way,
What could be left for Jokers now to say?

VII

Still disappointed by succeeding Tone:
“Hark ye, you Fellows! Is that Ass your own?
Get off, for Shame, or one of you at least!
You both deserve to carry the poor Beaft,
Ready to drop down dead upon the Road,
With such an huge, unconscionable Load!”

VIII

On this, they both dismounted and, some say,
Contriv'd to carry, like a Truss of Hay,

171

The Ass between 'em.—Prints, they add, are seen
With Man and Lad, and slinging Ass between;
Others omit that Fancy in the Print,
As over-straining an ingenious Hint.

IX

The Copy that we follow says: the Man
Rubb'd down the Ass, and took to his first Plan;
Walk'd to the Fair, and sold him; got his Price,
And gave his Son this pertinent Advice:
“Let Talkers talk; stick thou to what is best:
To think of pleasing all—is all a Jest.”

172

“IN NOVA FERT ANIMUS MUTATAS DICERE FORMAS CORPORA.”

—Ov. Metam., i. 1–2.

Spoken on the Same Occasion.

I.

Pythagoras, an ancient Sage, opin'd
That Form, and Shape were Indexes of Mind;
And Minds of Men, when they departed hence,
Would all be form'd according to this Sense;
Some Animal, or human Shape again,
Would shew the Minds of all the former Men.

II.

Let us adopt this Transmigration-plan,
And mark, how Animal exhibits Man.
Tyrants, for instance, (to begin with those
Who make the greatest noise, the greatest woes)
Of their Dominion Lions are the Key,
That Reign in Deserts now, and hunt their Prey.

173

Sometimes, dethron'd and brought upon a Stage,
Or coop'd, like Bajazet, within a Cage,
For Six-pence, safe from all tyrannic harms,
One may see Kings, perhaps, at the King's Arms;
See savage Monarchs, who had shown before
The tusky Temper of the wildest Boar,
Vested in proper Shape, when they are dead,
Reviv'd, and caught, and shown at the Boar's Head.

III.

In some tam'd Elephant our Eyes may scan
The once great, rich, o'ergrown, half-reas'ning Man.
My Lord had Sense to wind into his Maw
All within reach, that lay within the Law;
What would have fed a thousand Mouths was sunk,
To fill his own, by hugeous length of Trunk;
He grew to monstrous Grandeur, liv'd a Show,
And Stones high rais'd told where he was laid low:

174

By Transmigration it appears, at least,
That such great Man is really a great Beast.

IV.

From Animals that once were Men, to pass
To Men of now almost ambiguous Class:
Players, and Harlequins, and Pantomimes,
Who sell their Shapes to mimick Men and Times,
With all the servile, second-handed Tribe
Of Imitators, endless to describe,—
In their own Figures, when they come to range,
With small Transition into Monkeys change:
For now Men-Monkeys have not in their view
What should be done by Men, but what they do.

V.

Of Tempers, by inferior Forms express'd,
And seen for nothing, something may be guess'd.
When the sly Fox ensnares the silly Geese,
Who does not see that Mind is of a piece
With former Lawyers, who devour'd by far
The sillier Clients, drawn into the Bar?

175

VI.

“Why not Physicians?” hear the Lawyer say;
“Are not they too as wily in their way?”
Why, yes, dear Barrister; but then they own
The Shapes in which their cunning Arts are shown:
Serpents confess, around the Rod entwin'd,
Wily or wise the Æsculapian kind.

VII.

“Why not Divines?” the Doctor may object;
“They have Devourers, too, in ev'ry Sect.”
True; but if one devour, there is for him
A Transmigration more upon the grim:
In human Shape when he has spent his Years,
Stript of Sheep's Clothing, real Wolf appears.

VIII.

Plain in four-footed Animals, let's try
Instance that first occurs in such as fly.
The Parrot shews by its unmeaning prate
Full many a Talker's metamorphos'd Fate;
Whose Tongue outstrips the Clapper of a Mill,
And still keeps saying the same nothing still.

176

As full the City, and as full the Court,
As India's Woods with Creatures of this sort.
If rightly the gay-feather'd Bird foretells
The future Shape of eloquenter Belles
Or Beaux, transmigrated, the human Dolls
Will talk, and shine caress'd in “pretty Polls.”

IX.

Belles you may see pursue a Butterfly
With painted Wings, that flutter in the Sky
And, sparkling, to the Solar Rays unfold
Red mix'd with purple, green with shining Gold.
Nor wonder at the fond Pursuit; for know
That this same Butterfly was once a Beau
And, dress'd according to the newest Whim,
Ran after them, as they run after him.

X.

Footed or flying, all decipher Men;—
Enough to add one other Instance, then:
One from a Courtier, a creeping Thing;
He takes new Colours, as there comes new King;
Lives upon airy Promises, and dies;
His Transmigration can be no surprise:

177

Chameleon-shape by that he comes to share,
Still changes Colours, and still feeds on Air.

XI.

By his ingenious Fiction, in the End,
What could the wise Pythagoras intend?
Too wise a Man not to intend a Clue
To change, hereafter, literally true.
The Solar System of our boasted Age
Was known of old to this enlightned Sage;
So might his Thoughts on Man's immortal Soul,
Howe'er express'd, be right upon the whole:
He meant, one need not scruple to affirm,
This real Truth by Transmigration Term.

XII.

Our Tempers here must point to the degree
In which hereafter we design to be.
From Vice in Minds, undoubtedly, will grow
More ugly Shapes than any here below;
But sacred Virtue, Piety, and Love—
What beauteous Forms will they produce above!

178

VERSES Intended to have been Spoken at the Breaking-up of the Free Grammar School in Manchester, in the year 1748,

when Lauder's charge of Plagiarism upon Milton engaged the Public Attention.

184

THE MASTER'S SPEECH.

I

Our worthy Founder, Gentlemen, this Day
Orders the Youth an Hour's poetic Play,—
Me, on its annual Return, to choose
One single Subject for their various Muse,
That you may see how Fancy will create
Her diff'rent Image in each Youngster's Pate.

II

Now, since our Milton, a renownèd Name,
Had been attack'd for stealing into Fame;
I told 'em: “Lads, now be upon your Guard;
Exert yourselves, and save your famous Bard!
He's call'd a Plagiary: 'tis your's to show
The vain Reproach, and silence Milton's Foe.

185

III

“The Point,” said I, “at which ye now take Aim,
Remember, as ye rime, is Milton's Fame,—
Fame as a Poet only, as attack'd
For plund'ring Verses. Ne'er contest the Fact;
Defend your Bard, tho' granted; and confine
To three times six, at most, your eager Line.”

