 | Poems (1791) |  |
II. VOL. II.
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FABLES.
The WHOLESALE CRITIC and the HOP-MERCHANT.
FABLE I.
Hail to each ancient sacred shade
Of those, who gave the Muses aid,
Skill'd verse mysterious to unfold,
And set each brilliant thought in gold.
Hail Aristotle's honour'd shrine,
And great Longinius hail to thine;
Ye too, whose judgment ne'er cou'd fail,
Hail Horace, and Quintilian hail;
And, dread of every Goth and Hun,
Hail Pope, and peerless Addison.
Of those, who gave the Muses aid,
Skill'd verse mysterious to unfold,
And set each brilliant thought in gold.
Hail Aristotle's honour'd shrine,
And great Longinius hail to thine;
Ye too, whose judgment ne'er cou'd fail,
Hail Horace, and Quintilian hail;
And, dread of every Goth and Hun,
Hail Pope, and peerless Addison.
Alas! by different steps and ways
Our modern critics aim at praise,
And rashly in the learned arts,
They judge by prejudice and parts;
For crampt by a contracted soul,
How shou'd they comprehend the whole?
Our modern critics aim at praise,
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They judge by prejudice and parts;
For crampt by a contracted soul,
How shou'd they comprehend the whole?
I know of many a deep-learn'd brother,
Who weighs one science by another,
And makes 'mongst bards poetic schism,
Because he understands the prism;
Thinks in acuteness he surpasses,
From knowledge of the optic glasses.
There are some critics in the nation,
Profoundly vers'd in gravitation;
Who like the bulky and the great,
And judge by quantity and weight.
Some who're extremely skill'd in building,
Judge by proportion, form, and gilding,
And praise with a sagacious look
The architecture of a book.
Who weighs one science by another,
And makes 'mongst bards poetic schism,
Because he understands the prism;
Thinks in acuteness he surpasses,
From knowledge of the optic glasses.
There are some critics in the nation,
Profoundly vers'd in gravitation;
Who like the bulky and the great,
And judge by quantity and weight.
Some who're extremely skill'd in building,
Judge by proportion, form, and gilding,
And praise with a sagacious look
The architecture of a book.
Soon as the hops arriv'd from Kent,
Forth to the quay the merchant went,
Went critically to explore
The merit of the hops on shore.
Close to a bag he took his standing,
And at a venture thrust his hand in;
Then with the face of a physician,
Their colour scann'd and their condition;
He trusts his touch, his smell, his eyes,
The goods at once approves and buys.
Forth to the quay the merchant went,
Went critically to explore
The merit of the hops on shore.
Close to a bag he took his standing,
And at a venture thrust his hand in;
Then with the face of a physician,
Their colour scann'd and their condition;
He trusts his touch, his smell, his eyes,
The goods at once approves and buys.
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Catchup so dextrous, droll, and dry,
It happen'd Catchup there was by,
Who like Iago, arch on all,
Is nothing, if not critical.
He with a sneer and with a shrug,
With eye of hawk, and face of pug,
Cry'd; fellow I admire thy fun,
“Thou most judiciously hast done,
“Who from one handful buyst ten ton.
“Does it not enter in thy crown,
“Some may be mouldy, some be brown;
“The vacancies with leaves supplied,
“And some half pick'd and some half dry'd?”
The merchant, who Tom Catchup knew,
(A merchant and a scholar too)
Said “what I've done is not absurd,
“I know my chap and take his word.—
“On thee, thou caviller at large,
“I here retort thy random charge;
“Who, in an hypercritic rage,
“Judgest ten volumes by a page;
“Whose wond'rous comprehensive view
“Grasps more than Solomon e'er knew;
“With every thing you claim alliance,
“Art, trade, profession, calling, science;
“You mete out all things by one rule,
“And are an universal fool.
“Tho' swoln with vanity and pride,
“You're but one driv'ller multiplied,
“A prig—that proves himself by starts,
“As many dolts—as there are arts.
It happen'd Catchup there was by,
Who like Iago, arch on all,
Is nothing, if not critical.
He with a sneer and with a shrug,
With eye of hawk, and face of pug,
Cry'd; fellow I admire thy fun,
“Thou most judiciously hast done,
“Who from one handful buyst ten ton.
“Does it not enter in thy crown,
“Some may be mouldy, some be brown;
“The vacancies with leaves supplied,
“And some half pick'd and some half dry'd?”
The merchant, who Tom Catchup knew,
(A merchant and a scholar too)
Said “what I've done is not absurd,
“I know my chap and take his word.—
“On thee, thou caviller at large,
“I here retort thy random charge;
“Who, in an hypercritic rage,
“Judgest ten volumes by a page;
“Whose wond'rous comprehensive view
“Grasps more than Solomon e'er knew;
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“Art, trade, profession, calling, science;
“You mete out all things by one rule,
“And are an universal fool.
“Tho' swoln with vanity and pride,
“You're but one driv'ller multiplied,
“A prig—that proves himself by starts,
“As many dolts—as there are arts.
The ENGLISH BULL DOG, DUTCH MASTIFF, and QUAIL.
FABLE II.
Are we not all of race divine,
Alike of an immortal line?
Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division?
To malice, and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone,
Are all to idle discord bent,
These Kentish men—those men of Kent;
And parties and distinction make,
For parties and distinction's sake.
Souls sprung from an etherial flame,
However clad, are still the same;
Nor should we judge the heart or head,
By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious;
Is lively, honest, brave and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawney.
Give prejudices to the wind,
And let's be patriots of mankind.
Biggots, avaunt, sense can't endure ye,
But fabulists should try to cure ye.
Alike of an immortal line?
Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division?
To malice, and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone,
Are all to idle discord bent,
These Kentish men—those men of Kent;
And parties and distinction make,
For parties and distinction's sake.
Souls sprung from an etherial flame,
However clad, are still the same;
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By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious;
Is lively, honest, brave and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawney.
Give prejudices to the wind,
And let's be patriots of mankind.
Biggots, avaunt, sense can't endure ye,
But fabulists should try to cure ye.
A snub-nos'd Dog to fat inclin'd.
Of the true hogan mogan kind,
The favourite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name:
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the 'Change;
And whom have we got here, I beg,
Quoth he,—and lifted up his leg;
An English dog can't take an airing,
But foreign scoundrels must be staring.
I'd have your French dogs and your Spanish,
And all your Dutch and all your Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drowned;
No mercy on the race suspected,
Greyhounds from Italy excepted:
By them my dames ne'er prove big bellied,
For they poor toads are Farrinellied.
Well of all dogs it stands confess'd,
Your English bull dogs are the best;
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Cambden records it, and I'll stand to't.
'Tis true we have too much urbanity,
Somewhat o'ercharg'd with soft humanity;
The best things must find food for railing,
And every creature has it's failing.
Of the true hogan mogan kind,
The favourite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name:
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the 'Change;
And whom have we got here, I beg,
Quoth he,—and lifted up his leg;
An English dog can't take an airing,
But foreign scoundrels must be staring.
I'd have your French dogs and your Spanish,
And all your Dutch and all your Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drowned;
No mercy on the race suspected,
Greyhounds from Italy excepted:
By them my dames ne'er prove big bellied,
For they poor toads are Farrinellied.
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Your English bull dogs are the best;
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Cambden records it, and I'll stand to't.
'Tis true we have too much urbanity,
Somewhat o'ercharg'd with soft humanity;
The best things must find food for railing,
And every creature has it's failing.
And who are you? reply'd Van Trump,
(Curling his tail upon his rump)
Vaunting the regions of distraction,
The land of party and of faction.
In all fair Europe, who but we,
For national œconomy;
For wealth and peace, that have more charms,
Than learned arts, or noisy arms.
You envy us our dancing hogs,
With all the music of the frogs;
Join'd to the Fretchscutz's bonny loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune.
For poets, and the muses nine,
Beyond comparison we shine;
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With X X's, H H's and with Z Z's.
For fighting—now you think I'm joking;
We love it better far than smoaking.
Ask but our troops, from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy.
'Tis true, as friends, and as allies,
We're ever ready to devise;
Our loves, or any kind assistance,
That may be granted at a distance;
But if you go to brag, good bye t'ye,
Nor dare to brave the High and Mighty.
(Curling his tail upon his rump)
Vaunting the regions of distraction,
The land of party and of faction.
In all fair Europe, who but we,
For national œconomy;
For wealth and peace, that have more charms,
Than learned arts, or noisy arms.
You envy us our dancing hogs,
With all the music of the frogs;
Join'd to the Fretchscutz's bonny loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune.
For poets, and the muses nine,
Beyond comparison we shine;
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With X X's, H H's and with Z Z's.
For fighting—now you think I'm joking;
We love it better far than smoaking.
Ask but our troops, from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy.
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We're ever ready to devise;
Our loves, or any kind assistance,
That may be granted at a distance;
But if you go to brag, good bye t'ye,
Nor dare to brave the High and Mighty.
Wrong are you both, rejoins a Quail,
Confin'd within it's wiry jail:
Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd,
And with the seasons, climates chang'd.
Mankind is not so void of grace,
But good I've found in every place:
I've seen sincerity in France,
Amongst the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain;
Free'd was I by a turban'd Turk,
Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen;
Her robe with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn;
Her broken fife, and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung;
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust;
Her loyalty still blameless found,
And hospitality renown'd:
No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost.—
Ah! dire corruption, art thou spread,
Where never viper rear'd it's head?
And didst thy baleful influence sow,
Where hemlock nor the nightshade grow.
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia! who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe,
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
'Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to heav'n and Hartington,
Confin'd within it's wiry jail:
Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd,
And with the seasons, climates chang'd.
Mankind is not so void of grace,
But good I've found in every place:
I've seen sincerity in France,
Amongst the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain;
Free'd was I by a turban'd Turk,
Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen;
Her robe with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn;
Her broken fife, and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung;
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust;
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And hospitality renown'd:
No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost.—
Ah! dire corruption, art thou spread,
Where never viper rear'd it's head?
And didst thy baleful influence sow,
Where hemlock nor the nightshade grow.
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia! who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe,
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
'Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to heav'n and Hartington,
FASHION AND NIGHT.
FABLE III.
Quam multa prava atque injusta fiunt moribus.
Terent.
Fashion, a motley nymph of yore,
The Cyprian Queen to Porteus bore:
Various herself in various climes,
She moulds the manners of the times;
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The chequer'd wheel of variegation;
True female that ne'er knew her will,
Still changing, tho' immortal still.
One day as the inconstant maid
Was careless on her sofa laid,
Sick of the sun and tir'd with light,
She thus invok'd the gloomy night:
“Come—these malignant rays destroy,
“Thou skreen of shame, and rise of joy.
“Come from thy western ambuscade,
“Queen of the rout and masquerade:
“Nymph, without thee no cards advance,
“Without thee halts the loit'ring dance;
“Till thou approach, all, all's restraint,
“Nor is it safe to game or paint;
“The belles and beaux thy influence ask,
“Put on the universal mask.
“Let us invert, in thy disguise,
“That odious nature, we despise.”
She ceas'd—the sable mantled dame
With slow approach, and awful, came;
And frowning with sarcastic sneer,
Reproach'd the female rioteer:
“That nature you abuse, my fair,
“Was I created to repair.
“And contrast with a friendly shade,
“The pictures heaven's rich pencil made;
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“To give laborious art repose;
“To make both noise and action cease,
“The queen of secresy and peace.
“But thou a rebel, vile, and vain,
“Usurp'st my lawful old domain;
“My scepter thou affect'st to sway,
“And all the various hours are day;
“With clamours of unreal joy,
“My sister silence you destroy;
“The blazing lamps unnatural light
“My eye balls weary and affright;
“But if I am allow'd one shade,
“Which no intrusive eyes invade,
“There all the atrocious imps of hell,
“Theft, murder, and pollution dwell:
“Thinks then how much, thou toy of chance,
“Thy praise is likely worth t'inhance;
“Blind thing that runst without a guide,
“Thou whirlpool in a rushing tide,
“No more my fame with praise pollute,
“But damn me into some repute.
WHERE'S THE POKER?
FABLE IV.
The Poker lost, poor Susan storm'd,And all the rites of rage perform'd;
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Abusing, fidgetting, and fretting.
“Nothing but villany, and thieving;
“Good heavens! what a world we live in?
“If I don't find it in the morning,
“I'll surely give my master warning.
“He'd better far shut up his doors,
“Than keep such good for nothing whores;
“For wheresoe'er their trade they drive,
“We vartuous bodies cannot thrive.”
Well may poor Susan grunt and groan;
Misfortunes never come alone,
But tread each other's heels in throngs,
For the next day she lost the tongs:
The salt box, cullender, and pot,
Soon shar'd the same untimely lot.
In vain she vails and wages spent
On new ones—for the new ones went.
There'd been, (she swore) some dev'l or witch in,
To rob or plunder all the kitchen.
One night she to her chamber crept,
(Where for a month she had not slept;
Her master being, to her seeming,
A better play fellow than dreaming.)
Curse on the author of these wrongs,
In her own bed she found the tongs,
(Hang Thomas for an idle joker!)
In her own bed she found the poker;
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With all the culinary metal.—
Be warn'd, ye fair, by Susan's crosses,
Keep chaste, and guard yourselves from losses;
For if young girls delight in kissing,
No wonder, that the poker's missing.
The TEA-POT and SCRUBBING-BRUSH.
FABLE V.
A tawdry Tea-Pot, a-la-mode,
Where art her utmost skill bestow'd,
Was much esteem'd for being old,
And on its sides with red and gold
Strange beasts were drawn, in taste Chinese,
And frightful fish, and hump-back trees.
Where art her utmost skill bestow'd,
Was much esteem'd for being old,
And on its sides with red and gold
Strange beasts were drawn, in taste Chinese,
And frightful fish, and hump-back trees.
High in an elegant beaufet,
This pompous utensil was set,
And near it, on a marble slab,
Forsaken by some careless drab,
A veteran Scrubbing-Brush was plac'd,
And the rich furniture disgrac'd.
The Tea-Pot soon began to flout,
And thus its venom spouted out:
“Who from the scullery or yard,
“Brought in this low, this vile blackguard,
“And laid in insolent position,
“Among us people of condition?
“Back to the helper in the stable,
“Scour the close-stool, or wash-house table;
“Or cleanse some horsing block, or plank,
“Nor dare approach us folks of rank.
“Turn—brother coffee-pot, your spout,
“Observe the nasty stinking lout,
“Who seems to scorn my indignation,
“Nor pays due homage to my fashion;
“Take, silver sugar dish, a view,
“And cousin cream pot, pray do you.
“Pox on you all, replies old Scrub,
“Of coxcombs ye confederate club.
“Full of impertinence, and prate,
“Ye hate all things that are sedate.
“None but such ignorant infernals,
“Judge, by appearance, and externals:
“Train'd up in toil and useful knowledge,
“I'm fellow of the kitchen college,
“And with the mop, my old associate,
“The family affairs negociate.—
“Am foe to filth, and things obscene,
“Dirty by making others clean.—
“Not shining, yet I cause to shine,
“My roughness makes my neighbours fine;
“You're fair without, but foul within,
“With shame impregnated, and sin;
“To you each impious scandal's owing,
“You set each gossip's clack a going.—
“How Parson Tythe in secret sins,
“And how Miss Dainty brought forth twins:
“How dear delicious Polly Bloom,
“Owes all her sweetness to perfume;
“Tho' grave at church, at cards can bet,
“At once a prude and a coquette.—
“'Twas better for each British virgin,
“When on roast beef, strong beer, and sturgeon,
“Joyous to breakfast they set round,
“Nor were asham'd to eat a pound.
“These were the manners, these the ways,
“In good Queen Bess's golden days;
“Each damsel ow'd her bloom and glee,
“To wholesome elbow-grease, and me,
“But now they center all their joys
“In empty rattle traps and noise.
“Thus where the Fates send you, they send
“Flagitious times, which ne'er will mend,
“'Till some Philosopher can find,
“A Scrubbing-Brush to scour the mind.
This pompous utensil was set,
And near it, on a marble slab,
Forsaken by some careless drab,
A veteran Scrubbing-Brush was plac'd,
And the rich furniture disgrac'd.
The Tea-Pot soon began to flout,
And thus its venom spouted out:
“Who from the scullery or yard,
“Brought in this low, this vile blackguard,
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“Among us people of condition?
“Back to the helper in the stable,
“Scour the close-stool, or wash-house table;
“Or cleanse some horsing block, or plank,
“Nor dare approach us folks of rank.
“Turn—brother coffee-pot, your spout,
“Observe the nasty stinking lout,
“Who seems to scorn my indignation,
“Nor pays due homage to my fashion;
“Take, silver sugar dish, a view,
“And cousin cream pot, pray do you.
“Pox on you all, replies old Scrub,
“Of coxcombs ye confederate club.
