 | A Search after Honesty |  |
To His FRIEND Mr. J. T. on the Following POEM.
Prithee, Old Friend, Shall I make bold to Ask,
What Angry Stars have doom'd Thee to this Task?
What Powers Sway'd thy Fancy? What thy Mind?
To Seek a Thing, so Plaguy hard to Find.
First try thy Fate, see how such Projects hit;
Find out something that's Parallel to it.
Find out a CITY destitute of Vice;
Find out that Spot, call'd, The Old Paradise:
Find a French Courtier without Genteel Lyes,
Or any English one that Gold denies.
Find out a Beauty, and no Pride Lodg'd there;
An Honest Thief, and Gen'rous Usurer;
Find out the Unicorn, and Phœnix too,
And from what Cause in Nature they first grew:
When these are found, then we perhaps may see
Some dark blind steps of Light-Heel'd-Honesty.
I once was Led, by Curious Thoughts, to know,
On what Strange Soil this Honesty did grow:
But those I Askt for it, return'd me No.
I from the Lawyer first, Direction sought,
And begg'd his Aid to this my New-born Thought.
Tush, Tush, quoth he, Our Trade is to Adjust
Nice Points of Law, and Doubtfull-Deeds of Trust,
By which we make Men Poor, but seldom Just.
The Doctor felt my Pulse, quoth he, Thou'rt Mad;
Goe Bleed, use Hellebore, and Shave thy Head.
Then to a Priest I went, and told my Want;
Who Fairly Answer'd, He knew nothing on't.
Nay then (quoth I) if this is own'd by All,
I'll Use it Sparingly, or not at All:
I'll Talk on't too, like others, without Ground;
The Crowd they'll Stare, Believe, and so't goes round.
What is this thing, that Men so Lamely Know?
This Honesty? so much Pretended to.
Tis nothing. Or, What's next to't, but a Toy?
Oft-times a Shooing-horn for Knavery:
'Tis Faith's next Heir, a Jewel, if you knew it;
Ingrost by all, though very few dare shew it.
'Tis like the Solvent, Chymist's talk so on;
A sort of Witch-craft, more Believ'd then Known:
'Tis like the Flame that doth so fine appear,
But Burns the Skin of him that comes too near:
'Tis vainly Call'd, what vauntingly we boast;
Talk't by the Wise, Reliev'd to Weak Mens Cost:
'Tis like the Maiden-head weak Men Adore;
Ne'r Found when Lost, nor never seen before.
This Truth all know; and some Men to their Sorrow
One's Honest now, perhaps a Knave to Morrow.
Then what's the Honesty in Common Vogue?
When he that hath it, Proves next Day a ROGUE.
Were it as Plenty as 'tis said to be,
More Honest Deeds, and fewer Knaves you'd see.
Tis Craft and Skill, not Justice, makes the Knave;
Who, to Enrich his Heir, himself's a Slave.
To Swell the Estate, Crowds in a Crime or Two;
So gains his Point, 'tis no great matter How.
So Heires are Curst: Estates too, now and then;
And this too done by them, Call'd, Honest Men.
What Angry Stars have doom'd Thee to this Task?
What Powers Sway'd thy Fancy? What thy Mind?
To Seek a Thing, so Plaguy hard to Find.
First try thy Fate, see how such Projects hit;
Find out something that's Parallel to it.
Find out a CITY destitute of Vice;
Find out that Spot, call'd, The Old Paradise:
Find a French Courtier without Genteel Lyes,
Or any English one that Gold denies.
Find out a Beauty, and no Pride Lodg'd there;
An Honest Thief, and Gen'rous Usurer;
Find out the Unicorn, and Phœnix too,
And from what Cause in Nature they first grew:
When these are found, then we perhaps may see
Some dark blind steps of Light-Heel'd-Honesty.
I once was Led, by Curious Thoughts, to know,
On what Strange Soil this Honesty did grow:
But those I Askt for it, return'd me No.
I from the Lawyer first, Direction sought,
And begg'd his Aid to this my New-born Thought.
Tush, Tush, quoth he, Our Trade is to Adjust
Nice Points of Law, and Doubtfull-Deeds of Trust,
By which we make Men Poor, but seldom Just.
The Doctor felt my Pulse, quoth he, Thou'rt Mad;
Goe Bleed, use Hellebore, and Shave thy Head.
Then to a Priest I went, and told my Want;
Who Fairly Answer'd, He knew nothing on't.
Nay then (quoth I) if this is own'd by All,
I'll Use it Sparingly, or not at All:
I'll Talk on't too, like others, without Ground;
The Crowd they'll Stare, Believe, and so't goes round.
This Honesty? so much Pretended to.
Tis nothing. Or, What's next to't, but a Toy?
Oft-times a Shooing-horn for Knavery:
'Tis Faith's next Heir, a Jewel, if you knew it;
Ingrost by all, though very few dare shew it.
'Tis like the Solvent, Chymist's talk so on;
A sort of Witch-craft, more Believ'd then Known:
'Tis like the Flame that doth so fine appear,
But Burns the Skin of him that comes too near:
'Tis vainly Call'd, what vauntingly we boast;
Talk't by the Wise, Reliev'd to Weak Mens Cost:
'Tis like the Maiden-head weak Men Adore;
Ne'r Found when Lost, nor never seen before.
This Truth all know; and some Men to their Sorrow
One's Honest now, perhaps a Knave to Morrow.
Then what's the Honesty in Common Vogue?
When he that hath it, Proves next Day a ROGUE.
Were it as Plenty as 'tis said to be,
More Honest Deeds, and fewer Knaves you'd see.
Tis Craft and Skill, not Justice, makes the Knave;
Who, to Enrich his Heir, himself's a Slave.
To Swell the Estate, Crowds in a Crime or Two;
So gains his Point, 'tis no great matter How.
So Heires are Curst: Estates too, now and then;
And this too done by them, Call'd, Honest Men.
Well, Friend, Go on, in this Design Abide,
And th' Great Being be thy Sacred Guide.
'Tis Brave and Gen'rous: Nay, a Noble Strain,
To seek for that, which few Men wish to gain:
'Tis a Design of such Descent and Birth,
That proves 'twas Born Above, not here on Earth.
As a Reward, may thou its Birth-place View,
As a Possessor, not as Pilgrims Doe
Let us be Honest: Us, that Shrine Adore;
A Blessing still Attends it, though we're Poor.
And th' Great Being be thy Sacred Guide.
'Tis Brave and Gen'rous: Nay, a Noble Strain,
To seek for that, which few Men wish to gain:
'Tis a Design of such Descent and Birth,
That proves 'twas Born Above, not here on Earth.
As a Reward, may thou its Birth-place View,
As a Possessor, not as Pilgrims Doe
Let us be Honest: Us, that Shrine Adore;
A Blessing still Attends it, though we're Poor.
J. P.
| A Search after Honesty | |