IV

Then lend a fav'ring Ear, whilst they rehearse
Short and almost extemporary Verse;
A Thought work'd up, that came into the Mind,
With Rimes the first and fittest they could find.
Such was their Task. The Boys have done their best;
Take what you like, Sirs; and excuse the rest.

FIRST LAD.

I

Milton pursu'd, in Numbers more sublime,
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rime.

186

'Tis said: “The Bard did but pretend to soar;
For such and such attempted them before.”

II

'Tis now an Age ago since Milton writ:
The rest are sunk into Oblivion's Pit;
A Critic diving to their Wrecks, perhaps,
Has, now and then, brought up some loosen'd Scraps.

III

We'll not dispute the Value of them now,
But say one Thing which Critics must allow,
Which all the Nations round us will confess:
“Milton alone—attempted with Success.”

SECOND LAD.

I

When Milton's Ghost into Elysium came
To mix with Claimants for poetic Fame,

187

Some rose, the celebrated Bard to meet,
Welcom'd, and laid their Laurels at his Feet.

II

“Immortal Shades,” said he, “if aught be due
To my Attempts, 'tis owing all to you,”
Then took the Laurels, fresh'ning from his Hand,
And crown'd the Temples of the sacred Band.

III

Others, in Crowds, stood muttering behind;
“Who is the Guest? He looks as he were blind;—
O! this is Milton, to be sure, the Man
That stole from others all his rimeless Plan;—

IV

From those conceited Gentleman, perchance,
That rush to hail him with such Complaisánce.
Ay, that's the Reason of this fawning Fuss.
I like him not,—he never stole from us.”

THIRD LAD.

I

“Crime in a Poet, Sirs, to steal a Thought?”
No, that 'tis not, if it be good for aught.
'Tis lawful Theft; 'tis laudable to boot;
'Tis want of Genius if he does not do't.

188

The Fool admires, the Man of Sense alone
Lights on a happy Thought, and makes it all his own;

II

Flies, like a Bee, along the Muses' Field,
Peeps in, and tastes what any Flow'r can yield,—
Free, from the various Blossoms that he meets
To pick, and cull, and carry Home the Sweets;
While, saunt'ring out, the heavy, stingless Drone
Amidst a thousand Sweets makes none of 'em his own.

FOURTH LAD.

I

A Critic once to a Miltonian made
Of Milton's Plagiarisms a long Parade,
To prove his Work not owing to his Genius,
But to Adamus Exul and Masenius;

189

That he had stol'n the greater Part by much,
Both of his Plan and Matter from the Dutch;

II

“His Abdiel, his fine Charactérs, he took,
And heav'nly Scenes, from such and such a Book;
His hellish, too, the same; from such a one,
He stole his Pandemonium,—and so on;—
Till Milton's Friend cry'd out, at last, quite giddy:
“Poh! hold thy Tongue! he stole the Devil, did he?”

FIFTH LAD.

I

When Oxford saw in her Radclivian Dome
Greek skill and Roman rivall'd here at Home,
Wond'ring she stood, till one judicious Spark
Address'd the Crowd, and made this sage Remark:
“The most unlicens'd Plagiary, this Gibbs!
Nothing in all his Pile, but what he cribs!

190

II

“The Ground he builds upon is not his own;
I know the Quarry whence he had his Stone;
The Forest, too, where all his Timber grow'd;
The Forge wherein his fusèd Metals flow'd;—
In short, survey the Edifice entire,
'Tis all a borrow'd Work, from Base to Spire.”

III

Thus with our Epic Architect he deals,
Who says that Milton in his Poem steals;—
“Steals” if he will; but “without Licence?” no!
Pedlars in Verse unmeaningly do so:
Him Phœbus licens'd, and the Muses Nine
Help'd the rare Thief to raise up—a Design.

SIXTH LAD.

I

Lauder! thy Authors Dutch and German
There is no need to disinter, Man!
To search the mould'ring Anecdote
For Source of all that Milton wrote.
We'll own, from these, and many more,
The Bard enrich'd his ample Store.

II

Phœbus himself could not escape
The Tricks of this poetic Ape:

191

For, to complete his daring Vole,
From his enliven'd Wheels he stole,
Prometheus-like, the Solar Ray
That animated all his Clay.

III

Prometheus-like, then, chain him down;
Prey on his Vitals of Renown;
With critic Talons, and with Beak,
Upon his Fame thy Vengeance wreak:
It grows again, at ev'ry Hour,
Fast as the Vulture can devour.

SEVENTH LAD.

I

Miltonum Vir, O facinus nefarium!
Exagitavit tanquam Plagiarium.
Miramur, hanc qui protulisset Thesin,
Quid esse, Momus, crederet Poësin.
Num, quæso, vult ut, hâc obstetricante,
Dicendum sit quod nemo dixit ante?

192

II

O admirandam hominis versuti
Calliditatem, quâ volebat uti!
Dixisset ipse, nimium securus,
Quod nemo dicet præsens aut futurus,
Dum Felis ungues persequentur murem
Miltonum, scilicet, fuisse Furem.

III

Exulent ergo, (ejus ex Effatis)
Quicunque Nomen usurparint Vatis;
Nullum vocemus prorsus ad Examen
Eorum Sensum, Vim, aut Modulamen:
Furantur omnes;—habeamus verum
Poetam, exhinc, unicum Lauderum!

193

THE NIMMERS.

Two Foot-companions once in deep Discourse,—
“Tom,” says the one, “let's go and steal a Horse!”
“Steal!” says the other, in a huge surprise,
“He that says I'm a Thief, I say he lies.”
“Well, well,” replied his Friend, “no such affront;
I did but ask ye: if you won't, you won't.”
So they jogg'd on, till, in another Strain,
The Querist mov'd to honest Tom again.

194

“Suppose,” says he, “for Supposition's sake,—
'Tis but a Supposition that I make,—
Suppose that we should filch a Horse, I say?”
“Filch! Filch!” quoth Tom, demurring by the Way;
“That's not so bad as downright Theft, I own;
But—yet—methinks—'twere better let alone.
It soundeth something pitiful, and low;
Shall we go filch a Horse, you say? why, no;
I'll filch no filching; and I'll tell no lie;
Honesty's the best Policy, say I.”

Struck with such vast Integrity quite dumb,
His Comrade paus'd; at last, says he: “Come, come!
Thou art an honest Fellow, I agree,—
Honest and poor; alas! that should not be,
And dry into the Bargain, and no Drink!
Shall we go Nim a Horse, Tom?—What dost think?”

How clear Things are when Liquor's in the Case!
Tom answers quick, with casuistic Grace:
“Nim? yes, yes, yes, lets Nim with all my Heart;
I see no harm in Nimming, for my Part.
Hard is the Case, now I look sharp into't,
That Honesty should trudge i'th' Dirt afoot;
So many empty Horses round about,
That Honesty should wear its Bottoms out!
Besides, shall Honesty be chok'd with Thirst?
Were it my Lord Mayor's Horse, I'd nim it first!