“Full of impertinence, and prate,
“Ye hate all things that are sedate.
“None but such ignorant infernals,
“Judge, by appearance, and externals:
“Train'd up in toil and useful knowledge,
“I'm fellow of the kitchen college,
“And with the mop, my old associate,
“The family affairs negociate.—
“Am foe to filth, and things obscene,
“Dirty by making others clean.—
“Not shining, yet I cause to shine,
“My roughness makes my neighbours fine;
“You're fair without, but foul within,
“With shame impregnated, and sin;
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“You set each gossip's clack a going.—
“How Parson Tythe in secret sins,
“And how Miss Dainty brought forth twins:
“How dear delicious Polly Bloom,
“Owes all her sweetness to perfume;
“Tho' grave at church, at cards can bet,
“At once a prude and a coquette.—
“'Twas better for each British virgin,
“When on roast beef, strong beer, and sturgeon,
“Joyous to breakfast they set round,
“Nor were asham'd to eat a pound.
“These were the manners, these the ways,
“In good Queen Bess's golden days;
“Each damsel ow'd her bloom and glee,
“To wholesome elbow-grease, and me,
“But now they center all their joys
“In empty rattle traps and noise.
“Thus where the Fates send you, they send
“Flagitious times, which ne'er will mend,
“'Till some Philosopher can find,
“A Scrubbing-Brush to scour the mind.
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The DUELLIST.
FABLE VI.
What's honour, did your Lordship say?My Lord, I humbly crave a day.—
'Tis difficult, and in my mind,
Like substance, cannot be defin'd.
It deals in numerous externals,
And is a legion of infernals;
Sometimes in riot and in play,
'Tis breaking of the Sabbath day:
When 'tis consider'd as a passion,
I deem it lust and fornication.
We pay our debts in honour's cause,
Lost in the breaking of the laws:
'Tis for some selfish impious end,
To murder the sincerest friend;
But wou'd you alter all the clan,
Turn out an honourable man.
Why take a pistol from the shelf,
And fight a duel with yourself.—
'Twas on a time, the Lord knows when,
In Ely, or in Lincoln fen,
A Frog and Mouse had long disputes,
Held in the language of the brutes,
Who of a certain pool and pasture,
Shou'd be the sovereign and master.
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I hold that my pretension's good;
Nor can a Brute of reason doubt it,
For all that you can squeak about it.
The Mouse averse to be o'erpower'd,
Gave him the lie, and call'd him coward;
Too hard for any frog's digestion,
To have his froghood call'd in question!
A bargain instantly was made,
No mouse of honour could evade.
On the next morn, as soon as light,
With desperate bullrushes to fight;
The morning came—and man to man,
The grand monomachy began;
Need I recount how each bravado,
Shone in montant and in passado;
To what a height their ire they carry'd,
How oft they thrusted and they parry'd;
But as these champions kept dispensing,
Finesses in the art of fencing,
A furious vulture took upon her,
Quick to decide this point of honour,
And, lawyer like, to make an end on't,
Devour'd both plaintiff and defendant.
Thus, often in our British nation,
(I speak by way of application)
A lie direct to some hot youth,
The giving which perhaps was truth,
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Or dealing impudence a blow,
Disputes in politics and law,
About a feather and a straw;
A thousand trifles not worth naming,
In whoring, jockeying, and gaming,
Shall cause a challenge's inditing,
And set two loggerheads a fighting;
Meanwhile the father of despair,
The prince of vanity and air,
His querry, like an hawk discovering,
O'er their devoted heads hangs hovering,
Secure to get in his tuition,
These volunteers for black perdition.
The COUNTRY SQUIRE and the MANDRAKE.
FABLE VII.
The sun had rais'd above the mead,
His glorious horizontal head;
Sad Philomela left her thorn;
The lively linnets hymn'd the morn,
And nature, like a waking bride,
Her blushes spread on ev'ry side;
The cock as usual crow'd up Tray,
Who nightly with his master lay;
The faithful spaniel gave the word,
Trelooby at the signal stirr'd,
And with his gun, from wood to wood
The man of prey his course pursu'd;
The dew and herbage all around,
Like pearls and emeralds on the ground;
Th'uncultur'd flowers that rudely rise,
Where smiling freedom art defies;
The lark, in transport, tow'ring high,
The crimson curtains of the sky,
Afflicted not Trelooby's mind—
For what is beauty to the blind?
Th'amorous voice of silvan love,
Form'd charming concerts in the grove;
Sweet zephyr sigh'd on Flora's breast,
And drew the black-bird from his nest;
Whistling he leapt from leaf to leaf;
But what is music to the deaf?
His glorious horizontal head;
Sad Philomela left her thorn;
The lively linnets hymn'd the morn,
And nature, like a waking bride,
Her blushes spread on ev'ry side;
The cock as usual crow'd up Tray,
Who nightly with his master lay;
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Trelooby at the signal stirr'd,
And with his gun, from wood to wood
The man of prey his course pursu'd;
The dew and herbage all around,
Like pearls and emeralds on the ground;
Th'uncultur'd flowers that rudely rise,
Where smiling freedom art defies;
The lark, in transport, tow'ring high,
The crimson curtains of the sky,
Afflicted not Trelooby's mind—
For what is beauty to the blind?
Th'amorous voice of silvan love,
Form'd charming concerts in the grove;
Sweet zephyr sigh'd on Flora's breast,
And drew the black-bird from his nest;
Whistling he leapt from leaf to leaf;
But what is music to the deaf?
At length while poring on the ground,
With monumental look profound,
A curious vegetable caught
His—something similar to thought:
Wond'ring, he ponder'd, stooping low,
(Trelooby always lov'd a show)
And on the Mandrake's vernal station,
Star'd with prodigious observation.
Th'affronted Mandrake with a frown,
Address'd in rage the wealthy clown.
With monumental look profound,
A curious vegetable caught
His—something similar to thought:
Wond'ring, he ponder'd, stooping low,
(Trelooby always lov'd a show)
And on the Mandrake's vernal station,
Star'd with prodigious observation.
Th'affronted Mandrake with a frown,
Address'd in rage the wealthy clown.
19
“Proud member of the rambling race,
“That vegetate from place to place,
“Pursue the leveret at large,
“Nor near thy blunderbuss discharge.
“Disdainful tho' thou look'st on me,
“What art thou, or what can'st thou be?
“Nature, that mark'd thee as a fool,
“Gave no materials for the school.
“In what consists thy work and fame?
“The preservation of the Game.—
“For what? thou avaricious elf,
“But to destroy it all thyself;
“To lead a life of drink and feast,
“T'oppress the poor, and cheat the priest,
“Or triumph in a virgin lost,
“Is all the manhood thou canst boast.—
“Pretty, in nature's various plan,
“To see a weed that's like a man;
“But 'tis a grievous thing indeed.
“To see a man so like a weed.”
“That vegetate from place to place,
“Pursue the leveret at large,
“Nor near thy blunderbuss discharge.
“Disdainful tho' thou look'st on me,
“What art thou, or what can'st thou be?
“Nature, that mark'd thee as a fool,
“Gave no materials for the school.
“In what consists thy work and fame?
“The preservation of the Game.—
“For what? thou avaricious elf,
“But to destroy it all thyself;
“To lead a life of drink and feast,
“T'oppress the poor, and cheat the priest,
“Or triumph in a virgin lost,
“Is all the manhood thou canst boast.—
“Pretty, in nature's various plan,
“To see a weed that's like a man;
“But 'tis a grievous thing indeed.
“To see a man so like a weed.”
The BROCADED GOWN and LINEN RAG.
FABLE VIII.
From a fine lady to her maid,
A Gown descended of brocade.
French!—Yes, from Paris—that's enough,
That wou'd give dignity to fluff.
By accident or by design,
Or from some cause, I can't divine;
A Linen Rag, (sad source of wrangling!)
On a contiguous peg was dangling,
Vilely besmear'd—for late his master,
It serv'd in quality of plaister.
The Gown, contemptuous beholder,
Gave a French shrug from either shoulder,
And rustling with emotions furious,
Bespoke the Rag in terms injurious.
“Unfit for tinder, lint or fodder,
“Thou thing of filth, (and what is odder)
“Discarded from thy owner's back,
“Dar'st thou proceed, and gold attack?
“Instant away—or in this place,
“Begar me give you coup de grace.”
A Gown descended of brocade.
20
That wou'd give dignity to fluff.
By accident or by design,
Or from some cause, I can't divine;
A Linen Rag, (sad source of wrangling!)
On a contiguous peg was dangling,
Vilely besmear'd—for late his master,
It serv'd in quality of plaister.
The Gown, contemptuous beholder,
Gave a French shrug from either shoulder,
And rustling with emotions furious,
Bespoke the Rag in terms injurious.
“Unfit for tinder, lint or fodder,
“Thou thing of filth, (and what is odder)
“Discarded from thy owner's back,
“Dar'st thou proceed, and gold attack?
“Instant away—or in this place,
“Begar me give you coup de grace.”
To this reply'd the honest Rag,
Who lik'd a jest, and was a wag;
Who lik'd a jest, and was a wag;
“Tho' thy glib tongue without a halt run,
“Thou shabby second-hand subaltern,
“At once so antient and so easy,
“At once so gorgeous and so greasy,;
“I value not thy gasconading,
“Nor all thy alamode parading;
“But to abstain from words imperious,
“And to be sober, grave, and serious.
“Tho' says friend Horace, 'tis no treason,
“At once to giggle, and to reason,
“When me you lesson, friend, you dream,
“For know I am not what I seem;
“Soon by the mills refining motion,
“The sweetest daughter of the ocean,
“Fair Medway, shall with snowy hue,
“My virgin purity renew,
“And give me reinform'd existence,
“A good retention and subsistence.
“Then shall the sons of genius join,
“To make my second life divine.
“O Murray, let me then dispense,
“Some portion of thy eloquence;
“For Greek and Roman rhetoric shine,
“United and improved in thine.
“The spirit stirring sage alarms,
“And Ciceronian sweetness charms.
“Th'Athenian Akenside may deign
“To stamp me deathless with his pen.
“While flows approv'd by all the Nine
“Th'immortal soul of every line.
“Collins, perhaps, his aid may lend,
“Melpomene's selected friend.
“Perhaps our great Augustan Gray
“May grace me with a Doric lay;
“With sweet, with manly words of woe,
“That nervously pathetic flow,
“What, Mason, may I owe to you?
“Learning's first pride, and nature's too;
“On thee she cast her sweetest smile,
“And gave thee Art's correcting file;
“That file, which with assiduous pain,
“The viper Envy bites in vain.—
“Such glories my mean lot betide,
“Hear, tawdry fool, and check thy pride.—
“Thou, after scouring, dying, turning,
“(If haply thou escape a burning)
“From gown to petticoat descending,
“And in a beggar's mantle ending,
“Shalt in a dunghill or a stye,
“'Midst filth and vermin rot and die.
“Thou shabby second-hand subaltern,
“At once so antient and so easy,
“At once so gorgeous and so greasy,;
“I value not thy gasconading,
“Nor all thy alamode parading;
“But to abstain from words imperious,
“And to be sober, grave, and serious.
21
“At once to giggle, and to reason,
“When me you lesson, friend, you dream,
“For know I am not what I seem;
“Soon by the mills refining motion,
“The sweetest daughter of the ocean,
“Fair Medway, shall with snowy hue,
“My virgin purity renew,
“And give me reinform'd existence,
“A good retention and subsistence.
“Then shall the sons of genius join,
“To make my second life divine.
“O Murray, let me then dispense,
“Some portion of thy eloquence;
“For Greek and Roman rhetoric shine,
“United and improved in thine.
“The spirit stirring sage alarms,
“And Ciceronian sweetness charms.
“Th'Athenian Akenside may deign
“To stamp me deathless with his pen.
“While flows approv'd by all the Nine
“Th'immortal soul of every line.
“Collins, perhaps, his aid may lend,
“Melpomene's selected friend.
“Perhaps our great Augustan Gray
“May grace me with a Doric lay;
22
“That nervously pathetic flow,
“What, Mason, may I owe to you?
“Learning's first pride, and nature's too;
“On thee she cast her sweetest smile,
“And gave thee Art's correcting file;
“That file, which with assiduous pain,
“The viper Envy bites in vain.—
“Such glories my mean lot betide,
“Hear, tawdry fool, and check thy pride.—
“Thou, after scouring, dying, turning,
“(If haply thou escape a burning)
“From gown to petticoat descending,
“And in a beggar's mantle ending,
“Shalt in a dunghill or a stye,
“'Midst filth and vermin rot and die.
MADAM and the MAGPIE.
FABLE IX.
Ye thunders roll, ye oceans roar,
And wake the rough resounding shore;
Ye guns in smoke and flames engage,
And shake the ramparts with your rage;
Boreas distend your chops and blow;
Ring, ring, ye bonny bells of Bow;
Ye drums and rattles, rend the ears,
Like twenty thousand Southwark fairs;
Bellow ye bulls, and bawl ye bats,
Encore, encore, ye amorous cats;
In vain poor things ye squeak and squall,
Soft Sylvia shall out-tongue you all:
But here she comes—there's no relief,
She comes, and blessed are the deaf.
“A Magpie! why, you're mad, my dear,
“To bring a chattering Magpie here.
“A prating play thing, fit for boys—
“You know I can't endure a noise.—
“You brought this precious present sure,
“My headach and my cough to cure.
“Pray hand him in and let him stain
“Each curtain, and each counterpane;
“Yes, he shall roost upon my toilet,
“Or on my pillow—he can't spoil it:
“He'll only make me catch my death.—
“O heavens! for a little breath!—
“Thank God, I never knew resentment,
“But am all patience and contentment,
“Or else, you paltry knave, I shou'd
“(As any other woman wou'd)
“Wring off his neck, and down your gullet
“Cram it, by way of chick or pullet.—
“Well, I must lock up all my rings,
“My jewels, and my curious things:
“My Chinese toys must go to pot;
“My dear, my pinchbecks—and what not?
“For all your Magpies are, like lawyers,
“At once thieves, brawlers, and destroyers.—
“You for a wife have search'd the globe,
“You've got a very female Job,
“Pattern of love, and peace and unity,
“Or how cou'd you expect impunity?
“O Lord! this nasty thing will bite,
“And scratch and clapper, claw and fight.
“O monstrous wretch, thus to devise,
“To tear out your poor Sylvia's eyes.
“You're a fine Popish plot pursuing,
“By presents to affect my ruin;
“And thus for good are ill retorting
“To Me, who brought you such a fortune;
“To Me, you low-liv'd clown, to Me,
“Who came of such a family;
“Me, who for age to age possess'd
“A lion rampant on my crest;
“Me, who have fill'd your empty coffers,
“Me, who'd so many better offers;
“And is my merit thus regarded,
“Cuckold, my virtue thus rewarded.
“O 'tis past sufferance—Mary—Mary,
“I faint—the citron, or the clary.
And wake the rough resounding shore;
Ye guns in smoke and flames engage,
And shake the ramparts with your rage;
Boreas distend your chops and blow;
Ring, ring, ye bonny bells of Bow;
23
Like twenty thousand Southwark fairs;
Bellow ye bulls, and bawl ye bats,
Encore, encore, ye amorous cats;
In vain poor things ye squeak and squall,
Soft Sylvia shall out-tongue you all:
But here she comes—there's no relief,
She comes, and blessed are the deaf.
“A Magpie! why, you're mad, my dear,
“To bring a chattering Magpie here.
“A prating play thing, fit for boys—
“You know I can't endure a noise.—
“You brought this precious present sure,
“My headach and my cough to cure.
“Pray hand him in and let him stain
“Each curtain, and each counterpane;
“Yes, he shall roost upon my toilet,
“Or on my pillow—he can't spoil it:
“He'll only make me catch my death.—
“O heavens! for a little breath!—
“Thank God, I never knew resentment,
“But am all patience and contentment,
“Or else, you paltry knave, I shou'd
“(As any other woman wou'd)
“Wring off his neck, and down your gullet
“Cram it, by way of chick or pullet.—
“Well, I must lock up all my rings,
“My jewels, and my curious things:
24
“My dear, my pinchbecks—and what not?
“For all your Magpies are, like lawyers,
“At once thieves, brawlers, and destroyers.—
“You for a wife have search'd the globe,
“You've got a very female Job,
“Pattern of love, and peace and unity,
“Or how cou'd you expect impunity?
“O Lord! this nasty thing will bite,
“And scratch and clapper, claw and fight.
“O monstrous wretch, thus to devise,
“To tear out your poor Sylvia's eyes.