195

And, by the by, my Lad, no scrubby Tit!
There is the best that ever wore a Bit
Not far from hence.” “I take ye,” quoth his Friend,
“Is not yon Stable, Tom, our Journey's End?”

Good Wits will jump: both meant the very Steed,
The Top o'th' Country, both for Shape and Speed.
So to't they went, and, with an Halter round
His feather'd Neck, they nimm'd him off the Ground.

And now, good People, we should next relate
Of these Adventurers the luckless Fate.
Poor Tom!—but here the Sequel is to seek,
Not being yet translated from the Greek.
Some say, that Tom would honestly have peacht,
But by his blabbing Friend was over-reacht;
Others insist upon't, that both the Elves
Were, in like Manner, halter-nimm'd themselves.

It matters not:—the Moral is the Thing,
For which our purpose, Neighbours, was to sing.
If it should hit some few amongst the Throng,
Let 'em not lay the Fault upon the Song!
Fair warning, all: He that has got a Cap,
Now put it on, or else beware a Rap!
'Tis but a short one, it is true, but yet
Has a long reach with it, Videlicet:
'Twixt right and wrong, how many gentle Trimmers
Will neither steal nor filch, but will be plaguy Nimmers.

196

THE POND.

“At qui tantuli eget, quanto est opus, is neque Limo
Turbatam transit aquam, neque vitam amittit in Undis”
Hor. Sat. I., i. 59-60.

198

Once on a Time a certain Man was found
That had a Pond of Water in his Ground,—
A fine large Pond of Water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his Turn for many a Year.
Yet, so it was, a strange, unhappy Dread
Of wanting Water seiz'd the Fellow's Head.
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his Pond should sink.
Perpetually tormented with this Thought,

199

He never ventur'd on a hearty Draught;
Still dry, still fearing to exhaust his Store,
When half-refresh'd, he frugally gave o'er;
Reviving, of himself reviv'd his Fright:
“Better,” quoth he, “to be half-chok'd than quite.”

Upon his Pond continually intent,
In Cares and Pains his anxious Life he spent,
Consuming all his Time and Strength away,
To make the Pond rise higher ev'ry Day.
He work'd and slav'd, and oh! how slow it fills!
Pour'd in by Pail-fuls, and took out—by Gills.

In a wet Season, he would skip about,
Placing his Buckets under ev'ry Spout;
From falling Show'rs collecting fresh Supply,
And grudging ev'ry Cloud that passèd by;
Cursing the dryness of the Times each Hour,
Altho' it rain'd as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade thro' ev'ry dirty Spot,
Where any little Moisture could be got;
And when he had done draining of a Bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a Hog;
And cried whene'er Folks blam'd him: ‘What d'ye mean?
It costs a World of Water to be clean!”

If some poor Neighbour crav'd to slake his Thirst,
“What!—rob my Pond? I'll see the Rogue hang'd first!

200

A burning Shame, these Vermin of the Poor
Should creep unpunish'd thus about my Door!
As if I had not Frogs and Toads enow,
That suck my Pond, whatever I can do!”

The Sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of Matters that were wet;
Betimes he rose to sweep the Morning Dew,
And rested late to catch the Ev'ning too.
With Soughs and Troughs he labour'd to enrich
The rising Pond from ev'ry neighb'ring Ditch;
With Soughs, and Troughs, and Pipes, and Cuts, and Sluices,
From growing Plants he drain'd the very Juices;
Made ev'ry Stick of Wood upon the Hedges
Of good Behaviour to deposit Pledges;
By some Conveyance or another still
Devis'd Recruits from each declining Hill;
He left, in short, for this beloved Plunder,
No Stone unturn'd that could have Water under.

Sometimes, when forc'd to quit his awkward Toil
And, sore against his Will, to rest a while,
Then straight he took his Book, and down he sat
To calculate th' Expenses he was at:
How much he suffer'd, at a mod'rate Guess,
From all those Ways by which the Pond grew less.
For, as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd not a single Figure:
He knew a wise old Saying, which maintain'd
That 'twas bad Luck to count what one had gain'd.

201

“First, for my Self, my daily Charges here
Cost a prodigious Quantity a Year;
Altho', thank Heaven, I never boil my Meat,
Nor am I such a Sinner as to sweat.
But Things are come to such a Pass, indeed,
We spend ten Times the Water that we need.
People are grown with washing, cleansing, rinsing,
So finical and nice, past all convincing;
So many proud, fantastic Modes, in short,
Are introduc'd, that my poor Pond pays for't.

“Not but I could be well enough content
With what upon my own Account is spent;
But those large Articles from whence I reap
No Kind of Profit, strike me on a Heap.
What a vast deal each Moment at a sup,
This ever thirsty Earth itself drinks up!
Such Holes and Gaps! Alas! my Pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable Sides.
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many Creatures as it keeps alive,
That creep from ev'ry Nook and Corner, marry!
Filching as much, as ever they can carry.
Then, all the Birds that fly along the Air
'Light at my Pond, and come in for a Share.
Item, at ev'ry Puff of Wind that blows,
Away at once the Surface of it goes;
The rest, in Exhalations to the Sun:
One Month's fair Weather, and I am undone!”

202

This Life he led for many a Year together,
Grew old and grey in watching of his Weather,
Meagre as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopt, as the saying is, his vital Breath.
For as th' old Fool was carrying to his Field
A heavier Burden than he well could wield,
He miss'd his Footing, or somehow he fumbled
In tumbling of it in,—but in he tumbled.
Mighty desirous to get out again,
He scream'd, and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain;
The Place was grown so very deep and wide,
Nor Bottom of it could he feel, nor Side:
And so—i'th' Middle of his Pond—he died.

What think ye now from this imperfect Sketch,
My Friends, of such a miserable Wretch?—
“Why, 'tis a Wretch, we think, of your own making.
No Fool can be suppos'd in such a taking;
Your own warm Fancy”—Nay, but warm or cool,
The World abounds with many such a Fool.
The choicest Ills, the greatest Torments, sure,
Are those which Numbers labour to endure.
“What? For a Pond?”—Why, call it an Estate:
You change the Name, but realise the Fate.

203

ON INOCULATION.

Written when it first began to be practised in England.

204

I

I heard two Neighbours talk, the other Night,
About this new Distemper-giving Plan,
Which some so wrong, and others think so right;
Short was the Dialogue, and thus it ran:

II

“If I had twenty Children of my own,
I would inoculate them ev'ry one.”—
“Ay, but should any of them die, what Moan
Would then be made for vent'ring thereupon!”

III

“No; I should think that I had done the best,
And be resign'd, whatever should befall.”—

205

“But could you really be so quite at Rest?”
“I could.”—“Then, why inoculate at all?

IV

“Since, to resign a Child to God, Who gave,
Is full as easy, and as just a Part,
When sick and led by Nature to the Grave,
As when in Health, and driv'n to it by Art.”

206

MINCE-PIE.

Comical Sir,

The answer I give,
Shall be 'firmative,
So get ready your platter;
For my tutor and I
Shall come to your pie
Without mincing the matter.

Yours, J. B.

207

DRINK.

208

You ask me, friend, what cause can be assigned
For all the various humours of mankind;
Whence, in opinions, tempers, manners, mien,
Thought, speech and act, such diff'rence should be seen?
Why, in one word to tell you what I think:
The cause of all these various things is — Drink!
Ay, you may laugh; but, if it may suffice
In men and manners to believe one's eyes,
Drink, I do say it, is the subtle matter
That makes in human engines such a clatter
That gives account mechanical and true
Why men from men should differ as they do,
Account of ev'ry passion, system, strife,—
In short, of all the incidents of life.
For what is life? Life, as a man may say
Is but the moisture of the human clay,
That holds the soul united to its tether,
And keeps the dusty particles together.
Cantábs, they say, Oxonian bards outshine,
That is, in other words, have better wine;

209

Change but the liquor, and, you'll see Cantábs
Will be the minnows, Oxford men the dabs.

Why do the doctors, in consumptive cases,
Advise in better air to wash our faces?
Do not the doctors know, who thus prescribe,
That air's the liquor which our lungs imbibe?
Well the sagacious health-smiths point the way
To stir life's fire and make the bellows play;
The tainted lobe, regaled with fresher dew,
Heaves and ferments the dregs of life anew,
And, with fresh dew fermenting thus his dregs,
A man once more is set upon his legs;
He that before was down among the dumps,
Looks up again, again bestirs his stumps,
Pays off the doctor, and begins to think
What place will yield him fittest air to drink.

When our distempers did their names receive,
(One instance more, good doctors, by your leave,)
Some chronic matters, such as gout and stone,
That would the force of no arcana own,
To save their credit, these, the learned dons
Cried out, were fix'd hereditary ones:
If a man's father, grand-or great-grand sire
Had had the same, 'twas needless to enquire;
Plain was the case, and safe the doctor's fame;
The poor old ancesters bore all the blame.
Now, I'll appeal to common sense and you,
If such a flam as this can e'er be true?
Judge if our thesis does not solve such failings
Better than twenty Hippocrates' or Galens.

210

Let these old gentlemen say what they please,
'Tis the same drink creates the same disease:
The same bad milk which through two children passes,
May send 'em both in time to that of asses;
If one survives the other for a season,
'Tis intermediate drinking is the reason.
Father and son did one consumption strike?
Truth is, they drank consumedly alike.
What wonder is't, if when relations hap
Oft to claim kindred by the self-same tap,
That he who like his father topes about
Should, like his father, suffer from the gout?
Causes alike alike effects impart;
Then, what occasion for new terms of art,
“Stamens,” and “embryos,” and “animalcules,”
And suchlike fixed hereditary calcules?
It is so hardly to be understood
That all men's toes are made of flesh and blood.

In grave Divinity should it be sung
How diff'rent sects from diff'rent drinkings sprung,
You'll find, if once you enter on the theme,
Religion various, but the cause the same.
Now, therefore, Calvin's meagre jaws compare
With Luther's count'nance, ruddy, plump and fair;

211

Imagine them alive, and tell me whether
These godly heroes ever drank together?
If not, according to our present system,
We may of course in diff'rent parties list 'em.

England indeed preserved the happy mean
Betwixt the fat Reformer and the lean;
And yet, in England, num'rous sects prevail,
Such is its great variety of ale.
Hence Presbyterians, Independents, Quakers,
And such-like prim salvation-undertakers;
Hence Anabaptists, Seekers and what-nots,
Who doubtless suck in schism with their pots.
Were't not for this, the whole fanatic fry
Might come to church as well as you and I.
Who can believe that organs and a steeple
Should give offence to any Christian people?
Does reason, think ye, tell these righteous folks
That sin's in gowns and purity in cloaks?

212

Or do their saints, by gospel truth's command,
Reject the surplice and receive the band?
No, no! 'tis Drink that makes the men so fickle
('Tis Drink that builds the sep'rate conventícle)
Form to themselves a thousand diff'rent shams,
Which they call scruples, but, I say, are drams.

THE WOODEN HORSE.

Old Troy was a town of high renown,
As we [read] in ancient story.
Would you hear how it was quite turned to Greece,
Attend and I'll lay 't before ye.

213

The Greeks they say
At that time of day
Were folks of their own opinion.
Now, these Greeks they did boast
That Troy town they would roast,
As a man would roast an onion.
Many tricks had been tried
By the Greeks, on which side
To obtain the command of the town;—
But to make a short tale,
They came off with a fall,
And their [---] all fell down.

UPROUSE YE, THEN.

214

Ye men that came from Brazen Nose
Into Bridgnorth upon your toes,
Pray, on your beds no longer lie,
If you would see fair Shrewsbury.

THE STATUE IN CHEAPSIDE.

Be easy, citizens, about the statue;
Nor mind this noisy fellow's hideous din.
What need you wonder at his bawling at you,
When he's employed, you say, to rail it in.

215

LINES TO STEPHEN DUCK.

218

Dear Duck.
This comes to wish thee joy of thy good luck,
Thy yearly pension and thy country-seat,
So well bestowed upon thee by the great.
Thy verses, which have come to Lancashire,
We read, and we commend, and we admire
In heart a thousand and a thousand times.
We thank thee, Stephen, for thy honest rhymes,
Wherein thou shew'st a native genius bright,
And poetry upon its legs set right,
Which others with their vicious works and scurvy
Mostly endeavour to turn topsy-turvey:
Rare poets, truly! who in Christian times
Can sanctify the foulest pagan crimes;
Can from a Cæsar's or a Cato's tomb
Revive the old rascalities of Rome;
Preposterous Wits! that labour to set forth
A vain ambitious rebel Tyrant's worth,
Or canonise a sour self-murd'rer's pride,
And make a hero of a suicide!
Stephen, I vow it were a better thing
For such as them to thresh, and such as thee to sing!

219

FATHER JERDAN.

One Father Jerdan once bestowed a gun
Upon a poor man passing through the town.
The poor man straight into an ale-house went
And, having sold the gun, the money spent:
To whom the Father answer'd in this fashion:
“I'd rather lose my coat than my compassion.”