“You're a fine Popish plot pursuing,
“By presents to affect my ruin;
“And thus for good are ill retorting
“To Me, who brought you such a fortune;
“To Me, you low-liv'd clown, to Me,
“Who came of such a family;
“Me, who for age to age possess'd
“A lion rampant on my crest;
“Me, who have fill'd your empty coffers,
“Me, who'd so many better offers;
“And is my merit thus regarded,
“Cuckold, my virtue thus rewarded.
“O 'tis past sufferance—Mary—Mary,
“I faint—the citron, or the clary.
The poor man, who had bought the creature,
Out of pure conjugal good-nature,
Stood at this violent attack,
Like statutes made by Roubilliac,
Tho' form'd beyond all skill antique,
They can't their marble silence break;
They only breathe, and think, and start,
Astonish'd at their maker's art.
“Quoth Mag, fair Grizzle, I must grant,
“Your spouse a magpye cannot want:
“For troth (to give the dev'l his due)
“He keeps a rookery in you.
“Don't fear I'll tarry long, sweet lady,
“Where there is din enough already,
“We never shou'd agree together,
“Although we're so much of a feather;
“You're fond of peace, no man can doubt it,
“Who make such wond'rous noise about it;
“And your tongue of immortal mould
“Proclaims in thunder you're no scold.
“Yes, yes, you're sovereign of the tongue,
“And, like the king, can do no wrong;
“Justly your spouse restrains his voice,
“Nor vainly answers words with noise;
“This storm, which no soul can endure,
“Requires a very different cure;
“For such sour verjuice dispositions,
“Your crabsticks are the best physicians.
Out of pure conjugal good-nature,
25
Like statutes made by Roubilliac,
Tho' form'd beyond all skill antique,
They can't their marble silence break;
They only breathe, and think, and start,
Astonish'd at their maker's art.
“Quoth Mag, fair Grizzle, I must grant,
“Your spouse a magpye cannot want:
“For troth (to give the dev'l his due)
“He keeps a rookery in you.
“Don't fear I'll tarry long, sweet lady,
“Where there is din enough already,
“We never shou'd agree together,
“Although we're so much of a feather;
“You're fond of peace, no man can doubt it,
“Who make such wond'rous noise about it;
“And your tongue of immortal mould
“Proclaims in thunder you're no scold.
“Yes, yes, you're sovereign of the tongue,
“And, like the king, can do no wrong;
“Justly your spouse restrains his voice,
“Nor vainly answers words with noise;
“This storm, which no soul can endure,
“Requires a very different cure;
“For such sour verjuice dispositions,
“Your crabsticks are the best physicians.
26
The BLOCKHEAD and BEEHIVE.
FABLE X.
The fragrance of the new-mown hay
Paid incense to the god of day;
Who issuing from his eastern gate,
Resplendent rode in all his state,
Rous'd by the light from soft repose,
Big with the Muse, a Bard arose,
And the fresh garden's still retreat
He measur'd with poetic feet.
The cooling, high, o'er-arching shade,
By the embracing branches made,
The smooth shorn sod, whose verdant gloss,
Was check'd with intermingled moss,
Cowslips, like topazes that shine,
Close by the silver serpentine,
Rude rustics which assert the bow'rs,
Amidst the educated flow'rs.
The lime tree and sweet-scented bay,
(The sole reward of many a lay)
And all the poets of the wing,
Who sweetly without salary sing,
Attract at once his observation,
Peopling thy wilds, Imagination!
“Sweet nature, who this turf bedews,
“Sweet nature, who's the thrush's muse!
“How she each anxious thought beguiles,
“And meets me with ten thousand smiles!
“O infinite benignity!
“She smiles, but not alone on me;
“On hill, on dale, on lake, on lawn,
“Like Celia when her picture's drawn;
“Assuming countless charms and airs,
“'Till Hayman's matchless art despairs,
“Pausing like me he dreads to fall
“From the divine original.”
Paid incense to the god of day;
Who issuing from his eastern gate,
Resplendent rode in all his state,
Rous'd by the light from soft repose,
Big with the Muse, a Bard arose,
And the fresh garden's still retreat
He measur'd with poetic feet.
The cooling, high, o'er-arching shade,
By the embracing branches made,
The smooth shorn sod, whose verdant gloss,
Was check'd with intermingled moss,
Cowslips, like topazes that shine,
Close by the silver serpentine,
Rude rustics which assert the bow'rs,
Amidst the educated flow'rs.
The lime tree and sweet-scented bay,
(The sole reward of many a lay)
And all the poets of the wing,
Who sweetly without salary sing,
Attract at once his observation,
Peopling thy wilds, Imagination!
“Sweet nature, who this turf bedews,
“Sweet nature, who's the thrush's muse!
27
“And meets me with ten thousand smiles!
“O infinite benignity!
“She smiles, but not alone on me;
“On hill, on dale, on lake, on lawn,
“Like Celia when her picture's drawn;
“Assuming countless charms and airs,
“'Till Hayman's matchless art despairs,
“Pausing like me he dreads to fall
“From the divine original.”
More had he said—but in there came
A lout—Squire Booby was his name.—
The bard, who at a distant view,
The busy prattling blockhead knew,
Retir'd into a secret nook,
And thence his observations took.
Vex'd he cou'd find no man to teize,
The squire 'gan chattering to the bees,
And pertly with officious mien,
He thus address'd their humming queen:
“Madam, be not in any terrors,
“I only come t'amend your errors;
“My friendship briefly to display,
“And put you in a better way.
“Cease, Madam, (if I may advise)
“To carry honey on your thighs,
“Employ ('tis better, I aver)
“Old Grub the fairies coach-maker;
“For he who has sufficient art
“To make a coach, may make a cart.
“To these you'll yoke some sixteen bees,
“Who will dispatch your work with ease;
“And come and go, and go and come,
“To bring your honey harvest home.—
“Ma'm, architecture you're not skill'd in,
“I don't approve your way of building;
“In this there's nothing like design,
“Pray learn the use of Gunter's line.
“I'll serve your Highness at a pinch,
“I am a scholar every inch,
“And know each author I lay fist on,
“From Archimedes down to Whiston.—
“Tho' honey making be your trade,
“In chemistry you want some aid.—
“Pleas'd with your work, altho' you sing,
“You're not quite right—'tis not the thing
“Myself wou'd gladly be an actor,
“To help the honey manufacture.—
“I hear for war you are preparing,
“Which I should like to have a share in;
“Yet tho' the enemy be landing,
“'Tis wrong to keep an army standing.—
“If you'll ensure me from the laws,
“I'll write a pamphlet in your cause.—
“I vow I am concern'd to see
“Your want of state—œconomy.
“Of nothing living I pronounce ill,
“But I don't like your privy-council.”
“There is, I know, a certain bee,
“(Wou'd he was from the ministry)
“Which certain bee, if rightly known,
“Wou'd prove no better than a drone;
“There are (but I shall name no names,
“I never love to kindle flames)
“A pack of rogues with crimes grown callous,
“Who greatly wou'd adorn the gallows,;
“That with the wasps, for paltry gold,
“A secret correspondence hold,
“Yet you'll be great—your subjects free,
“If the whole thing be left to me.—
A lout—Squire Booby was his name.—
The bard, who at a distant view,
The busy prattling blockhead knew,
Retir'd into a secret nook,
And thence his observations took.
Vex'd he cou'd find no man to teize,
The squire 'gan chattering to the bees,
And pertly with officious mien,
He thus address'd their humming queen:
“Madam, be not in any terrors,
“I only come t'amend your errors;
“My friendship briefly to display,
“And put you in a better way.
“Cease, Madam, (if I may advise)
“To carry honey on your thighs,
“Employ ('tis better, I aver)
“Old Grub the fairies coach-maker;
28
“To make a coach, may make a cart.
“To these you'll yoke some sixteen bees,
“Who will dispatch your work with ease;
“And come and go, and go and come,
“To bring your honey harvest home.—
“Ma'm, architecture you're not skill'd in,
“I don't approve your way of building;
“In this there's nothing like design,
“Pray learn the use of Gunter's line.
“I'll serve your Highness at a pinch,
“I am a scholar every inch,
“And know each author I lay fist on,
“From Archimedes down to Whiston.—
“Tho' honey making be your trade,
“In chemistry you want some aid.—
“Pleas'd with your work, altho' you sing,
“You're not quite right—'tis not the thing
“Myself wou'd gladly be an actor,
“To help the honey manufacture.—
“I hear for war you are preparing,
“Which I should like to have a share in;
“Yet tho' the enemy be landing,
“'Tis wrong to keep an army standing.—
“If you'll ensure me from the laws,
“I'll write a pamphlet in your cause.—
“I vow I am concern'd to see
“Your want of state—œconomy.
29
“But I don't like your privy-council.”
“There is, I know, a certain bee,
“(Wou'd he was from the ministry)
“Which certain bee, if rightly known,
“Wou'd prove no better than a drone;
“There are (but I shall name no names,
“I never love to kindle flames)
“A pack of rogues with crimes grown callous,
“Who greatly wou'd adorn the gallows,;
“That with the wasps, for paltry gold,
“A secret correspondence hold,
“Yet you'll be great—your subjects free,
“If the whole thing be left to me.—
Thus, like the waters of the ocean,
His tongue had run in ceaseless motion,
Had not the Queen ta'en up in wrath,
This thing of folly and of froth.
His tongue had run in ceaseless motion,
Had not the Queen ta'en up in wrath,
This thing of folly and of froth.
“Impertinent and witless medler,
“Thou smattering, empty, noisy pedlar!
“By vanity, thou bladder blown,
“To be the football of the town.
“O happy England, land of freedom,
“Replete with statesmen, if she need'em,
“Where war is wag'd by Sue or Nell,
“And Jobson is a Machiavel!—
“Tell Hard-wick that his judgment fails,
“Show Justice how to hold her scales.—
“To fire the soul at once, and please,
“Teach Murray and Demosthenes;
“Say Vane is not by goodness grac'd,
“And wants humanity and taste.—
“Tho' Pelham with Mæcenas vies,
“Tell Fame she's false, and Truth she lies;
“And then return, thou verbal Hector,
“And give the bees another lecture.”
“Thou smattering, empty, noisy pedlar!
“By vanity, thou bladder blown,
“To be the football of the town.
“O happy England, land of freedom,
“Replete with statesmen, if she need'em,
“Where war is wag'd by Sue or Nell,
“And Jobson is a Machiavel!—
“Tell Hard-wick that his judgment fails,
“Show Justice how to hold her scales.—
30
“Teach Murray and Demosthenes;
“Say Vane is not by goodness grac'd,
“And wants humanity and taste.—
“Tho' Pelham with Mæcenas vies,
“Tell Fame she's false, and Truth she lies;
“And then return, thou verbal Hector,
“And give the bees another lecture.”
This said, the portal she unbarr'd,
Calling the Bees upon their guard,
And set at once about his ears
Ten thousand of her granadiers.—
Some on his lips and palate hung,
And the offending member stung.
“Just (says the bard from out the grot)
“Just, tho' severe, is your sad lot,
“Who think, and talk, and live in vain.
“Of sweet society the bane.
“Business misplac'd is a mere jest,
“And active idleness at best.”
Calling the Bees upon their guard,
And set at once about his ears
Ten thousand of her granadiers.—
Some on his lips and palate hung,
And the offending member stung.
“Just (says the bard from out the grot)
“Just, tho' severe, is your sad lot,
“Who think, and talk, and live in vain.
“Of sweet society the bane.
“Business misplac'd is a mere jest,
“And active idleness at best.”
The CITIZEN and the RED LION of BRENTFORD.
FABLE XI.
I love my friend—but love my ease,
And claim a right myself to please;
To company however prone,
At times all men wou'd be alone.
Free from each interruption rude,
Or what is meant by solitude.
My villa lies within the bills,
So—like a theatre it fills:
To me my kind acquaintance stray,
And Sunday proves no Sabbath day;
Yet many a friend and near relation,
Make up a glorious congregation;
They croud by dozens and by dozens,
And bring me all their country cousins.
Tho' cringing landlords on the road,
Who find for man and horse abode;
Tho' gilded grapes to sign-post chain'd,
Invite them to be entertain'd,
And straddling cross his kilderkin,
Tho' jolly Bacchus calls them in;
Nay—tho' my landlady wou'd trust 'em,
Pilgarlick's sure of all the custom;
And his whole house is like a fair,
Unless he only treats with air.
What? shall each pert half witted wit,
That calls me Jack, or calls me Kit,
Prey on my time, or on my table?
No—but let's hasten to the Fable.
And claim a right myself to please;
31
At times all men wou'd be alone.
Free from each interruption rude,
Or what is meant by solitude.
My villa lies within the bills,
So—like a theatre it fills:
To me my kind acquaintance stray,
And Sunday proves no Sabbath day;
Yet many a friend and near relation,
Make up a glorious congregation;
They croud by dozens and by dozens,
And bring me all their country cousins.
Tho' cringing landlords on the road,
Who find for man and horse abode;
Tho' gilded grapes to sign-post chain'd,
Invite them to be entertain'd,
And straddling cross his kilderkin,
Tho' jolly Bacchus calls them in;
Nay—tho' my landlady wou'd trust 'em,
Pilgarlick's sure of all the custom;
And his whole house is like a fair,
Unless he only treats with air.
What? shall each pert half witted wit,
That calls me Jack, or calls me Kit,
Prey on my time, or on my table?
No—but let's hasten to the Fable.
The eve advanc'd, the sun declin'd,
Ball to the booby-hutch was join'd,
A wealthy cockney drove away,
To celebrate Saint Saturday;
Wife, daughter, pug, all crouded in,
To meet at country house their kin.
Thro' Brentford, to fair Twickenham's bow'rs,
The ungreased grumbling axle scow'rs,
To pass in rural sweets a day,
But there's a Lion in the way:
This Lion a most furious elf,
Hung up to represent himself,
Redden'd with rage, and shook his mane,
And roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd again.
Wond'rous, tho' painted on a board,
He roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd.
“Fool! (says the majesty of beasts)
“At whose expence a legion feasts,
“Foe to yourself, you those pursue,
“Who're eating up your cakes and you;
“Walk in, walk in, so prudence votes)
“And give poor Ball a feed of oats,
“Look to yourself, and as for ma'm,
“Coax her to take a little dram;
“Let Miss and Pug with cakes be fed,
“Then honest man go back to bed;
“You're better, and you're cheaper there,
“Where are no hangers on to fear,
“Go buy friend Newbery's new Pantheon,
“And con the tale of poor Acteon,
“Horn'd by Diana, and o'erpower'd,
“And by the dogs he fed devour'd.
“What he receiv'd from charity,
“Lewdness perhaps may give to thee;
“And tho' your spouse my lecture scorns,
“Beware his fate, beware his horns.”
Ball to the booby-hutch was join'd,
32
To celebrate Saint Saturday;
Wife, daughter, pug, all crouded in,
To meet at country house their kin.
Thro' Brentford, to fair Twickenham's bow'rs,
The ungreased grumbling axle scow'rs,
To pass in rural sweets a day,
But there's a Lion in the way:
This Lion a most furious elf,
Hung up to represent himself,
Redden'd with rage, and shook his mane,
And roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd again.
Wond'rous, tho' painted on a board,
He roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd.
“Fool! (says the majesty of beasts)
“At whose expence a legion feasts,
“Foe to yourself, you those pursue,
“Who're eating up your cakes and you;
“Walk in, walk in, so prudence votes)
“And give poor Ball a feed of oats,
“Look to yourself, and as for ma'm,
“Coax her to take a little dram;
“Let Miss and Pug with cakes be fed,
“Then honest man go back to bed;
“You're better, and you're cheaper there,
“Where are no hangers on to fear,
“Go buy friend Newbery's new Pantheon,
“And con the tale of poor Acteon,
33
“And by the dogs he fed devour'd.
“What he receiv'd from charity,
“Lewdness perhaps may give to thee;
“And tho' your spouse my lecture scorns,
“Beware his fate, beware his horns.”
“Sir,” says the Cit, (who made a stand,
And strok'd his forehead with his hand)
“By your grim gravity and grace,
“You greatly wou'd become the mace.
“This kind advice I gladly take,—
“Draw'r, bring the dram, and bring a cake,
“With good brown beer that's brisk and humming.”
“A coming, Sir! a coming, coming!
The Cit then took a hearty draught,
And shook his jolly sides and laugh'd.
Then to the king of beasts he bow'd,
And thus his gratitude avow'd.—
“Sir, for your sapient oration,
“I owe the greatest obligation.
“You stand expos'd to sun and show'r,
“I know Jack Ellis of the Tow'r;
“By him you soon may gain renown,
“He'll show your Highness to the town;
“Or, if you chuse your station here,
“To call forth Britons to their beer,
“As painter of distinguish'd note,
“He'll send his man to clean your coat.”
The Lion thank'd him for his proffer,
And if a vacancy shou'd offer,
Declar'd he had too just a notion,
To be averse to such promotion.
The Citizen drove off with joy,
“For London—Ball—for London—hoy.”
Content to bed, he went his way,
And is no Bankrupt to this day.
And strok'd his forehead with his hand)
“By your grim gravity and grace,
“You greatly wou'd become the mace.
“This kind advice I gladly take,—
“Draw'r, bring the dram, and bring a cake,
“With good brown beer that's brisk and humming.”
“A coming, Sir! a coming, coming!
The Cit then took a hearty draught,
And shook his jolly sides and laugh'd.
Then to the king of beasts he bow'd,
And thus his gratitude avow'd.—
“Sir, for your sapient oration,
“I owe the greatest obligation.
“You stand expos'd to sun and show'r,
“I know Jack Ellis of the Tow'r;
“By him you soon may gain renown,
“He'll show your Highness to the town;
“Or, if you chuse your station here,
“To call forth Britons to their beer,
“As painter of distinguish'd note,
“He'll send his man to clean your coat.”
34
And if a vacancy shou'd offer,
Declar'd he had too just a notion,
To be averse to such promotion.
The Citizen drove off with joy,
“For London—Ball—for London—hoy.”
Content to bed, he went his way,
And is no Bankrupt to this day.
The HERALD and HUSBAND-MAN.
FABLE XII.
—Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.
Juvenal.
I with friend Juvenal agree,
Virtue's the true nobility;
Has of herself sufficient charms,
Altho' without a coat of arms.
Honestus does not know the rules,
Concerning Or and Fez, and Gules.
Yet sets the wond'ring eye to gaze on,
Such deeds no herald e'er could blaze on.
Tawdry atchievements out of place,
Do but augment a fool's disgrace;
A coward is a double jest,
Who has a lion for his crest;
And things are come to such a pass,
Two horses may support an ass;
And on a Gamester or Buffoon,
A moral motto's a lampoon.
An honest rustic having done
His master's work 'twixt sun and sun,
Retir'd to dress a little spot,
Adjoining to his homely cot,
Where pleas'd, in miniature, he found
His landlord's culinary ground,
Some herbs that feed, and some that heal,
The winter's medicine or meal.
The sage, which in his garden seen,
No man need ever die I ween;
The marjoram comely to behold,
With thyme, and ruddiest marygold,
And mint and penny-royal sweet,
To deck the cottage windows meet;
And baum, that yields a finer juice
Than all that China can produce;
With carrots red, and turnips white,
And leeks, Cadwallader's delight;
And all the savory crop that vie
To please the palate and the eye.
Thus, as intent, he did survey
His plot, a Herald came that way,
A man of great escutcheon'd knowledge,
And member of the motley college.
Heedless the peasant pass'd he by,
Indulging this soliloquy;
“Ye gods! what an enormous space,
“'Twixt man and man does nature place;
“While some by deeds of honour rise,
“To such a height, as far out-vies
“The visible diurnal sphere;
“While others, like this rustic here,
“Grope in the groveling ground content,
“Without or lineage or descent.
“Hail, Heraldry! mysterious art,
“Bright patroness of all desert,
“Mankind would on a level lie,
“And undistinguish'd live and die;
“Depriv'd of thy illustrious aid,
“Such! so momentous is our trade.
Virtue's the true nobility;
Has of herself sufficient charms,
Altho' without a coat of arms.
Honestus does not know the rules,
Concerning Or and Fez, and Gules.
Yet sets the wond'ring eye to gaze on,
Such deeds no herald e'er could blaze on.
Tawdry atchievements out of place,
Do but augment a fool's disgrace;
A coward is a double jest,
Who has a lion for his crest;
35
Two horses may support an ass;
And on a Gamester or Buffoon,
A moral motto's a lampoon.
An honest rustic having done
His master's work 'twixt sun and sun,
Retir'd to dress a little spot,
Adjoining to his homely cot,
Where pleas'd, in miniature, he found
His landlord's culinary ground,
Some herbs that feed, and some that heal,
The winter's medicine or meal.
The sage, which in his garden seen,
No man need ever die I ween;
The marjoram comely to behold,
With thyme, and ruddiest marygold,
And mint and penny-royal sweet,
To deck the cottage windows meet;
And baum, that yields a finer juice
Than all that China can produce;
With carrots red, and turnips white,
And leeks, Cadwallader's delight;
And all the savory crop that vie
To please the palate and the eye.
Thus, as intent, he did survey
His plot, a Herald came that way,
36
And member of the motley college.
Heedless the peasant pass'd he by,
Indulging this soliloquy;
“Ye gods! what an enormous space,
“'Twixt man and man does nature place;
“While some by deeds of honour rise,
“To such a height, as far out-vies
“The visible diurnal sphere;
“While others, like this rustic here,
“Grope in the groveling ground content,
“Without or lineage or descent.
“Hail, Heraldry! mysterious art,
“Bright patroness of all desert,
“Mankind would on a level lie,
“And undistinguish'd live and die;
“Depriv'd of thy illustrious aid,
“Such! so momentous is our trade.
“Sir, says the clown, why sure you joke,
“(And kept on digging as he spoke)
“And prate not to extort conviction,
“But merrily by way of fiction.
“Say, do your manuscripts attest,
“What was old father Adam's crest;
“Did he a nobler Coat receive
“In right of marrying Mrs. Eve;
“Or had supporters when he kiss'd her,
“On dexter side, and side sinister;
“Or was his motto, prithee speak,
“English, French, Latin, Welch, or Greek;
“Or was he not, without a lye,
“Just such a nobleman as I?
“Virtue, which great defects can stifle,
“May beam distinction on a trifle;
“And honour, with her native charms,
“May beautify a coat of arms;
“Realities sometimes will thrive,
“E'en by appearance kept alive;
“But by themselves, Gules, Or, and Fez,
“Are cyphers, neither more or less:
“Keep both thy head and hands from crimes,
“Be honest in the worst of times:
“Health's on my countenance impress'd,
“And sweet content's my daily guest,
“My fame alone I build on this,
“And Garter King at Arms may kiss.”—
“(And kept on digging as he spoke)
“And prate not to extort conviction,
“But merrily by way of fiction.
“Say, do your manuscripts attest,
“What was old father Adam's crest;
“Did he a nobler Coat receive
“In right of marrying Mrs. Eve;
“Or had supporters when he kiss'd her,
“On dexter side, and side sinister;
37
“English, French, Latin, Welch, or Greek;
“Or was he not, without a lye,
“Just such a nobleman as I?
“Virtue, which great defects can stifle,
“May beam distinction on a trifle;
“And honour, with her native charms,
“May beautify a coat of arms;
“Realities sometimes will thrive,
“E'en by appearance kept alive;
“But by themselves, Gules, Or, and Fez,
“Are cyphers, neither more or less:
“Keep both thy head and hands from crimes,
“Be honest in the worst of times:
“Health's on my countenance impress'd,
“And sweet content's my daily guest,
“My fame alone I build on this,
“And Garter King at Arms may kiss.”—
A STORY of a COCK and a BULL.
FABLE XIII.
Yes—we excell in arts and arms,
In learning's lore and beauty's charms.
The seas wide empire we engross,
All nations hail the British cross;
The land of liberty we tread,
And woe to his devoted head,
Who dares the contrary advance,
One Englishman's worth ten of France.
These these are truths, what man won't write for,
Won't swear, won't bully, or won't fight for;
Yet (tho' perhaps I speak thro' vanity)
Wou'd we'd a little more humanity;
Too far, I fear, I've drove the jest,
So leave to Cock and Bull the rest.
In learning's lore and beauty's charms.
The seas wide empire we engross,
All nations hail the British cross;
38
And woe to his devoted head,
Who dares the contrary advance,
One Englishman's worth ten of France.
These these are truths, what man won't write for,
Won't swear, won't bully, or won't fight for;
Yet (tho' perhaps I speak thro' vanity)
Wou'd we'd a little more humanity;
Too far, I fear, I've drove the jest,
So leave to Cock and Bull the rest.
A Bull who'd listen'd to the vows
Of above fifteen hundred cows;
And serv'd his master fresh and fresh,
With hecatombs of special flesh,
Like to an hermit or a dervise,
(Grown old and feeble in the service)
Now left the meadow's green parade,
And sought a solitary shade.
The cows proclaim'd in mournful lowing,
The Bull's deficiency in wooing,
And to their disappointed master,
All told the terrible disaster.
Of above fifteen hundred cows;
And serv'd his master fresh and fresh,
With hecatombs of special flesh,
Like to an hermit or a dervise,
(Grown old and feeble in the service)
Now left the meadow's green parade,
And sought a solitary shade.
The cows proclaim'd in mournful lowing,
The Bull's deficiency in wooing,
And to their disappointed master,
All told the terrible disaster.
“Is this the case (quoth Hodge) O rare!
“But hold, to-morrow is the fair.
“Thou to thy doom, old boy, art fated,
“To-morrow—and thou shalt be baited.”
The deed was done—curse on the wrong!
Bloody description, hold thy tongue.—
Victorious yet the Bull return'd,
And with stern silence inly mourn'd.
“But hold, to-morrow is the fair.
“Thou to thy doom, old boy, art fated,
“To-morrow—and thou shalt be baited.”
The deed was done—curse on the wrong!
Bloody description, hold thy tongue.—
39
And with stern silence inly mourn'd.
A vet'ran, brave, majestic Cock,
Who serv'd for hour glass, guard, and clock,
Who crow'd the mansion's first relief,
Alike from goblin and from thief;
Whose youth escap'd the Christmas skillet,
Whose vigour brav'd the Shrovetide billet,
Had just return'd in wounds and pain,
Triumphant from the barbarous train.—
By riv'let's brink, with trees o'er grown,
He heard his fellow sufferer's moan;
And greatly scorning wounds and smart,
Gave him three cheers with all his heart.
Who serv'd for hour glass, guard, and clock,
Who crow'd the mansion's first relief,
Alike from goblin and from thief;
Whose youth escap'd the Christmas skillet,
Whose vigour brav'd the Shrovetide billet,
Had just return'd in wounds and pain,
Triumphant from the barbarous train.—
By riv'let's brink, with trees o'er grown,
He heard his fellow sufferer's moan;
And greatly scorning wounds and smart,
Gave him three cheers with all his heart.
“Rise, neighbour, from that pensive attitude,
“Brave witness of vile man's ingratitude;
“And let us both with spur and horn,
“The cruel reasoning monster scorn.—
“Methinks at every dawn of day,
“When first I chant my blithsome lay,
“Methinks I hear from out the sky,
“All will be better by and by;
“When bloody, base, degenerate man,
“Who deviates from his maker's plan;
“Who nature and her works abuses,
“And thus his fellow servants uses,
“Shall greatly, and yet justly want,
“The mercy he refus'd to grant;
“And (while his heart his conscience purges)
“Shall wish to be the brute he scourges.”
“Brave witness of vile man's ingratitude;
“And let us both with spur and horn,
“The cruel reasoning monster scorn.—
“Methinks at every dawn of day,
“When first I chant my blithsome lay,
“Methinks I hear from out the sky,
“All will be better by and by;
“When bloody, base, degenerate man,
“Who deviates from his maker's plan;
“Who nature and her works abuses,
“And thus his fellow servants uses,
“Shall greatly, and yet justly want,
“The mercy he refus'd to grant;
40
“Shall wish to be the brute he scourges.”
The SNAKE, the GOOSE, and NIGHTINGALE.
Humbly addressed to the Hissers and Catcallers attending both Houses.
FABLE XIV.
When rul'd by truth and nature's ways,
When just to blame, yet fix'd to praise,
As votary of the Delphic God,
I reverence the critic's rod;
But when inflam'd with spite alone,
I hold all critics but as one;
For tho' they class themselves with art,
And each man takes a different part;
Yet whatsoe'er they praise and blame;
They in their motives are the same.
When just to blame, yet fix'd to praise,
As votary of the Delphic God,
I reverence the critic's rod;
But when inflam'd with spite alone,
I hold all critics but as one;
For tho' they class themselves with art,
And each man takes a different part;
Yet whatsoe'er they praise and blame;
They in their motives are the same.
Forth as she waddled in the brake,
A grey Goose stumbled on a Snake,
And took th'occasion to abuse her,
And of rank plagiarism accuse her.
“'Twas I, quoth she, in every vale,
“First hiss'd the noisy Nightingale;
“And boldly cavill'd at each note,
“That twitter'd in the Woodlark's throat:
“I, who sublime and more than mortal,
“Must stoop to enter at the portal,
“Have ever been the first to show
“My hate to every thing that's low;
“While thou, mean mimic of my manner,
“(Without inlisting to my banner)
“Dar'st in thy grov'ling situation,
“To counterfeit my sibilation.”
A grey Goose stumbled on a Snake,
And took th'occasion to abuse her,
And of rank plagiarism accuse her.
“'Twas I, quoth she, in every vale,
“First hiss'd the noisy Nightingale;
“And boldly cavill'd at each note,
“That twitter'd in the Woodlark's throat:
41
“Must stoop to enter at the portal,
“Have ever been the first to show
“My hate to every thing that's low;
“While thou, mean mimic of my manner,
“(Without inlisting to my banner)
“Dar'st in thy grov'ling situation,
“To counterfeit my sibilation.”
The Snake enrag'd, reply'd, “Know, Madam,
“I date my charter down from Adam;
“Nor can I, since I bear the bell,
“E'er imitate where I excell.
“Had any other creature dar'd
“Once to aver, what you've aver'd,
“I might have been more fierce and fervent,
“But you're a Goose,—and so your servant.”
“Truce with your folly and your pride,”
The warbling Philomela cry'd;
“Since no more animals we find
“In nature, of the hissing kind,
“You should be friends with one another,
“Nay, kind as brother is to brother.
“For know, thou pattern of abuse,
“Thou Snake art but a crawling goose;
“And thou dull dabbler in each lake,
“Art nothing but a feather'd Snake.”
“I date my charter down from Adam;
“Nor can I, since I bear the bell,
“E'er imitate where I excell.
“Had any other creature dar'd
“Once to aver, what you've aver'd,
“I might have been more fierce and fervent,
“But you're a Goose,—and so your servant.”
“Truce with your folly and your pride,”
The warbling Philomela cry'd;
“Since no more animals we find
“In nature, of the hissing kind,
“You should be friends with one another,
“Nay, kind as brother is to brother.
“For know, thou pattern of abuse,
“Thou Snake art but a crawling goose;
“And thou dull dabbler in each lake,
“Art nothing but a feather'd Snake.”
42
Mrs. ABIGAIL and the DUMB WAITER.
FABLE XV.
With frowning brow and aspect low'ring,As Abigail one day was scow'ring,
From chair to chair she past along,
Without soliloquy or song;
Content, in humdrum mood, t'adjust
Her matters to disperse the dust.—
Thus plodded on the sullen fair,
'Till a Dumb-Waiter claim'd her care;
She then in rage, with shrill salute,
Bespoke the inoffensive mute:—
“Thou stupid tool of vapourish asses,
“With thy brown shelves for pots and glasses;
“Thou foreign whirligigg, for whom
“US honest folks must quit the room;
“And, like young misses at a christ'ning,
“Are forc'd to be content with list'ning;
“Tho' thou'rt a fav'rite of my masters,
“I'll set thee gadding on thy castors.”
This said—with many a rough attack,
She scrubb'd him 'till she made him crack;
Insulted stronger still and stronger,
The poor dumb thing, could hold no longer.—
“Thou drab, born mops and brooms to dandle,
“Thou haberdasher of small scandal,
43
“Retailer of domestic news;
“My lord, as soon as I appear,
“Confines thee in thy proper sphere;
“Or else, at ev'ry place of call,
“The chandler's shop, or cobler's stall,
“Or ale-house, where (for petty tales,
“Gin, beer, and ale are constant vails)
“Each word at table that was spoke,
“Wou'd soon become the public joke,
“And chearful innocent converse,
“To scandal warp'd—or something worse.—
“Whene'er my master I attend,
“Freely his mind he can unbend;—
“But when such praters fill my place,
“Then nothing should be said—but grace.”
The BAG-WIG and the TOBACCO-PIPE.
FABLE XVI.
A bag-wig of a jauntee air,
Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Loaded with powder and perfume,
Hung in a spendthrift's dressing-room:
Close by its side, by chance convey'd,
A black Tobacco-pipe was laid;
And with its vapours far and near,
Outstunk the essence of Monsieur;
At which it's rage, the thing of hair,
Thus, bristling up, began declare.
Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Loaded with powder and perfume,
Hung in a spendthrift's dressing-room:
Close by its side, by chance convey'd,
A black Tobacco-pipe was laid;
44
Outstunk the essence of Monsieur;
At which it's rage, the thing of hair,
Thus, bristling up, began declare.
“Bak'd dirt! that with intrusion rude
“Breakst in upon my solitude,
“And whose offensive breath defiles
“The air for forty thousand miles—
“Avaunt—pollution's in thy touch—
“O barb'rous English! horrid Dutch!