A LADY'S LOVE.

A lady's love is like a candle-snuff,
That's quite extinguish'd by a gentle puff;
But, with a hearty blast or two, the dame,
Just like a candle, bursts into a flame.

220

ON THE WHIG WORKHOUSE BILL.

I

“This Manchester affair, at last,”
Says Plumptre, visiting Sir Harry,
“When we all hoped it should have passed,
Plague on't! has happened to miscarry!”—

II

“Why then, Sir Robert, I must say,
Has used as ill,” replies the Knight.
“What! When he might have gained the day.
Sneak off and leave us! Was that right?”—

221

III

“Why, people said, it was a job,”
Says Plumptre — as indeed it was!
“And so, on second thoughts Sir Bob
Could not in conscience let it pass.”—

IV

“Conscience!” replies Sir Harry, still
Angered the more at such expressions;
“He makes a conscience of my Bill!
I'm sure I voted for ---

When at the Common's bar Byrom, the Doctor, stood
And told of matters what he could,
Plumptre stood up, and said with front severe:
“Pray, let me ask, how came you here?”—
“How came I here?” thought he; “how came I hither?”—
“You must say something!”—“Why, Sir I walked thither.”—
“Walked thither, Sir! Pray, speak to my intention:
What right claim'd you to be at that convention?”—
“What right? Why, Sir, the right of every man
To do his neighbour service where he can.
Pray, did the persons there advance a claim
Present to be in any but that same?
I would not injure, sir, nor yet define
The rights of others; but this claim is mine.”
Thus it appears, that questions put at random
Were answered right. Quod erat demonstrandum.

222

ON SPECIOUS AND SUPERFICIAL WRITERS.

How rare the Case, tho' common the Pretence,
To write on Subjects from a real Sense!
'Tis many a celebrated Author's Fate
To print Effusions just as Parrots prate.
He moulds a Matter that he once was taught,
In various shapes, and thinks it to be Thought.
Words at Command he marshals in Array,
And proves whatever he is pleas'd to say;
While Learning like a Torrent pours along,
And sweeps away the Subject, right or wrong,
One follows for a while a rolling Theme,
Toss'd in the middle of the rapid Stream,
Till out of Sight, with like impetuous Force
Torn from its Roots, another takes the Course;
While Froth and Bubble glaze the flowing Mud,
And the Man thinks all clear and understood.

223

A shining Surface, and a transient View,
Makes the slight-witted Reader think so too.
It entertains him, and the Book is bought,
Read, and admir'd without Expense of Thought;
No Tax impos'd upon his Wits, his Cash
Paid without Scruple, he enjoys the Trash.

THE PASSIVE PARTICIPLE'S PETITION TO THE PRINTER OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

224

I

Urban, or Sylvan, or whatever Name
Delight thee most, thou foremost in the Fame
Of Magazining Chiefs, whose rival Page
With monthly Medley courts the curious Age,—
Hear a poor Passive Participle's Case,
And, if thou can'st, restore me to my Place!

II

Till just of late, good English has thought fit
To call me written, or to call me writ.
But what is writ or written, by the vote
Of Writers now, hereafter must be wrote;
And what is spoken, too, hereafter spoke;
And Measures, never to be broken, broke.

III

I never could be driven; but, in spite
Of Grammar, they have drove me from my Right.

225

None could have risen to become my Foes;
But what a World of Enemies have rose!
Who have not gone, but they have went about;
And, torn as I have been, have tore me out.

IV

Passive I am, and would be; and implore
That such Abuse may be henceforth forbore,—
If not forborne; for, by all Spelling-book,
If not mistaken, they are all mistook;
And, in plain English, it had been as well
If what has fall'n upon me, had not fell.

V

Since this Attack upon me has began,
Who knows what Lengths in Language may be ran?
For, if it once be grew into a Law,
You'll see such Work as never has been saw;
Part of our Speech, and Sense, perhaps, beside,
Shakes when I'm shook, and dies when I am died.

VI

Then, let the Præter and Imperfect Tense
Of my own words to me remit the Sense;

226

Or, since we two are oft enough agreed,
Let all the learnèd take some better heed,
And leave the vulgar to confound the due
Of Præter. tense, and Participle, too!

FROM A GENTLEMAN TO HIS BARBER.

THREE FRAGMENTS.

227

Fragment I.

O thomas, did you see my Beard,
So long, so white, and eke so hard,
Which thus afflicts a suffering Sinner,
You would ere now have sent a Trimmer.

Fragment II.

Thomas,
I hope this short Epistle,
Will serve the purpose of a Whistle,

228

And bring you hither in a Minute,
When you shall see what's written in it.

Fragment III.

From under my Lime-Tree, May 23rd, 1736.

Thomas,
Methinks, 'tis wondrous strange
How some Folks' constitutions change!
When I was young, and went to School,
I thought a poet a stark fool.
As I grew up a taller Lad,
I bolder grew, and thought him mad,
And ne'er vouchsaf'd to read one once;—
So, left the School, and turn'd out Dunce;
And, thus equipp'd, from them was hurl'd
Into a noisy, bustling World,
Where in no time, nor in no Season,
I e'er could meet with Rime or reason.

THE BEAU AND THE BEDLAMITE.

229

I

A patient in Bedlam that did pretty well,
Was permitted sometimes to go out of his Cell.
One Day, when they gave him that Freedom, he spied
A beauish young Spark with a Sword by his Side
With an huge Silver Hilt, and a Scabbard for Steel,
That swung at due Length from his Hip to his Heel.

II

When he saw him advance on the Gallery Ground,
The Bedlamite ran, and survey'd him all round;
While a Waiter suppress'd the young Captain's Alarm
With: “You need not to fear, Sir, he'll do you no Harm.”
At the last he broke out: “Aye, a very fine Show!
May I ask him one Question?” “What's that?” said the Beau.

III

“Pray, what is that long, dangling, cumbersome Thing,
That you seem to be tied to with Riband and String?”
“Why, that is my Sword.” “And what is it to do?”
“Kill my Enemies, Master, by running them thro'.”
“Kill your Enemies? Kill a Fool's Head of your own!
They'll die of themselves, if you'll let them alone.”

230

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

Saint Philip Neri, as old Readings say,
Met a young Stranger in Rome's Streets one Day;
And, being ever courteously inclin'd
To give young Folks a sober Turn of Mind,
He fell into Discourse with him; and thus
The Dialogue they held comes down to us.—

St.
“Tell me what brings you, gentle Youth, to Rome?”

Y.
“To make myself a Scholar, Sir, I come.”

St.
“And, when you are come, what do you intend?”

Y.
“To be a Priest, I hope, Sir, in the End.”

St.
“Suppose it so,—what have you next in view?”

Y.
“That I may get to be a Canon, too.”

St.
“Well; and how then?”

Y.
“Why then, for aught I know,
I may be made a Bishop.”

231

St.
“Be it so;—
What then?”

Y.
“Why, Cardinal's a high degree,
And yet my Lot it possibly may be.”

St.
“Suppose it was,—what then?”

Y.
“Why, who can say
But I've a Chance for being Pope one Day?”

St.
“Well, having worn the Mitre, and red Hat,
And triple Crown,—what follows after that?”

Y.
“Nay, there is Nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this Earth, that Wishing can procure.
When I've enjoy'd a Dignity so high
As long as God shall please, then—I must die.”

St.
“What! ‘Must’ you die, fond Youth, and, at the best,
But wish and hope, and ‘may be’ all the rest?
Take my Advice: whatever may betide,
For that which must be first of all provide;
Then think of that which may be; and indeed,
When well-prepar'd, who knows what may succeed,
But you may be, as you are pleas'd to hope,
Priest, Canon, Bishop, Cardinal, and Pope?”

232

MOSES' VISION.

Moses, to whom, by a peculiar Grace,
God spake (the Hebrew Phrase is) “Face to Face,”
Call'd by an Heav'nly Voice, the Rabbins say,
Ascended to a Mountain's Top one Day;
Where, in some Points perplex'd, his Mind was eas'd,
And Doubts concerning Providence appeas'd.

During the Colloquy Divine, say they,
The Prophet was commanded to survey
And mark what happen'd on the Plain below.
There he perceiv'd a fine, clear Spring to flow
Just at the Mountain's Foot, to which, anon,
A Soldier on his Road came riding on;
Who, taking Notice of the Fountain, stopt,
Alighted, drank, and, in remounting, dropt
A Purse of Gold; but, as the precious Load
Fell unsuspected, he pursued his Road.
Scarce had he gone, when a young Lad came by,
And, as the Purse lay just before his Eye,
He took it up, and, finding its Content,
Secur'd the Treasure, and away he went.
Soon after him a poor, infirm old Man,
With Age and Travel weary quite and wan,

233

Came to the Spring to quench his Thirst, and drank,
And then sat down to rest him on the Bank.
There while he sat, the Soldier on his Track,
Missing his Gold, return'd directly back;
Lit off his Horse, began to swear and curse,
And ask'd the poor old Fellow for his Purse.
He solemnly protested, o'er and o'er,
With Hands and Eyes uplifted to implore
Heav'ns Attestation to the Truth, that he
Nor Purse nor Gold had ever chanc'd to see;—
But all in vain; the Man believ'd him not,
And drew his Sword, and stabb'd him on the spot.

Moses, with Horror and Amazement seiz'd,
Fell on his Face. T he Voice Divine was pleas'd
To give the Prophet's anxious Mind Relief,
And thus prevent expostulating Grief:
“Be not surpris'd, nor ask how such a Deed
The World's Just Judge could suffer to succeed.
The Child has caus'd the Passion, it is true,
That made the Soldier run the old Man thro';
But know one Fact, tho' never yet found out,
And judge how that would banish ev'ry Doubt:
This same old Man, thro' Passion once as wild,
Murder'd the Father of that very Child.”

234

THE CENTAUR FABULOUS.

235

I

Zeuxis of old a Female Centaur drew,
To show his Art, and then expos'd to View.
The human Half with so exact a Care
Was join'd to Limbs of a Thessalian Mare,

236

That, seeing from a different Point the Piece,
Some prais'd the Maid, and some the Mare, of Greece.

II

Like to this Centaur, by his own Relation,
Is Doctor Warburton's Divine Legation;
Which superficial Writers, on each Hand,—
Christians and Deists,—did not understand;
Because they both observ'd from partial Views
Th' incorporated Church and State of Jews.

III

Th' ingenious Artist took the pains to draw,
Full and entire, the Compound of the Law;
The two Societies, the civil Kind
And the religious, perfectly combin'd;
With God Almighty, as a Temp'ral Prince,
Governing both, as all his Proofs evince,

IV

Without the Doctrine of a future State.—
Here with Opponents lies the main Debate.
They cannot reconcile to serious Thought
God's Church and State, with Life to come untaught;

237

With Law or Gospel cannot make to suit
Virgin of Sion sinking down to Brute.

V

Zeuxis the new, they argue, takes a Pride
In Shapes so incompatible allied;
And talks away, as if he had portray'd
A real Creature, mixt of Mare and Maid.
All who deny th' Existence of the Pad,
He centaurises into Fool and Mad.

238

VI

If one objected to a Maiden Hoof,—
“Why, 'tis an Animal,” was all his Proof;
If to an Animal with human Head,—
“Oh! 'Tis a beauteous Woman,” Zeuxis said.
“What! Animal and Woman both at once?”
“Yes; that's essential to the whole, ye Dunce.”

VII

His primary and secondary Sense,
Like Mare and Maid, support his fond Pretence:
From joining-spot he skips to each Extreme,
Or strides to both, and guards the motley Scheme;
Solving with like centauriformal Ease
Law, Prophets, Gospel, quoted as you please.—

239

VIII

Thus both went on, long-labour'd Volumes thro'.—
Now, what must fair, impartial Readers do?
Must they not grieve, if either of them treat
On Law or Grace with Rudeness or with Heat?
Of either Zeuxis they allow the skill,
But that—the Centaur is a Fable still.

240

THOUGHTS ON THE CONSTITUTION OF HUMAN NATURE, AS REPRESENTED IN THE SYSTEMS OF MODERN PHILOSOPHERS.

I

Strong Passions draw, like Horses that are strong,
The Body-Coach of Flesh and Blood along;
While subtle Reason, with each Rein in Hand,
Sits on the Box, and has them at Command;
Rais'd up aloft, to see and to be seen,
Judges the Track, and guides the gay Machine.

II

But was it made for nothing else beside
Passions to draw, and Reason to be Guide?
Was so much Art employ'd to drag and drive
Nothing within the Vehicle alive?

241

No seated Mind, that claims the moving Pew,
Master of Passions, and of Reason too?

III

The grand Contrivance why so well equip
With strength of Passions, rul'd by Reason's Whip?
Vainly profuse had Apparatus been,
Did not a reigning Spirit rest within;
Which Passions carry, and sound Reason means
To render present at pre-order'd Scenes.

IV

They who are loud in human Reason's Praise,
And celebrate the Drivers of our Days,
Seem to suppose, by their continual Bawl,
That Passions, Reason, and Machine, is all;
To them the Windows are drawn up, and clear
Nothing that does not outwardly appear.