“I cannot bear it—Here, Sue, Nan,
“Go call the maid to call the man,
“And bid him come without delay,
“To take this odious pipe away.
“Hideous! sure some one smoak'd thee, Friend,
“Reversely, at his t'other end.
“Oh! what mix'd odours! what a throng
“Of salt and sour, of stale and strong!
“A most unnatural combination,
“Enough to mar all perspiration—
“Monstrous! again—'twou'd vex a saint!
“Susan, the drops—or else I faint!”
The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of soul)
Raising himself upon his bole,
In smoke, like oracle of old,
Did thus his sentiments unfold.
“Breakst in upon my solitude,
“And whose offensive breath defiles
“The air for forty thousand miles—
“Avaunt—pollution's in thy touch—
“O barb'rous English! horrid Dutch!
“I cannot bear it—Here, Sue, Nan,
“Go call the maid to call the man,
“And bid him come without delay,
“To take this odious pipe away.
“Hideous! sure some one smoak'd thee, Friend,
“Reversely, at his t'other end.
“Oh! what mix'd odours! what a throng
“Of salt and sour, of stale and strong!
“A most unnatural combination,
“Enough to mar all perspiration—
“Monstrous! again—'twou'd vex a saint!
“Susan, the drops—or else I faint!”
The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of soul)
Raising himself upon his bole,
In smoke, like oracle of old,
Did thus his sentiments unfold.
“Why, what's the matter, Goodman Swagger,
“Thou flaunting French, fantastic bragger?
“Whose whole fine speech is (with a pox)
“Ridiculous and heterodox.
“'Twas better for the English nation
“Before such scoundrels came in fashion,
“When none sought hair in realms unknown,
“But every blockhead bore his own.
“Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
“Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe,
“Who, with my cloud-compelling aid
“Help our plantations and our trade,
“And am, when sober and when mellow,
“An upright, downright, honest fellow.
“Tho' fools, like you, may think me rough,
“And scorn me, 'cause I am in buff,
“Yet your contempt I glad receive,
“'Tis all the fame that you can give:
“None finery or fopp'ry prize;
“But they who've something to disguise;
“For simple nature hates abuse,
“And Plainness is the dress of Use.”
“Thou flaunting French, fantastic bragger?
45
“Ridiculous and heterodox.
“'Twas better for the English nation
“Before such scoundrels came in fashion,
“When none sought hair in realms unknown,
“But every blockhead bore his own.
“Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
“Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe,
“Who, with my cloud-compelling aid
“Help our plantations and our trade,
“And am, when sober and when mellow,
“An upright, downright, honest fellow.
“Tho' fools, like you, may think me rough,
“And scorn me, 'cause I am in buff,
“Yet your contempt I glad receive,
“'Tis all the fame that you can give:
“None finery or fopp'ry prize;
“But they who've something to disguise;
“For simple nature hates abuse,
“And Plainness is the dress of Use.”
CARE and GENEROSITY.
FABLE XVII.
Old Care with Industry and Art,At length so well had play'd his part;
46
That Av'rice cou'd not sigh for more:
Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
His coffers overflow'd with gold;
The land all round him was his own,
With corn his crowded granaries groan.
In short so vast his charge and gain,
That to possess them was a pain:
With happiness oppress'd he lies,
And much too prudent to be wise.
Near him there liv'd a beauteous maid,
With all the charms of youth array'd;
Good, amiable, sincere and free,
Her name was Generosity.
'Twas her's the largess to bestow
On rich and poor, on friend and foe.
Her doors to all were open'd wide,
The pilgrim there might safe abide:
For th'hungry and the thirsty crew,
The bread she broke, the drink she drew;
There Sickness laid her aching head,
And there Distress cou'd find a bed.—
Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,
Diffus'd she blessings round the land:
Her gifts and glory lasted long,
And numerous was th'accepting throng.
At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,
And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,
47
And that she had not made one friend.—
All curs'd her for not giving more,
Nor thought on what she'd done before;
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,
When lo! to comfort her came Care.—
And cry'd, my dear, if you will join
Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;
All will be well—you shall have store,
And I be plagu'd with Wealth no more.—
Tho' I restrain your bounteous heart,
You still shall act the generous part.—
The Bridal came—great was the feast,
And good the pudding and the priest;
The bride in nine moons brought him forth
A little maid of matchless worth:
Her face was mix'd of Care and Glee,
They christen'd her Œconomy;
And styled her fair Discretion's Queen,
The mistress of the golden mean.
Now Generosity confin'd,
Perfectly easy in her mind;
Still loves to give, yet knows to spare,
Nor wishes to be free from Care.
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The PIG.
FABLE XVIII.
In every age, and each profession,Men err the most by prepossession;
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.—
A certain Baron on a day,
Having a mind to shew away,
Invited all the Wits and Wags,
Foot, Massey, Shuter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious stage,
For the Choice Spirits of the age;
But above all, among the rest,
There came a Genius who profess'd
To have a curious trick in store,
Which never was perform'd before.
Thro' all the town this soon got air,
And the whole house was like a fair;
But soon his entry as he made,
Without a prompter, or parade,
'Twas all expectance, all suspence,
And silence gagg'd the audience.
He hid his head behind his wig,
And with such truth took off a Pig,
49
For doubtless underneath his cloak,
He had conceal'd some grunting elf,
Or, was a real hog himself.
A search was made, no pig was found—
With thund'ring claps the seats resound,
And pit, and box, and galleries roar,
With—O rare! bravo! and encore.
Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,
Who yet knew something of the town,
Beheld the mimic and his whim,
And on the morrow challeng'd him,
Declaring to each beau and bunter,
That he'd out-grunt th'egregious grunter.
The morrow came—the croud was greater—
But prejudice and rank ill-nature
Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches,
Who came to hiss, and break the benches.
The mimic took his usual station,
And squeak'd with general approbation.
Again, encore! encore! they cry—
'Twas quite the thing—'twas very high:
Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket,
A real Pig beneath his jacket—
Then forth he came—and with his nail
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.
The tortur'd Pig from out his throat,
Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note.
50
Sure never stuff was half so bad!
That like a Pig!—each cry'd in scoff,
Pshaw! Nonsense! Blockhead! Off! Off! Off!
The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse
Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house.—
“Soft ye, a word before I go,”
Quoth honest Hodge—and stooping low
Produc'd the Pig, and thus aloud
Bespoke the stupid, partial croud:
“Behold, and learn from this poor creature.
“How much you Critics know of Nature.”
BALLADS.
SWEET WILLIAM.
BALLAD I.
I
By a prattling stream, on a Midsummer's eve,Where the woodbine and jess'mine their boughs interweave,
Fair Flora, I cry'd, to my harbour repair,
For I must have a chaplet for sweet William's hair.
II
She brought me the vi'let that grows on the hill,The vale-dwelling lilly, and gilded jonquill:
But such languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lad that I love.
51
III
She brought me, his faith and his truth to display,The undying myrtle, and ever-green bay:
But why these to me, who've his constancy known?
And Billy has laurels enough of his own.
IV
The next was a gift that I could not contemn,For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem:
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confest,
So I kiss'd 'em, and press'd 'em quite close to my breast.
V
She brought me a sun-flow'r—This, fair one's, your due;For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you:
Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd I'll run,
As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the sun.
The LASS with the GOLDEN LOCKS.
BALLAD II.
I
No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before;
My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold:
I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my flocks
And will sing to my lass with the golden locks.
52
II
Tho' o'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow,Like the rays of the sun on a hillock of snow;
Such painters of old drew the Queen of the Fair,
'Tis the taste of the antients, 'tis classical hair:
And tho' witlings may scoff, and tho' raillery mocks,
Yet I'll sing to my lass with the golden locks.
III
To live and to love, to converse and be free,Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kisses and rhime,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.
IV
Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my sight,Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white,
Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
They are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the park in the mall, at the play in the box,
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.
V
Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my woe;
She shall ease my fond heart, and shall sooth my soft pain;
While thousands of rivals are sighing in vain;
Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like the fox,
While I have the lass with the golden locks.
53
On my WIFE's BIRTH-DAY.
BALLAD III.
I
'Tis Nancy's birth-day—raise your strains,Ye nymphs of the Parnassian plains,
And sing with more than usual glee
To Nancy, who was born for me.
II
Tell the blithe Graces as they bound?Luxuriant in the buxom round;
They're not more elegantly free,
Than Nancy, who was born for me.
III
Tell royal Venus, tho' she rove,The Queen of the immortal grove;
That she must share her golden fee
With Nancy, who was born for me.
IV
Tell Pallas, tho' th'Athenian school,And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,
On her to place the palm agree,
'Tis Nancy's, who was born for me.
V
Tell spotless Dian, tho' she range,The regent of the up-land grange,
In chastity she yields to thee,
O, Nancy, who wast born for me.
54
VI
Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove,With all the pow'rs of life and love,
That I'd disdain to breathe or be,
If Nancy was not born for me.
The DECISION.
BALLAD IV.
I
My Florio, wildest of his sex,(Who sure the veriest saint wou'd vex)
From beauty roves to beauty;
Yet, tho' abroad the wanton roam,
Whene'er he deigns to stay at home,
He always minds his duty.
II
Something to every charming she,In thoughtless prodigality,
He's granting still and granting,
To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,
And every madam, every miss;
Yet I find nothing wanting.
III
If haply I his will displease,Tempestuous as th'autumnal seas
He foams and rages ever;
55
I cry, such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever.
IV
I ne'er want reason to complain;But sweet is pleasure after pain,
And every joy grows greater.
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell,
I should not like him half so well,
If I cou'd make him better.
Tho TALKATIVE FAIR.
BALLAD V.
I
From morn to night, from day to dayAt all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease:
II
Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,If your own health, or ours you prize
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing han your yes.
56
III
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd,
All are distracted while they gaze;
But if they listen, they are cur'd.
IV
Your silence wou'd acquire more praise,Than all you say, or all I write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
Then hush—and be an angel quite.
The SILENT FAIR.
BALLAD V.
I
From all her fair loquacious kind,So different is my Rosalind,
That not one accent can I gain
To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain.
II
Ye lovers, who can construe sighs,And are the interpreters of eyes,
To language all her looks translate,
And in her gestures read my fate.
III
And if in them you chance to findAught that is gentle, aught that's kind,
57
And all the littleness of state.
IV
All thoughts of grandeur I'll despise,Which from dependence take their rise;
To serve her shall be my employ,
And love's sweet agony my joy.
The FORCE of INNOCENCE.
BALLAD VII.
To Miss C---.
I
The blooming damsel, whose defenceIs adamantine innocence,
Requires no guardian to attend
Her steps, for modesty's her friend:
Tho' her fair arms are weak to wield
The glitt'ring spear, and massy shield;
Yet safe from force and fraud combin'd,
She is an Amazon in mind.
II
With this artillery she goes,Not only 'mongst the harmless beaux:
But e'en unhurt and undismay'd,
Views the long sword and fierce cockade,
58
And all a goddess as she walks,
Yet decency each action guides,
And wisdom o'er her tongue presides.
III
Place her in Russia's showery plains,Where a perpetual winter reigns,
The elements may rave and range,
Yet her fix'd mind will never change.
Place her, Ambition, in thy tow'rs,
'Mongst the more dang'rous golden show'rs,
E'en there she'd spurn the venal tribe,
And fold her arms against the bribe.
IV
Leave her, defenceless and alone,A pris'ner in the torrid zone,
The sunshine there might vainly vie
With the bright lustre of her eye;
But Phœbus' self, with all his fire,
Cou'd ne'er one unchaste thought inspire;
But Virtue's path she'd still pursue
And still, my fair, wou'd copy you.
59
The DISTRESSED DAMSEL.
BALLAD VIII.
I
Of all my experience how vast the amount,Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count!
Was ever a damsel so sadly betray'd,
To live to these years and yet still be a maid?
II
Ye heroes triumphant by land and by sea,Sworn vot'ries to love, but unmindful of me;
You can storm a strong fort, or can form a blockade,
Yet ye stand by like dastards, and see me a maid.
III
Ye lawyers so just, who with slippery tongue,Can do what you please, or with right, or with wrong,
Can it be or by law or by equity said,
That a buxom young girl ought to die an old maid
IV
Ye learned physicians, whose excellent skillCan save, or demolish, can cure, or can kill,
To a poor, forlorn damsel contribute your aid,
Who is sick—very sick—of remaining a maid.
V
Ye fops, I invoke, not to list to my song,Who answer no end—and to no sex belong;
Ye echoes of echoes, and shadows of shade—
For if I had you—I might still be a maid.
60
The FAIR RECLUSE.
BALLAD IX.
I
Ye ancient patriarchs of the wood,That veil around these awful glooms,
Who many a century have stoode
In verdant age, that ever blooms.
II
Ye Gothic tow'rs, by vapours dense,Obscur'd into severer state,
In pastoral magnificence
At once so simple and so great.
III
Why all your jealous shades on me,Ye hoary elders, do ye spread?
Fair Innocence shou'd still be free,
Nought shou'd be chain'd, but what we dread.
IV
Say, must these tears for ever flow?Can I from patience learn content,
While solitude still nurses woe,
And leaves me leisure to lament.
V
My guardian see!—who wards off peace,Whose cruelty is his employ,
Who bids the tongue of transport cease,
And stops each avenue to joy.
61
VI
Freedom of air alone is giv'n,To aggravate, not sooth my grief,
To view th'immensely-distant heav'n,
My nearest prospect of relief.
To Miss --- one of the Chichester Graces.
BALLAD X.
Written in Goodwood Gardens, September, 1750.
I
“Ye hills that overlook the plains,“Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,
“Where Nature's hand by Art is check'd,
“And Taste herself is architect;
“Ye fallows grey, ye forests brown,
“And seas that the vast prospect crown,
“Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,
“Nor can she one idea more!”
II
I said—when dearest of her kind(Her form, the picture of her mind)
Chloris approach'd—The landskip flew!
All Nature vanish'd from my view!
She seem'd all Nature to comprize,
Her lips! her beauteous breasts! her eyes!
That rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,
With liquid, languid, living fire!
62
III
But then—her voice!—how fram'd t'endear!The music of the Gods to hear!
Wit that so pierc'd, without offence,
So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense!
Pallas with Venus play'd her part,
To rob me of an honest heart;
Prudence and Passion jointly strove,
And reason was th'ally of Love.
IV
Ah me! thou sweet, delicious maid,From whence shall I solicit aid?
Hope and despair alike destroy,
One kills with grief, and one with joy.
Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine!
To save me, the dear task be thine.
Tho' conquest be the woman's care,
The angel's glory is to spare.
LOVELY HARRIOT,
A Crambo Ballad.
BALLAD XI.
I
Great Phœbus in his vast career,Who forms the self succeeding year,
Thron'd in his amber chariot;
63
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light,
As dear delicious Harriot.
II
Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not burns,
Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot;
I scorn their philosophic strife,
And study nature from the life,
(Where most she shines) in Harriot.
III
When she admits another wooer,I rave like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,
And am as raging Barry hot.
True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove,
But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
Are other names for Harriot.
IV
Ye factious members who oppose,And tire both Houses with your prose,
Tho' never can ye carry aught;
You might command the nation's sense,
And without bribery convince,
Had ye the voice of Harriot.
V
You of the music common weal,Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal,
Cantata, air, or ariet;
64
And sing, compose, and play no more,
If once you heard my Harriot.
VI
Were there a wretch who dar'd essay,Such wond'rous sweetness to betray
I'd call him an Iscariot;
But her e'en satire can't annoy,
So strictly chaste, but kindly coy,
Is fair angelic Harriot.
VII
While sultans, emperors, and kings,(Mean appetite of earthly things)
In all the waste of war riot;
Love's softer duel be my aim,
Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame,
Are center'd all in Harriot.
VIII
I swear by Hymen and the pow'rsThat haunt Love's ever blushing bow'rs,
So sweet a nymph to marry ought;
Then may I hug her silken yoke,
And give the last, the final stroke,
T'accomplish lovely Harriot.
65
To JENNY GRAY.
BALLAD XII.
I
Bring, Phœbus, from Parnassian bow'r,sA chaplet of poetic flowers,
That far out bloom the May;
Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free,
And all the Muses heraldry,
To blazon Jenny Gray.
II
Observe yon almond's rich perfume,Presenting Spring with early bloom,
In ruddy tints how gay!
Thus, foremost of the blushing fair,
With such a blithsome, buxom air,
Blooms lovely Jenny Gray.
III
The merry, chirping, plumy throng,The bushes and the twigs among
That pipe the sylvan lay,
All hush'd at her delightful voice
In silent extacy rejoice,
And study Jenny Gray.
IV
Ye balmy odour-breathing gales,That lightly sweep the green robed vales,
And in each rose-bush play;
66
And steal your more than natural sweets,
From lovely Jenny Gray.
V
Pomona and that Goddess bright,The florist's and the maids delight,
In vain their charms display;
The luscious nectarine, juicy peach,
In richness, nor in sweetness reach
The lips of Jenny Gray.
VI
To the sweet knot of Graces three,Th'immortal band of bards agree,
A tuneful tax to pay;
There yet remains a matchless worth,
There yet remains a lovelier fourth,
And she is Jenny Gray.
To Miss KITTY BENNET and her Cat Crop.
BALLAD XIII.
I
Full many a heart, that now is free,May shortly, fair one, beat for thee,
And court thy pleasing chain;
Then prudent hear a friend's advice,
And learn to guard, by conduct nice,
The conquests you shall gain.
67
II
When Tabby Tom your Crop pursues,How many a bite, and many a bruise
The amorous Swain endures?
E'er yet one favouring glance he catch,
What frequent squalls, how many a scratch
His tenderness procures?
III
Tho' this, 'tis own'd, be somewhat rude,And Puss by nature be a prude,
Yet hence you may improve;
By decent pride, and dint of scoff,
Keep caterwauling coxcombs off,
And ward th'attacks of love.
IV
Your Crop a mousing when you see,She teaches you œconomy,
Which makes the pot to boil:
And when she plays with what she gains,
She shews you pleasure springs from pains,
And mirth's the fruit of toil.
68
The PRETTY BAR-KEEPER of the MITRE.
BALLAD XIV.
Written at College, 1741.
I
“Relax, sweet girl, your wearied mind,“And to hear the poet talk,
“Gentlest creature of your kind,
“Lay aside your sponge and chalk;
“Cease, cease the bar-bell, nor refuse
“To hear the jingle of the Muse.
II
“Hear your numerous vot'ries prayers,“Come, O come, and bring with thee
“Giddy whimsies, wanton airs,
“And all love's soft artillery;
“Smiles and throbs, and frowns, and tears,
“With all the little hopes and fears.
III
She heard—she came—and e'er she spoke,Not unravish'd you might see
Her wanton eyes that wink'd the joke,
Ee'r her tongue could set it free.
While a forc'd blush her cheeks inflam'd,
And seem'd to say she was asham'd.
69
IV
No handkerchief her bosom hid,No tippet from our sight debars
Her heaving breasts with moles o'erspread,
Mark'd, little hemispheres, with stars;
While on them all our eyes we move,
Our eyes that meant immoderate love.
V
In every gesture, every air,Th'imperfect lisp, the languid eye;
In every motion of the fair
We awkward imitators vie,
And forming our own from her face,
Strive to look pretty, as we gaze.
VI
If e'er she sneer'd, the mimic crowdSneer'd too, and all their pipes laid down;
If she but stoop'd, we lowly bow'd,
And sullen if she 'gan to frown
In solemn silence sat profound—
But did she laugh!—the laugh went round.
VII
Her snuff-box if the nymph pull'd out,Each Johnian in responsive airs
Fed with the tickling dust his snout,
With all the politesse of bears.
Dropt she her fan beneath her hoop,
Ev'n stake-stuck Clarians strove to stoop.
70
VIII
The tons of culinary KaysSmoaking from the eternal treat,
Lost in extatic transport gaze,
As tho' the fair was good to eat;
Ev'n gloomiest King's men, pleas'd awhile,
“Grin horribly a ghastly smile.”
IX
But hark, she cries, “my mama calls,”And strait she's vanish'd from our fight;
'Twas then we saw the empty bowls,
'Twas then we first perceiv'd it night;
While all, sad Synod, silent moan,
Both that she went—and went alone.
The WIDOW's RESOLUTION.
A Cantata.
BALLAD XV.
Recitative.
Sylvia, the most contented of her kind,Remain'd in joyless widowhood resign'd:
In vain to gain her every shepherd strove,
Each passion ebb'd, but grief, which drowned love.
Air.
Away, she cry'd, ye swains, be mute,
Nor with your odious fruitless suit
My loyal thoughts controul;
My grief on Resolution's rock
Is built, nor can temptation shock
The purpose of my soul.
Nor with your odious fruitless suit
My loyal thoughts controul;
71
Is built, nor can temptation shock
The purpose of my soul.
Tho' blith content with jocund air
May balance comfort against care,
And make me life sustain;
Yet ev'ry joy has wing'd its flight,
Except that pensive dear delight
That takes it's rise from pain.
May balance comfort against care,
And make me life sustain;
Yet ev'ry joy has wing'd its flight,
Except that pensive dear delight
That takes it's rise from pain.
Recitative.
She said:—A youth approach'd of manly grace,A son of Mars, and of th'Hibernian race:—
In flow'ry rhetorick he no time employ'd,
He came—he woo'd—he wedded and enjoy'd:
Air.
Dido thus of old protested,
Ne'er to know a second flame;
But alas! she found she jested,
When the stately Trojan came.
Ne'er to know a second flame;
But alas! she found she jested,
When the stately Trojan came.
Nature a disguise may borrow,
Yet this maxim true will prove,
Spite of pride, and spite of sorrow,
She that has an heart must love.
Yet this maxim true will prove,
Spite of pride, and spite of sorrow,
She that has an heart must love.
What on earth is so enchanting
As beauty weeping on her weeds!
Thro' flowing eyes on bosom panting
What a rapturous ray proceeds?
As beauty weeping on her weeds!
Thro' flowing eyes on bosom panting
What a rapturous ray proceeds?
72
Since from death there's no returning,
When th'old lover bids adieu,
All the pomp and farce of mourning
Are but signals for a new.
When th'old lover bids adieu,
All the pomp and farce of mourning
Are but signals for a new.
EPISTLES.
EPISTLE to Mrs. TYLER.
It ever was allow'd, dear Madam,
Ev'n from the days of father Adam,
Of all perfection flesh is heir to,
Fair patience is the gentlest virtue;
This is a truth our grandames teach,
Our poets sing, and parsons preach;
Yet after all, dear Moll, the fact is
We seldom put it into practice;
I'll warrant (if one knew the truth)
You've call'd me many an idle youth,
And styled me rude ungrateful bear,
Enough to make a parson swear.
Ev'n from the days of father Adam,
Of all perfection flesh is heir to,
Fair patience is the gentlest virtue;
This is a truth our grandames teach,
Our poets sing, and parsons preach;
Yet after all, dear Moll, the fact is
We seldom put it into practice;
I'll warrant (if one knew the truth)
You've call'd me many an idle youth,
And styled me rude ungrateful bear,
Enough to make a parson swear.
I shall not make a long oration
In order for my vindication,
For what the plague can I say more
Than lazy dogs have done before;
Such stuff is naught but mere tautology,
And so take that for my apology.
In order for my vindication,
For what the plague can I say more
Than lazy dogs have done before;
Such stuff is naught but mere tautology,
And so take that for my apology.
73
First then for custards, my dear Mary,
The produce of your dainty dairy,
For stew'd, for bak'd, for boil'd, for roast,
And all the teas and all the toast;
With thankful tongue and bowing attitude,
I here present you with my gratitude:
Next for your apples, pears and plumbs
Acknowledgment in order comes;
For wine, for ale, for fowl, for fish—for
Ev'n all one's appetite can wish for:
But O ye pens and, O ye pencils,
And all ye scribbling utensils,
Say in what words and in what metre,
Shall unfeign'd admiration greet her,
For that rich banquet so refin'd
Her conversation gave the mind;
The solid meal of sense and worth,
Set off by the desert of mirth;
Wit's fruit and pleasure's genial bowl,
And all the joyous flow of soul;
For these, and every kind ingredient
That form'd your love—your most obedient.
The produce of your dainty dairy,
For stew'd, for bak'd, for boil'd, for roast,
And all the teas and all the toast;
With thankful tongue and bowing attitude,
I here present you with my gratitude:
Next for your apples, pears and plumbs
Acknowledgment in order comes;
For wine, for ale, for fowl, for fish—for
Ev'n all one's appetite can wish for:
But O ye pens and, O ye pencils,
And all ye scribbling utensils,
Say in what words and in what metre,
Shall unfeign'd admiration greet her,
For that rich banquet so refin'd
Her conversation gave the mind;
The solid meal of sense and worth,
Set off by the desert of mirth;
Wit's fruit and pleasure's genial bowl,
And all the joyous flow of soul;
For these, and every kind ingredient
That form'd your love—your most obedient.
To the Rev. Mr. Powell, on the Non-performance of a Promise he made the Author of a Hare.
Friend, with regard to this same hare,
Am I to hope, or to despair?
By punctual post the letter came,
With P---ll's hand, and P---ll's name:
Yet there appear'd, for love or money,
Nor hare, nor leveret, nor coney.
Say, my dear Morgan, has my lord,
Like other great ones kept his word?
Or have you been deceiv'd by 'squire?
Or has your poacher lost his wire?
Or in some unpropitious hole,
Instead of puss, trepann'd a mole?
Thou valiant son of great Cadwallader,
Hast thou a hare, or hast thou swallow'd her?
Am I to hope, or to despair?
74
With P---ll's hand, and P---ll's name:
Yet there appear'd, for love or money,
Nor hare, nor leveret, nor coney.
Say, my dear Morgan, has my lord,
Like other great ones kept his word?
Or have you been deceiv'd by 'squire?
Or has your poacher lost his wire?
Or in some unpropitious hole,
Instead of puss, trepann'd a mole?
Thou valiant son of great Cadwallader,
Hast thou a hare, or hast thou swallow'd her?
But, now, me thinks, I hear you say,
(And shake your head) “Ah, well-a-day!
“Painful pre-em'nence to be wise,
“We wits have such short memories.
“Oh, that the act was not in force!
“A horse!—my kingdom for a horse!
“To love—yet be deny'd the sport!
“Oh! for a friend or two at court!
“God knows, there's scarce a man of quality
“In all our peerless principality—
(And shake your head) “Ah, well-a-day!
“Painful pre-em'nence to be wise,
“We wits have such short memories.
“Oh, that the act was not in force!
“A horse!—my kingdom for a horse!
“To love—yet be deny'd the sport!
“Oh! for a friend or two at court!
“God knows, there's scarce a man of quality
“In all our peerless principality—
But hold—for on his country joking,
To a warm Welchman's most provoking.
As for poor puss, upon my honour,
I never set my heart upon her.
But any gift from friend to friend,
Is pleasing in it's aim and end.
I, like the cock, wou'd spurn a jewel,
Sent by th'unkind, th'unjust, and cruel.
But honest P---!—Sure from him
A barley-corn wou'd be a gem.
Pleas'd therefore had I been, and proud,
And prais'd thy generous heart aloud,
If 'stead of hare (but do not blab it)
You'd sent me only a Welch rabbit.
To a warm Welchman's most provoking.
As for poor puss, upon my honour,
I never set my heart upon her.
But any gift from friend to friend,
Is pleasing in it's aim and end.
75
Sent by th'unkind, th'unjust, and cruel.
But honest P---!—Sure from him
A barley-corn wou'd be a gem.
Pleas'd therefore had I been, and proud,
And prais'd thy generous heart aloud,
If 'stead of hare (but do not blab it)
You'd sent me only a Welch rabbit.
EPIGRAMS.
The SICK MONKEY.
Epigram I.
A lady sent lately for one Doctor Drug,
To come in an instant, and clyster poor Pug—
As the fair one commanded he came at the word;
And did the grand office in tie-wig and sword.
To come in an instant, and clyster poor Pug—
As the fair one commanded he came at the word;
And did the grand office in tie-wig and sword.
The affair being ended, so sweet and so nice!
He held out his hand with “you—know, ma'am, my price.”
“Your price,” says the lady—“Why, Sir, he's your brother,
“And doctors must never take fees of each other.”
He held out his hand with “you—know, ma'am, my price.”
“Your price,” says the lady—“Why, Sir, he's your brother,
“And doctors must never take fees of each other.”
APOLLO and DAPHNE.
Epigram II.
When Phœbus was am'rous, and long'd to be rude,
Miss Daphne cry'd pish! and ran swift to the wood,
And rather than do such a naughty affair,
She became a fine laurel to deck the god's hair.
Miss Daphne cry'd pish! and ran swift to the wood,
76
She became a fine laurel to deck the god's hair.
The nymph was be sure of a cold constitution,
To be turn'd to a tree was a strange resolution;
But in this she resembled a true modern spouse,
For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brows.
To be turn'd to a tree was a strange resolution;
But in this she resembled a true modern spouse,
For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brows.
The MISER and the MOUSE.
Epigram III.
To a Mouse says a Miser, “my dear Mr. Mouse,“Pray what may you please for to want in my house?”
Says the Mouse, “Mr. Miser, pray keep yourself quiet,
“You are safe in your person, your purse, and your diet:
“A lodging I want, which ev'n you may afford,
“But none wou'd come here to beg, borrow, or board.”
Epigram IV. On a Woman who was singing Ballads for Money to bury her Husband.
For her Husband deceas'd, Sally chants the sweet lay,Why, faith, this is singular sorrow;
But (I doubt) since she sings for a dead man to-day,
She'll cry for a live one to-morrow.
77
To the Right Hon. Earl of Darlington, on his being appointed Paymaster of his Majesty's Forces.
“The royal hand, my Lord, shall raise
“To nobler heights thy name;
“Who praises thee shall meet with praise,
“Ennobled in thy same.
Smart's Ode.
“To nobler heights thy name;
“Who praises thee shall meet with praise,
“Ennobled in thy same.
Smart's Ode.
What the prophetic muse foretold is true,
And royal justice gives to worth its due;
The Roman spirit now breathes forth again,
And Virtue's temple leads to honour's fane;
But not alone to thee this grant extends,
Nor in thy rise great Brunswick's goodness ends:
Whoe'er has known thy hospitable dome,
Where each glad guest still finds himself at home:
Whoe'er has seen the numerous poor that wait
To bless thy bounty at the expanded gate;
Whoe'er has seen thee general joy impart,
And smile away chagrin from every heart,
All these are happy—pleasure reigns confest,
And thy prosperity makes thousands blest.
78
On the Death of Master Newbery, after a lingering Illness.
Henceforth be every tender tear supprest,Or let us weep for joy, that he is blest;
From grief to bliss, from earth to heav'n remov'd,
His mem'ry honour'd, as his life belov'd:
That heart o'er which no evil e'er had pow'r;
That disposition sickness could not sour;
That sense so oft to riper years denied,
That patience heroes might have own'd with pride.
His painful race undauntedly he ran,
And in the eleventh winter died a man.
Epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Reynolds, at St. Peter's in the Isle of Thanet.
Was Rhetoric on the lips of sorrow hung,Or cou'd affliction lend the heart a tongue,
Then should my soul, in noble anguish free,
Do glorious justice to herself and thee.
But ah! when loaded with a weight of woe,
Ev'n nature, blessed nature is our foe.
When we should praise, we sympathetic groan,
For sad mortality is all our own.
79
He spurns all empires and asserts the skies.
Blush, power! he had no interest here below;
Blush, malice! that he dy'd without a foe;
The universal friend, so form'd to engage,
Was far too precious for this world and age.
Years were deny'd, for (such his worth and truth)
Kind heaven has call'd him to eternal youth.
To my worthy Friend Mr. T. B one of the People called Quakers.
Written in his Garden July, 1752.
Free from the proud, the pompous, and the vain,
How simply neat, and elegantly plain
Thy rural villa lifts its modest head,
Where fair convenience reigns in fashion's stead;
Where sober plenty does its bliss impart,
And glads thine hospitable, honest heart.
Mirth without vice, and rapture without noise,
And all the decent, all the manly joys!
Beneath a shadowy bow'r, the summer's pride,
Thy darling Tullia sitting by thy side;
Where light and shade in varied scenes display
A contrast sweet, like friendly yea and nay.
My hand, the secretary of my mind,
Leaves thee these lines upon the poplar's rind.
80
On seeing the Picture of Miss R--- G---N. Drawn by Mr. Varelst, of Threadneedle-street.
Shall candid Prior, in immortal lays,Thy ancestor with generous ardour praise;
Who, with his pencil's animating pow'r,
In liveliest dies immortaliz'd a flow'r,
And shall no just, impartial bard be found,
Thy more exalted merits to resound?
Who giv'st to beauty a perpetual bloom,
And lively grace, which age shall not consume;
Who mak'st the speaking eyes with meaning roll,
And paint'st at once the body and the soul.
An Invitation to Mrs. Tyler, a Clergyman's Lady, to dine upon a Couple of Ducks on the Anniversary of the Authors Wedding-Day.
Had I the pen of Sir John Suckling,And could find out a rhyme for duckling,
Why dearest madam, in that case,
I would invite you to a brace.
Haste, gentle shepherdess, away,
To morrow is the gaudy day,
81
Nancy resign'd her golden charms,
And set my am'rous inclination
Upon the bus'ness of the nation.