V

Matter and Motion, and superior Man
By Head and Shoulders, form their reas'ning Plan.
View'd and demurely ponder'd, as they roll,
And scoring Traces on the Paper Soul,

242

Blank, shaven white, they fill th' unfurnish'd Pate
With new Idéas, none of them innate.

VI

When these Adepts are got upon a Box,
Away they gallop thro' the gazing Flocks;
Trappings admir'd, and the high-mettl'd Brute
And Reason balancing its either Foot;
While seeing Eyes discern, at their Approach,
Fulness of Skill, and emptiness of Coach.

VII

'Tis very well that lively Passions draw,
That sober Reason keeps them all in Awe,—
The one to run, the other to control,
And drive directly to the destin'd Goal.
“What Goal?”—Ay, there the Question should begin:
What Spirit drives the willing Mind within?

VIII

Sense, Reason, Passions, and the like, are still
One self-same Man, whose Action is his Will;
Whose Will, if right, will soon renounce the Pride
Of an own Reason for an only Guide;
As God's unerring Spirit shall inspire,
Will still direct the Drift of his Desire.

243

TO R. L., ESQUIRE,

On his Sending the Author a Hare, according to an Annual Custom.

I

What! another Hare, Peter? Well, so much the better!
I acknowledge myself to be doubly your Debtor;

244

Should ha' thank'd you indeed for the last afore now,
But the Forelock of Time has been short, of somehow.
I hope you won't take it, Sir, as an Affront;
'Twas an excellent good one, for what there was on't.
But since by your Favour here two at a Time,
Let that be for Sense, and this other for Rime.

II

Indeed, when old Jackson, your Namesake and Neighbour,
Had brought what you call'd there “the Fruits of your Labour,—
Of a whole Day's whole Labour:” so labour'd the Mountain,
(Thought I), and when got to the End of her Counting,
While the Neighbours all round her, with Wonder struck dumb,
Stood to see what huge Monster was coming to come,
At last, and with much ado, brought forth a Hero,
When drest, would have made much the same Bill of Fare-o!

III

Not that I lik'd your Present one Penny the worse!
No, if you think so, you are out of your Course.
Your Intention had had the same Courtesy in't, if
The Fruits of your Labour were ne'er so dimin'tive;
Nor should I have fail'd of my Thanks, if old Jackson
Had not told me that he was oblig'd to go back soon.
I began once to write, but I could not proceed in't,
And indeed, as it happens, 'tis well that I didn't.

245

IV

Had I answer'd your Minor, perhaps 'tis a Wager
Whether ever or no I had heard of your Major;
But now, having laid down your Premises twain,
The Conclusion is good, and the Consequence plain.
For, as old Aristotle said, some Time agone,
Two Hens and two Bacons are better than one:
Second Hares are the best, as a Body may say.
D'ye take, Sir, the Force of the Argument—hey?

V

But as after your short Hare you sent a long Ditto,
So you should by your Letter, and lengthen out it too.
You made me to cry, with your bit of a Scrawl,
Like our Trinity Friend—you know who,—“Is this all?”
I expected to find an Account of Miss Puss
As long as my Arm,—and to fob me off thus!
I thought, when a Cheshire Squire sent a Hare hither,
That at least he'd ha' sent the Hare's Pedigree with her.

VI

Sir Peter of Chester would ne'er have been hind'red
From searching of Writings to find out their Kindred;
The Field they were in he'd ha' blazon'd, I trow;
And ha' show'd if your Hares had been Co-heirs, or no;
With many such Questions, so nice and so knotty,
Of which you have said not a Syllable,—;

246

Yet you fancy that I should have somewhat to say t'em,—
As if I had an'thing to do, but to eat 'em!

VII

“Dr. John, 'tis long since I receiv'd any Poë-
“try: Argol, I've sent Hare and Service untó ye.”
Very good, Master Peter; you think, I suppose,
That Verses, with me, are as common as Prose.
“I send you a Hare; send you me a Conceit;”—
Is the old Grammar Rule then gone out of your Pate?
Did your Master ne'er tell you, amongst other Stories,
The Diff'rence betwixt Lepŏres, and Lepōres?

VIII

The last Time, indeed, that you sent me a Hare,
My Fury was mov'd with another Affair;
And the Creature arriv'd just as I had my Head full
Of a Butcher-Hall Challenge, so dire and so dreadful.
But, now our dear Friend is remov'd to Cheapside,
With right Hand, and left Hand, and Pen laid aside;

247

And, for fear I should take his Bread from him, has fled straight
From Butcher-Hall Lane to the Corner of Bread-street.

IX

Having put our Antagonist therefore to Flight,
I return to the Hare here;—adzooks! what a Weight!
The last that you sent us was presently gone;
But this, o' my Word, is a Whopper o' one!
Adzookus, whene'er we begin to see th' End on't,
We'll remember, old Arnold, thy worthy Descendant;
With Knives, and with Forks, and with Spoons we will thump her,
And then, “to the Ladies of Toft” in a Bumper!

248

TO THE SAME.

[_]

In Answer to the following Letter:

“Toft, 13th November, 1761. Friday-night.

“Dear Byrom, I have sent you a hare that was alive this day. You must remember that formerly a Toft Hare would have produced a copy of Verses, and I hope that you still like Hares as well as I do Verses. Be that as it will, I shall be glad to hear in Verse or Prose that you are as well as I could wish you to be. I grow old, stir little from home, and lament that I am not able to put myself in your way s' oft as in former days.

“With kind love to yourself and family, I remain, yours most affectionately,

R. Leycester.

“You find K. George and Mr. Pitt are the present darlings of this nation. Such strange alterations happen everywhere that I shall be surprised at nothing.

To Dr. Byrom, at Manchester.”

“Killed 13th November.”

I

Dear Peter, this tells you as soon as it could,
That the Hare, which you sent us, was tender and good;
And we send you thanks for it.—You say, “a Toft Hare
Was wont to produce a Verse-copied Affair:”
Which is true in the main; but Philosophers oft
Give Effects to wrong Causes. It neither was Toft
Nor Hare that was really productive of Metre,
But,—as here you may see by Self-evidence,—Peter.

249

II

The Hare was no more than occasional Item,
That if Verses were willing, one might as well write 'em;
And Toft, tho' within but a few Mille Passus,
Was as fit for the Purpose as foreign Parnassus.
Its good-natur'd Owner was proximate Cause
Of the free-flowing Rime and its modified Pause,—
The Phœbus, at whose Innuendo the Muse
Her Assistance, jam nunc, knows not how to refuse.

III

Still, it seems, “you like Verse, as you hope I like Hare.”
Ay, for Intercourse' sake; not the worth of the Ware!
Shops would answer your Taste with a much better Line,
And Shambles with full as good Provender mine.
Nay, if one should reflect upon Cruelty's Source
In the Gentlemen Butchers, the Hunt, and the Course,

250

'Twere enough to prevent either Pudding or Jelly
From storing such Carcass within a Man's Belly!

IV

Still I think of old Elwall, invited to sup
At your Chester Abode, when a Hare was cut up,
How he gave me this Answer, concerning this Prog:
“Dost thou ever eat Hare?”—“Dost thou ever eat Dog?”—
Don't think that hereby one intends to degrade
The Presentment, Sir Peter, which now you have made;
I would only suggest that the Thanks which I render,
Stand up on their Feet not to Hare, but Hare-sender;

251

V

Whose Case you describe so exactly like mine,
That it runneth almost in a parallel Line.
You “grow old:”—I grow older;—“stir little from home:”—
I less, and abroad more unable to roam;—
You “lament that you cannot come in a Friend's way,
As you formerly could:”—the same also I say.
Now, the Case being common, how should it affect us,
Seeing, “Aliter non fit avite Senectus?”

VI

With Gratitude, first, as I take it;—a Truth
Which is common, indeed, both to Age, and to Youth.
But, if Youth has neglected to fill up that Page,
—My case!—it belongs to Executor Age
To supply the defect which, tho' negligent, still
We suppose the said Youth to have had in its Will.
Old Senectus is tied, then, for Benefits lent us,
To pay the just Debts of Testator Juventus.

VII

With Temperance, next;—since if Gratitude binds,
For the sake of past Youth, our Senescenter Minds,
They must, in a Body more subject to Phthisic,
Guard against all Excess, and turn Food into Physic.
One sees how corpuscular Eating and Drinking
Make Youth in its Mentals so stout and unthinking;
Age, therefore, altho' not so paunchful or pateful,
Will be much better off, being sober and grateful;—

252

VIII

Two Helps, without which the mere animal Pow'r
In young or old Blood grows insipid or sour.
If the two Ventilators of Life do not mix,
Old Age would, I find, be as cross as two Sticks.
O grant me, ye Pow'rs both of Verse and of Prose,
To be thoughtful and thankful, choose how the World goes,—
Not, tho' the old Man should become twice a Child,
To be peevish and fretful, but placid and mild!

IX

Now, as touching K. George, and his Pensioner Pitt,
Your two present Darlings of national Wit,
And the strange Alterations that seem in your Eyes
So great, as if nothing henceforth could surprise:—
If you have not yet seen Men and Matters so vary,
As to bring you, before, to a “Nil admirari”
In this changeable Island, one need not be told
That you are but a Youngster, but newly grown old.

X

What a Pleasure to come has our Coming to Age,
To emancipate Thought from so shifting a Stage;

253

And to fix it on Matters that will, in all Cases,
Stand firm on their solid, immoveable Bases,—
Real Objects! Your Epitaph, else, on the Hare,
“Kill'd November 13th,” is but one of a Pair
With a poor hunted Peer's, “Decollat. such a Day;”
What more than the Puss has the Peerage, I pray?

XI

It would else be too true, what comes into my Mind,
How our old Master Bentley divided Mankind.
He was talking of Short-Hand, and how an erroneous
“Natare” the Blockheads had made Suëtonius
To write, for “Notare;”—the World, he then said,
Was made up of two Sorts, “Worriérs, Worriéd.”

254

Dick, he told me, should learn, and amidst the World's Hurry,
As the potenter Choice, be a Lawyer and “worry.”

XII

You see now, old Friend, how intentional Aim
Sets out to comply with your Copyhold Claim;
And how Age would run on, if the Muse did not fix
The Rhythmus of Dactyls to ninety-and-six,
And prompt, what the Household requires me to add:
That to hear of Toft Welfare they always are glad,
Being always possess'd of a competent Stock
“Of the best of good Wishes for all your whole Flock.”

255

“THE ART OF ACTING.”

260

I

The Art of Acting, Sir, by Aaron Hill,
Shows that the Man has a poetic Quill,—
A lively Turn of Thought, that could afford
Of Rimes and Epithets a plenteous Hoard;
That could the Subject, which he had in View,
Thro' ev'ry Maze of winding Wit pursue.

II

Nevertheless,—with Freedom may I speak?
Yes, to be sure, to R---n or F---ke!—

261

I would have chosen, had I been to choose,
Another Subject for Friend Aaron's Muse;
And left to manage for itself the Stage,
The Nonsense, Folly, Madness of the Age.

III

Tho' one may praise the Verse, one grieves to feel
A Bard's Invention rack'd upon the Wheel
To show the muscular Effect of Thought
In Looks and Features, Nerves and Sinews, wrought,—
For what? To teach his Buskin-footed Fools
How to belie their Want of Sense by Rules!

IV

The Soul, it seems, what passes by observes
From some snug Place behind the Optic Nerves;
If pleas'd with Objects, she dilates the Brow;
If not, contracts, to frown them out, somehow;
And then the Muscles of the Face and Neck,
Contiguous, take their Bias from her Beck.

V

Thus, in progressive Impulse, thro' the Whole,
Each Part obeys the Meaning of the Soul;

262

Thought shapes the Look, Look Muscles, Muscles Mien;
One Chain of Action runs each Step between;
While Voice and Movement, Gesture, and the like,
All in one Concert are oblig'd to strike.

VI

This is the System, if I take it true,—
The Art which, as he says, is Nature too.
Grant it,—'tis what his Muse in tuneful Lays,
Tho' now and then a little harsh, displays;
Yet all this while, this Art of Looks and Limbs
Is ill-bestow'd upon Theatric Whims.

VII

Actors and Actresses, I say again,
Are not the Pupils worthy of his Pen.
That Muse, which histrionic Wits applaud,
The Wise will think no better than a Bawd.
What “Heliconian Nymph” but would disdain
To dangle after those of Drury-Lane?

VIII

But, “Hold!” says mine.—“Why, what's the matter, Dame?”—
“Matter? Why, do you think you can reclaim

263

This agèd Bard, so eager as to call
The Censure upon Players Cant's low Crawl?”—
“No, Madam; I can hardly hope for that.”—
“No? Then, what is it that you would be at?”—

IX

“Only, to tell a certain Friend of mine
That put it in my Head, what I opine.”—
“A certain Friend? What! He, who in plain Prose
Without our Help has ventur'd to expose
Vice in its odious colours, and to paint
In his Clarissa's Life and Death a Saint?”—

X

“Yes.”—“Why, then, hush! and spare the Playhouse Bard!
We must maintain our Poor, and Times are hard.
The Tragic Jades cry: ‘What becomes of us,
If prosing Fiction may distribute thus
All that is worth the Notice in a Play?’”—
“Well, my dear Muse,—I have no more to say.”