Industrious Moll, with many a pluck,
Unwings the plumage of each duck;
And as she sits a brooding o'er,
You'd think she'd hatch a couple more.
Come, all ye Muses, come and sing—
Shall we then roast them on a string?
Or shall we make our dirty jilt run,
To beg a roast of Mrs. Bilton?
But to delight you more with these,
We shall provide a dish of pease:
On ducks alone we'll not regale you,
We'll wine, we'll punch you, and we'll ale you.
To-morrow is the gaudy day,
Haste, gentle shepherdess, away.
To MISS S--- P---E.
Fair partner of my Nancy's heart,Who feel'st, like me, love's poignant dart;
Who at a frown can'st pant for pain,
And at a smile revive again;
82
You're jealous, e'en of constancy;
Born hopes and fears and doubts to prove,
And each vicissitude of love!
To this my humble suit attend,
And be my advocate and friend.
So may just heav'n your goodness bless,
Successful ev'n in my success!
Oft at the silent hour of night,
When bold intrusion wings her flight,
My fair, from care and bus'ness free,
Unbosoms all her soul to thee,
Each hope with which her bosom heaves,
Each tender wish her heart receives
To thee are intimately known,
And all her thoughts become thy own:
Then take the blessed blissful hour,
To try love's sweet infectious pow'r;
And let your sister souls conspire
In love's, as friendship's calmer sire.
So may thy transport equal mine,
Nay—every joy be doubly thine!
So may the youth, whom you prefer,
Be all I wish to be to her.
83
After Dining with Mr. MURRAY.
O thou, of British Orators the chiefThat were, or are in being, or belief;
All eminence and goodness as thou art,
Accept the gratitude of POET SMART,—
The meanest of the tuneful train as far,
As thou transcend'st the brightest at the bar.
84
INSCRIPTIONS ON AN ÆOLIAN HARP.
On one End.
Partem aliquam, O venti, divûm referatis ad aures.On one Side
Salve, quæ fingis proprio modulamine carmen,Salve, Memnoniam vox imitata lyram!
Dulcè O divinùmque sonas sine pollicis ictu,
Dives naturæ simplicis, artis inops!
Talia, quæ incultæ dant mellea labra puellæ,
Talia sunt faciles quæ modulantur aves.
On the other Side.
HAIL heav'nly harp, where Memnon's skill is shewn,That charm'st the ear with musick all thine own!
Which tho' untouch'd, can'st rapt'rous strains impart.
O rich of genuine nature, free from art!
Such the wild warblings of the sylvan throng,
So simply sweet the untaught virgin's song,
On the other End.
Christophorus Smart Henrico Bell Armigero.85
The Long-Nosed Fair.
ONCE on a time I fair Dorinda kiss'd,Whose nose was too distinguish'd to be miss'd;
My dear, says I, I fain would kiss you closer,
But tho' your lips say aye—your nose says, no, Sir.—
The maid was equally to fun inclin'd,
And plac'd her lovely lilly-hand behind;
Here, swain, she cry'd, may'st thou securely kiss,
Where there's no nose to interrupt thy bliss.
90
The PRETTY CHAMBERMAID:
In Imitation of Ne sit Ancillæ tibi amor pudori, &c. Of Horace.
I
Collin, oh! cease thy friend to blame,Who entertains a servile flame.
Chide not—believe me, 'tis no more
Than great Achilles did before,
Who nobler, prouder far than he is,
Ador'd his chambermaid Briseis.
II
The thund'ring Ajax Venus laysIn love's inextricable maze.
His slave Tecmessa makes him yield,
Now mistress of the sevenfold shield.
Atrides with his captive play'd,
Who always shar'd the bed she made.
III
'Twas at the ten years siege, when allThe Trojans fell in Hector's fall,
When Helen rul'd the day and night,
And made them love and made them fight;
Each hero kiss'd his maid, and why,
Tho' I'm no hero, may not I?
92
IV
Who knows? Polly, perhaps, may beA piece of ruin'd royalty.
She has (I cannot doubt it) been
The daughter of some mighty queen;
But fate's irremeable doom
Has chang'd her sceptre for a broom.
V
Ah! cease to think it—how can she,So generous, charming, fond, and free,
So lib'ral of her little store,
So heedless of amassing more,
Have one drop of plebeian blood
In all the circulating flood?
VI
But you, by carping at my fire,Do but betray your own desire—
Howe'er proceed—made tame by years,
You'll raise in me no jealous fears.
You've not one spark of love alive,
For, thanks to heav'n, you're forty-five.
96
The famous general EPITAPH
From DEMOSTHENES.
These for their country's cause were sheath'd in armsAnd all base imputations dare despise;
And nobly struck with Glory's dreadful charms,
Made death their aim, eternity their prize.
For never could their mighty spirits yield,
To see themselves and country-men in chains;
And earth's kind bosom hides them in the field
Of battle, so the WILL SUPREME ordains;
To conquer chance and error's not reveal'd,
For mortals sure mortality remains.
163
THE HORATIAN CANONS OF FRIENDSHIP.
Nay, 'tis the same with all th'affected crew
Of singing men and singing women too:
Do they not set their catcalls up of course?
The King himself may ask them till he's hoarse;
But wou'd you crack their windpipes and their lungs,
The certain way's to bid them hold their tongues.
'Twas thus with Minum—Minum one wou'd think,
My Lord Mayor might have govern'd with a wink.
Yet did the Magistrate e'er condescend
To ask a song, as kindsman or as friend,
The urchin coin'd excuses to get off,
'Twas—hem—the devil take this whoreson cough.
But wait awhile, and catch him in the glee,
He'd roar the Lion in the lowest key,
Or strain the morning Lark quite up to G.
Act Beard, or Lowe, and shew his tuneful art
From the plumb-pudding down to the desert.
Of singing men and singing women too:
Do they not set their catcalls up of course?
The King himself may ask them till he's hoarse;
But wou'd you crack their windpipes and their lungs,
The certain way's to bid them hold their tongues.
'Twas thus with Minum—Minum one wou'd think,
My Lord Mayor might have govern'd with a wink.
164
To ask a song, as kindsman or as friend,
The urchin coin'd excuses to get off,
'Twas—hem—the devil take this whoreson cough.
But wait awhile, and catch him in the glee,
He'd roar the Lion in the lowest key,
Or strain the morning Lark quite up to G.
Act Beard, or Lowe, and shew his tuneful art
From the plumb-pudding down to the desert.
Never on earth was such a various elf,
He every day possess'd a different self;
Sometimes he'd scow'r along the streets like wind,
As if some fifty bailiffs were behind;
At other times he'd sadly, saunt'ring crawl,
As tho' he led the hearse, or held the sable pall.
He every day possess'd a different self;
Sometimes he'd scow'r along the streets like wind,
As if some fifty bailiffs were behind;
At other times he'd sadly, saunt'ring crawl,
As tho' he led the hearse, or held the sable pall.
Now for promotion he was all on flame,
And ev'ry sentence from St. James's came.
He'd brag how Sir John --- met him in the Strand,
And how his Grace of --- took him by the hand;
How the Prince saw him at the last review,
And ask'd who was that pretty youth in blue?
Now wou'd he praise the peaceful sylvan scene,
The healthful cottage, and the golden mean.
Now wou'd he cry, contented let me dwell
Safe in the harbour of my college cell;
No foreign cooks, nor livry'd servants nigh,
Let me with comfort eat my mutton pye;
While my pint-bottle, op'd by help of fork,
With wine enough to navigate a cork,
My sober solitary meal shall crown,
To study edge the mind, and drive the vapours down.
Yet, strange to tell, this wond'rous student lay
Snoring in bed for all the livelong day;
Night was his time for labour—in a word,
Never was man so cleverly absurd.
And ev'ry sentence from St. James's came.
He'd brag how Sir John --- met him in the Strand,
And how his Grace of --- took him by the hand;
165
And ask'd who was that pretty youth in blue?
Now wou'd he praise the peaceful sylvan scene,
The healthful cottage, and the golden mean.
Now wou'd he cry, contented let me dwell
Safe in the harbour of my college cell;
No foreign cooks, nor livry'd servants nigh,
Let me with comfort eat my mutton pye;
While my pint-bottle, op'd by help of fork,
With wine enough to navigate a cork,
My sober solitary meal shall crown,
To study edge the mind, and drive the vapours down.
Yet, strange to tell, this wond'rous student lay
Snoring in bed for all the livelong day;
Night was his time for labour—in a word,
Never was man so cleverly absurd.
But here a friend of mine turns up his nose,
And you (he cries) are perfect, I suppose:
Perfect! not I (pray, gentle Sir, forbear)
In this good age, when vices are so rare,
I plead humanity, and claim my share.
Who has not faults? great Marlborough had one,
Nor Chesterfield is spotless, nor the Sun.
Grubworm was railing at his friend Tom Queer,
When Witwoud thus reproach'd him with a sneer,
Have you no flaws, who are so prone to snub,
I have—but I forgive myself, quoth Grub.
This is a servile selfishness, a fault
Which Justice scarce can punish, as she ought.
Blind as a poking, dirt-compelling mole,
To all that stains thy own polluted soul,
Yet each small failing spy'st in other men,
Spy'st with the quickness of an eagle's ken.
Tho' strong resentment rarely lag behind,
And all thy virulence be paid in kind.
And you (he cries) are perfect, I suppose:
166
In this good age, when vices are so rare,
I plead humanity, and claim my share.
Who has not faults? great Marlborough had one,
Nor Chesterfield is spotless, nor the Sun.
Grubworm was railing at his friend Tom Queer,
When Witwoud thus reproach'd him with a sneer,
Have you no flaws, who are so prone to snub,
I have—but I forgive myself, quoth Grub.
This is a servile selfishness, a fault
Which Justice scarce can punish, as she ought.
Blind as a poking, dirt-compelling mole,
To all that stains thy own polluted soul,
Yet each small failing spy'st in other men,
Spy'st with the quickness of an eagle's ken.
Tho' strong resentment rarely lag behind,
And all thy virulence be paid in kind.
Philander's temper's violent, nor fits
The wond'rous waggishness of modern wits;
His cap's awry, all ragged is his gown,
And (wicked rogue!) he wears his stockings down;
But h'as a soul ingenuous as his face,
To you a friend, and all the human race;
Genius, that all the depths of learning sounds,
And generosity, that knows no bounds.
In fruits like these if the good youth excel,
Let them compensate for the aukward shell,
Sift then yourself, I say, and sift again,
Glean the pernicious tares from out the grain;
And ask thy heart if Custom, Nature's heir,
Hath sown no undiscover'd fern-feed there.
This be our standard then, on this we rest,
Nor search the Casuists for another test.
The wond'rous waggishness of modern wits;
167
And (wicked rogue!) he wears his stockings down;
But h'as a soul ingenuous as his face,
To you a friend, and all the human race;
Genius, that all the depths of learning sounds,
And generosity, that knows no bounds.
In fruits like these if the good youth excel,
Let them compensate for the aukward shell,
Sift then yourself, I say, and sift again,
Glean the pernicious tares from out the grain;
And ask thy heart if Custom, Nature's heir,
Hath sown no undiscover'd fern-feed there.
This be our standard then, on this we rest,
Nor search the Casuists for another test.
Let's be like lovers gloriously deceiv'd,
And each good man a better still believ'd;
E'en Celia's wart Strephon will not neglect,
But praises, kisses, loves the dear defect.
Oh! that in friendship we were thus to blame,
And ermin'd candour, tender of our fame,
Wou'd cloath the honest error with an honest name!
Be we then still to those we hold most dear,
Fatherly fond, and tenderly severe.
The sire, whose son squints forty thousand ways,
Finds in his features mighty room for praise:
Ah! born (he cries) to make the ladies sigh,
Jacky, thou hast an am'rous cast o'th' eye.
Another's child's abortive—he believes
Nature most perfect in diminutives;
And men of ev'ry rank, with one accord
Salute each crooked rascal with My Lord.
(For bandy legs, hump-back, and knocking knee,
Are all excessive signs of Q---ty.)
Thus let us judge our friends—if Scrub subsist
Too meanly, Scrub is an œconomist;
And if Tom Tinkle is full loud and pert,
He aims at wit, and does it to divert.
Largus is apt to bluster, but you'll find
'Tis owing to his magnitude of mind:
Lollius is passionate, and loves a whore,
Spirit and constitution!—nothing more—
Ned to a bullying peer is ty'd for life,
And in commendam holds a scolding wife;
Slave to a fool's caprice, and woman's will;
But patience, patience is a virtue still!
Ask of Chamont a kingdom for a fish,
He'll give you three rather than spoil a dish;
Nor pride, nor luxury, is in the case,
But Hospitality—an't please your Grace.
Should a great gen'ral give a drab a pension—
Meanness!—the devil—'tis perfect condescension.
Such ways make many friends, and make friends long,
Or else my good friend Horace reasons wrong.
And each good man a better still believ'd;
168
But praises, kisses, loves the dear defect.
Oh! that in friendship we were thus to blame,
And ermin'd candour, tender of our fame,
Wou'd cloath the honest error with an honest name!
Be we then still to those we hold most dear,
Fatherly fond, and tenderly severe.
The sire, whose son squints forty thousand ways,
Finds in his features mighty room for praise:
Ah! born (he cries) to make the ladies sigh,
Jacky, thou hast an am'rous cast o'th' eye.
Another's child's abortive—he believes
Nature most perfect in diminutives;
And men of ev'ry rank, with one accord
Salute each crooked rascal with My Lord.
(For bandy legs, hump-back, and knocking knee,
Are all excessive signs of Q---ty.)
Thus let us judge our friends—if Scrub subsist
Too meanly, Scrub is an œconomist;
And if Tom Tinkle is full loud and pert,
He aims at wit, and does it to divert.
169
'Tis owing to his magnitude of mind:
Lollius is passionate, and loves a whore,
Spirit and constitution!—nothing more—
Ned to a bullying peer is ty'd for life,
And in commendam holds a scolding wife;
Slave to a fool's caprice, and woman's will;
But patience, patience is a virtue still!
Ask of Chamont a kingdom for a fish,
He'll give you three rather than spoil a dish;
Nor pride, nor luxury, is in the case,
But Hospitality—an't please your Grace.
Should a great gen'ral give a drab a pension—
Meanness!—the devil—'tis perfect condescension.
Such ways make many friends, and make friends long,
Or else my good friend Horace reasons wrong.
But we alas! e'en virtuous deeds invert,
And into vice misconstrue all desert.
See we a man of modesty and merit,
Sober and meek—we swear he has no spirit;
We call him stupid, who with caution breaks
His silence, and will think before he speaks.
Fidelio treads the path of life with care,
And eyes his footsteps; for he fears a snare.
His wary way still scandal misapplies,
And calls him subtle, who's no more than wise.
If any man is unconstrain'd and free,
As oft, my Lælius, I have been to thee,
When rudely to thy room I chance to scour,
And interrupt thee in the studious hour;
From Coke and Littleton thy mind unbend,
With more familiar nonsense of a friend;
Talk of my friendship, and of thy desert,
Shew thee my works, and candidly impart
At once the product of my head and heart,
Nasutus calls me fool, and clownish bear,
Nor (but for perfect candour) stops he there.
And into vice misconstrue all desert.
See we a man of modesty and merit,
Sober and meek—we swear he has no spirit;
We call him stupid, who with caution breaks
His silence, and will think before he speaks.
170
And eyes his footsteps; for he fears a snare.
His wary way still scandal misapplies,
And calls him subtle, who's no more than wise.
If any man is unconstrain'd and free,
As oft, my Lælius, I have been to thee,
When rudely to thy room I chance to scour,
And interrupt thee in the studious hour;
From Coke and Littleton thy mind unbend,
With more familiar nonsense of a friend;
Talk of my friendship, and of thy desert,
Shew thee my works, and candidly impart
At once the product of my head and heart,
Nasutus calls me fool, and clownish bear,
Nor (but for perfect candour) stops he there.
Ah! what unthinking, heedless things are men,
T'enact such laws as must themselves condemn?
In every human soul some vices spring
(For fair perfection is no mortal thing)
Whoe'er is with the fewest faults endu'd,
Is but the best of what cannot be good.
Then view me, friend, in an impartial light,
Survey the good and bad, the black and white;
And if you find me, Sir, upon the whole,
To be an honest and ingenuous soul,
By the same rule I'll measure you again,
And give you your allowance to a grain.
'Tis friendly and 'tis fair, on either hand,
To grant th'indulgence we ourselves demand.
If on your hump we cast a fav'ring eye,
You must excuse all those who are awry.
In short, since vice or folly, great or small,
Is more or less inherent in us all,
Whoe'er offends, our censure let us guide,
With a strong bias to the candid side;
Nor (as the stoicks did in ancient times)
Rank little foibles with enormous crimes.
T'enact such laws as must themselves condemn?
171
(For fair perfection is no mortal thing)
Whoe'er is with the fewest faults endu'd,
Is but the best of what cannot be good.
Then view me, friend, in an impartial light,
Survey the good and bad, the black and white;
And if you find me, Sir, upon the whole,
To be an honest and ingenuous soul,
By the same rule I'll measure you again,
And give you your allowance to a grain.
'Tis friendly and 'tis fair, on either hand,
To grant th'indulgence we ourselves demand.
If on your hump we cast a fav'ring eye,
You must excuse all those who are awry.
In short, since vice or folly, great or small,
Is more or less inherent in us all,
Whoe'er offends, our censure let us guide,
With a strong bias to the candid side;
172
Rank little foibles with enormous crimes.
If, when your butler, e'er he brings a dish,
Should lick his fingers, or shou'd drop a fish,
Or from the side-board filch a cup of ale,
Enrag'd you send the puny thief to gaol;
You'd be (methink) as infamous an oaf,
As that immense portentous scoundrel--- .
Yet worse by far (if worse at all can be)
In folly and iniquity is he;
Who, for some trivial, social, well-meant joke,
Which candour shou'd forget as soon as spoke,
Wou'd shun his friend, neglectful and unkind,
As if old Parson Packthread was behind:
Who drags up all his visitors by force,
And, without mercy, reads them his discourse.
Should lick his fingers, or shou'd drop a fish,
Or from the side-board filch a cup of ale,
Enrag'd you send the puny thief to gaol;
You'd be (methink) as infamous an oaf,
As that immense portentous scoundrel--- .
Yet worse by far (if worse at all can be)
In folly and iniquity is he;
Who, for some trivial, social, well-meant joke,
Which candour shou'd forget as soon as spoke,
Wou'd shun his friend, neglectful and unkind,
As if old Parson Packthread was behind:
Who drags up all his visitors by force,
And, without mercy, reads them his discourse.
173
If sick at heart, and heavy at the head,
My drunken friend should reel betimes to bed;
And in the morn, with affluent discharge,
Should sign and seal his residence at large;
Or should he in some passionate debate,
By way of instance, break an earthen plate;
Wou'd I forsake him for a piece of delph?
No—not for China's wide domain itself.
If toys like these were cause of real grief,
What shou'd I do, or whither seek relief,
Suppose him perjur'd, faithless, pimp, or thief?
Away—a foolish knavish tribe you are,
Who falsely put all vices on a par.
From this fair reason her assent withdraws,
E'en sordid interest gives up the cause,
That mother of our customs and our laws.
When first yon golden sun array'd the east,
Small was the difference 'twixt man and beast;
With hands, with nails, with teeth, with clubs they fought,
'Till malice was improv'd, & deadlier weapons wrought.
Language, at length, and words experience found,
And sense obtain'd a vehicle in sound.
Then wholesome laws were fram'd, and towns were built,
And justice seiz'd the lawless vagrants guilt;
And theft, adultery, and fornication
Were punish'd much, forsooth, tho' much in fashion:
My drunken friend should reel betimes to bed;
And in the morn, with affluent discharge,
Should sign and seal his residence at large;
Or should he in some passionate debate,
By way of instance, break an earthen plate;
Wou'd I forsake him for a piece of delph?
No—not for China's wide domain itself.
If toys like these were cause of real grief,
What shou'd I do, or whither seek relief,
Suppose him perjur'd, faithless, pimp, or thief?
Away—a foolish knavish tribe you are,
Who falsely put all vices on a par.
From this fair reason her assent withdraws,
E'en sordid interest gives up the cause,
That mother of our customs and our laws.
174
Small was the difference 'twixt man and beast;
With hands, with nails, with teeth, with clubs they fought,
'Till malice was improv'd, & deadlier weapons wrought.
Language, at length, and words experience found,
And sense obtain'd a vehicle in sound.
Then wholesome laws were fram'd, and towns were built,
And justice seiz'd the lawless vagrants guilt;
And theft, adultery, and fornication
Were punish'd much, forsooth, tho' much in fashion:
For long before fair Helen's fatal charms
Had many a------
Had many a------
Hiatus magnus lacrymabilis
set the world in arms.
But kindly kept by no historian's care,
They all goodlack, have perish'd to an hair.
But be that as it may, yet in all climes,
There's diff'rent punishment for diff'rent crimes.
Hold, blockhead, hold—this sure is not the way,
For all alike I'd lash, and all I'd slay,
Cries W---n, if I'd sovereign sway.
Have sov'reign sway, and in imperial robe,
With fury sultanate o'er half the globe.
Meanwhile, if I from each indulgent friend,
Obtain remission, when I chance t'offend,
Why, in return, I'll make the balance even,
And, for forgiving, they shall be forgiven.
175
They all goodlack, have perish'd to an hair.
But be that as it may, yet in all climes,
There's diff'rent punishment for diff'rent crimes.
Hold, blockhead, hold—this sure is not the way,
For all alike I'd lash, and all I'd slay,
Cries W---n, if I'd sovereign sway.
Have sov'reign sway, and in imperial robe,
With fury sultanate o'er half the globe.
Meanwhile, if I from each indulgent friend,
Obtain remission, when I chance t'offend,
Why, in return, I'll make the balance even,
And, for forgiving, they shall be forgiven.
With zeal I'll love, be courteous e'en to strife,
More blest than Emperors in private life.
More blest than Emperors in private life.
176
An occasional Prologue and Epilogue to Othello, as it was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, on Thursday the 7th of March, 1751, by Persons of Distinction for their Diversion.
[While mercenary actors tread the stage]
While mercenary actors tread the stage,
And hireling scribblers lash or lull the age,
Our's be the task t'instruct, and entertain,
Without one thought of glory or of gain.
Virtue's her own—from no external cause—
She gives, and she demands the self-applause:
Home to her breast she brings the heart-felt bays,
Heedless alike of profit, and of praise.
This now perhaps is wrong—yet this we know,
'Twas sense and truth a century ago:
When Britain with transcendant glory crown'd,
For high atchievements, as for wit renown'd;
Cull'd from each growing grace the purest part,
And cropt the flowers from every blooming art,
Our noblest youth would then embrace the task
Of comic humour, or the mystic masque.
'Twas theirs t'incourage worth, and give to bards
What now is spent in boxing and in cards:
Good sense their pleasure—Virtue still their guide,
And English magnanimity—their pride.
Methinks I see with Fancy's magic eye,
The shade of Shakespeare, in yon azure sky.
On yon high cloud behold the bard advance,
Piercing all Nature with a single glance:
In various attitudes around him stand
The Passions, waiting for his dread command.
First kneeling Love before his feet appears,
And musically sighing melts in tears.
Near him fell Jealousy with fury burns,
And into storms the amorous breathings turns;
Then Hope with heavenward look, and Joy draws near,
While palsied Terror trembles in the rear.
And hireling scribblers lash or lull the age,
Our's be the task t'instruct, and entertain,
Without one thought of glory or of gain.
Virtue's her own—from no external cause—
She gives, and she demands the self-applause:
Home to her breast she brings the heart-felt bays,
Heedless alike of profit, and of praise.
This now perhaps is wrong—yet this we know,
'Twas sense and truth a century ago:
When Britain with transcendant glory crown'd,
For high atchievements, as for wit renown'd;
Cull'd from each growing grace the purest part,
And cropt the flowers from every blooming art,
Our noblest youth would then embrace the task
Of comic humour, or the mystic masque.
'Twas theirs t'incourage worth, and give to bards
What now is spent in boxing and in cards:
Good sense their pleasure—Virtue still their guide,
And English magnanimity—their pride.
Methinks I see with Fancy's magic eye,
The shade of Shakespeare, in yon azure sky.
177
Piercing all Nature with a single glance:
In various attitudes around him stand
The Passions, waiting for his dread command.
First kneeling Love before his feet appears,
And musically sighing melts in tears.
Near him fell Jealousy with fury burns,
And into storms the amorous breathings turns;
Then Hope with heavenward look, and Joy draws near,
While palsied Terror trembles in the rear.
Such Shakespeare's train of horror and delight,
And such we hope to introduce to-night.
But if, tho' just in thought, we fail in fact,
And good intention ripens not to act,
Weigh our design, your censure still defer,
When Truth's in view 'tis glorious e'en to err.
And such we hope to introduce to-night.
But if, tho' just in thought, we fail in fact,
And good intention ripens not to act,
Weigh our design, your censure still defer,
When Truth's in view 'tis glorious e'en to err.
EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Desdemona.
True woman to the last—my perorationI come to speak in spite of suffocation;
To shew the present and the age to come,
We may be choak'd, but never can be dumb.
Well now methinks I see you all run out,
And haste away to Lady Bragwell's rout;
178
Of those who nothing think, and all things say.
Prudella first in parody begins,
(For Nonsense and Buffoonery are twins)
“Can beaux the court for theatres exchange?
“I swear by Heaven 'tis strange, 'tis passing strange;
“And very whimsical, and mighty dull,
“And pitiful, and wond'rous pitiful:
“I wish I had not heard it—blessed dame!
Whene'er she speaks her audience wish the same.
Next Neddy Nicely—“Fye, O fye, good lack,
“A nasty man to make his face all black.”
Then Lady Stiffneck shews her pious rage,
And wonders we shou'd act—upon a stage.
“Why, ma'am, says Coquetilla, a disgrace?
“Merit in any form may shew her face:
“In this dull age the male things ought to play,
“To teach them what to do, and what to say.”
In short, they all with diff'rent cavils cram us,
And only are unanimous to damn us.
But still there are a fair judicious few,
Who judge unbiass'd, and with candour view;
Who value honesty, tho' clad in buff,
And wit, tho' dress'd in an old English ruff.
Behold them here—I beaming sense decry,
Shot from the living lustre of each eye.
Such meaning smiles each blooming face adorn,
As deck the pleasure-painted brow of morn;
179
Tho' rich to rapture, and above compare,
Is, ev'n with all the skill of heav'n design'd,
But an imperfect image of their mind;
While chastity unblemish'd and unbrib'd
Adds a majestic mien that scorns to be describ'd:
Such, we will vaunt, and only such as these,
'Tis our ambition, and our fame to please.
EPILOGUE TO THE APPRENTICE.
(Enters reading a Play Bill)A very pretty bill—as I'm alive!
The part of—nobody—by Mrs. Clive!
A paltry scribbling fool—to leave me out—
He'll say, perhaps—he thought I cou'd not spout.
Malice and envy to the last degree!
And why?—I wrote a farce as well as he,
And fairly ventur'd it—without the aid
Of prologue dress'd in black, and face in masquerade;
Oh! Pit—have pity—see how I'm dismay'd!
Poor soul! this canting stuff will never do,
Unless like Bayes he brings his hangman too.
But granting that from these same obsequies,
Some pickings to our bard in black arise;
180
As Pallas turns to feast—Lardella's bier;
Yet 'twould have been a better scheme by half
T'have thrown his weeds aside, and learnt with me to laugh.
I cou'd have shewn him, had he been inclin'd,
A spouting junto of the female kind.
There dwells a milliner in yonder row,
Well dress'd, full voic'd, and nobly built for shew,
Who, when in rage she scolds at Sue and Sarah,
Damn'd, damn'd dissembler!—thinks she more than Zara.
She has a daughter too that deals in lace.
And sings—O ponder well—and Chevy Chase,
And fain wou'd fill the fair Ophelia's place.
And in her cock'd up hat, and gown of camblet,
Presumes on something—touching the Lord Hamlet.
A cousin too she has with squinting eyes,
With wadling gait, and voice like London Cries;
Who for the stage too short by half a story,
Acts Lady Townly—thus—in all her glory.
And while she's traversing her scanty room,
Cries—“Lord! my lord, what can I do at home!”
In short, we've girls enough for all the fellows,
The ranting, whining, starting and the jealous,
The Hotspurs, Romeos, Hamlets, and Othelles.
Oh! little do these silly people know,
What dreadful trials—actors undergo.
181
Am scolding here from morning until night.
Then take advice from me, ye giddy things,
Ye royal milliners, ye apron'd kings;
Young men beware, and shun our slippery ways,
Study arithmetic, and shun our plays;
And you, ye girls, let not our tinsel train
Enchant your eyes, and turn your madd'ning brain;
Be timely wise, for oh! be sure of this;
A shop with virtue, is the height of bliss.
EPILOGUE Spoken by Mr. Shuter, at Covent Garden, after the Play of the CONSCIOUS LOVERS, acted for the Benefit of the Middlesex Hospital for Lying-in Women, 1755, in the Character of a Man-Midwife.
(Enters with a Child)
Whoe'er begot thee, has no cause to blush:
Thou'rt a brave chopping boy, (child cries)
nay, hush! hush! hush!
A workman, faith! a man of rare discretion,
A friend to Britain, and to our profession:
With face so chubby, and with looks so glad,
O rare roast beef of England—here's a lad! (Shews him to the Company.)
(Child makes a noise again)
Nay if you once begin to puke and cough,
Go to the nurse. Within!—here take him off.
Well, heav'n be prais'd, it is a peopling age,
Thanks to the bar, the pulpit, and the stage;
But not to th'army—that's not worth a farthing,
The captains go too much to Covent Garden,
Spoil many a girl,—but seldom make a mother,
They foil us one way—but we have them t'other. (Shakes a box of pills.)
The nation prospers by such joyous souls,
Hence smokes my table, hence my chariot rolls.
Tho' some snug jobs, from surgery may spring,
Man-midwifry, man-midwifry's the thing!
Lean shou'd I be, e'en as my own anatomy,
By mere catharticks and by plain phlebotomy.
Well, besides gain, besides the pow'r to please,
Besides the music of such birds as these, (Shakes a purse.)
It is a joy refin'd, unmix'd and pure,
To hear the praises of the grateful poor.
This day comes honest Taffy to my house,
“Cot pless her, her has sav'd her poy and spouse,
“Hersav'd her Gwinnifrid, or death had swallow'd her,
“Tho' creat crand, creat crand crand child of Cadwallader.”
Cries Patrick Touzl'em, “I am bound to pray,
“You've sav'd my Sue in your same physick way,
“And further shall I thank you yesterday.”
Then Sawney came and thank'd me for my love,
(I very readily excus'd his glove)
He bless'd the mon, e'en by St. Andrew's cross,
“Who cur'd his bonny bearn and blithsome lass.”
Thou'rt a brave chopping boy, (child cries)
nay, hush! hush! hush!
A workman, faith! a man of rare discretion,
A friend to Britain, and to our profession:
182
O rare roast beef of England—here's a lad! (Shews him to the Company.)
(Child makes a noise again)
Nay if you once begin to puke and cough,
Go to the nurse. Within!—here take him off.
Well, heav'n be prais'd, it is a peopling age,
Thanks to the bar, the pulpit, and the stage;
But not to th'army—that's not worth a farthing,
The captains go too much to Covent Garden,
Spoil many a girl,—but seldom make a mother,
They foil us one way—but we have them t'other. (Shakes a box of pills.)
The nation prospers by such joyous souls,
Hence smokes my table, hence my chariot rolls.
Tho' some snug jobs, from surgery may spring,
Man-midwifry, man-midwifry's the thing!
Lean shou'd I be, e'en as my own anatomy,
By mere catharticks and by plain phlebotomy.
Well, besides gain, besides the pow'r to please,
Besides the music of such birds as these, (Shakes a purse.)
It is a joy refin'd, unmix'd and pure,
To hear the praises of the grateful poor.
This day comes honest Taffy to my house,
“Cot pless her, her has sav'd her poy and spouse,
“Hersav'd her Gwinnifrid, or death had swallow'd her,
“Tho' creat crand, creat crand crand child of Cadwallader.”
183
“You've sav'd my Sue in your same physick way,
“And further shall I thank you yesterday.”
Then Sawney came and thank'd me for my love,
(I very readily excus'd his glove)
He bless'd the mon, e'en by St. Andrew's cross,
“Who cur'd his bonny bearn and blithsome lass.”
But merriment and mimickry apart,
Thanks to each bounteous hand and gen'rous heart
Of those, who tenderly take pity's part;
Who in good-natur'd acts can sweetly grieve,
Swift to lament, but swifter to relieve.
Thanks to the lovely fair ones, types of heaven,
Who raise and beautify the bounty given;
But chief to him in whom distress confides,
Who o'er this noble plan so gloriously presides.
Thanks to each bounteous hand and gen'rous heart
Of those, who tenderly take pity's part;
Who in good-natur'd acts can sweetly grieve,
Swift to lament, but swifter to relieve.
Thanks to the lovely fair ones, types of heaven,
Who raise and beautify the bounty given;
But chief to him in whom distress confides,
Who o'er this noble plan so gloriously presides.
| Poems (1791) | |