University of Virginia Library

CANTO II.

How humble, and how complaisant,
Is a proud Man reduc'd to Want!
With what a silly, hanging Face,
He bears his unforeseen Disgrace!
His Spirits flag, his Pulse beats low,
The Gods, and all the World his Foe;
To thriving Knaves a Ridicule,
A Butt to ev'ry wealthy Fool.
For where is Courage, Wit, or Sense,
When a poor Rake has lost his Pence?
Let all the Learn'd say what they can,
'Tis ready Money makes the Man;
Commands Respect where'er we go,
And gives a Grace to all we do.
With such Reflections, Frank distress'd,
The Horrors of his Soul express'd:
Contempt, the Pasket, and a Jayl,
By turns his restless Mind assail;
Aghast the dismal Scene he flies,
And Death grows pleasing in his Eyes:
For since his Rhino was all flown,
To the last solitary Crown,
Who wou'd not like a Roman dare,
To leave that World he cou'd not share?
The Pistol on his Table lay,
And Death fled hov'ring o'er his Prey;
There wanted nothing now to do,
But touch the Trigger, and adieu.
As he was saying some short Pray'rs,
He heard a wheezing on his Stairs,
And looking out, his Aunt appears;
Who from Moor-Fields breathless, and lame,
To see her graceless Godson came:
The Salutations being past,
Coughing, and out of Wind, at last
In his great Chair she took her Place,
How does your Brother? Is my Niece
Well marry'd? When will Robin settle?
He answer'd all things to a Tittle;
Gave such Content in ev'ry part,
He gain'd the good old Beldam's Heart.
“Godson, (said she) alas! I know
“Matters with you are but so so:
“You're come to Town I understand,
“To make your Fortune out of hand;
“Your Time, and Patrimony lost,
“To beg a Place, or buy a Post.
“Believe me, Godson, I'm your Friend;
“Of this great Town, this wicked End
“Is ripe for Judgment; Satan's Seat,
“The Sink of Sin, and Hell compleat.
“In ev'ry Street of Trulls a Troop,
“And ev'ry Cook-Wench wears a Hoop;
“Sodom was less deform'd with Vice,
“Lewdness of all kinds, Cards, and Dice.”
Frank blush'd: (which, by the way, was more
Than ever he had done before)
And own'd it was a wretched Place,
Unfit for any Child of Grace.
The good old Aunt o'er-joy'd to see
These Glimmerings of Sanctity;
“My Dear (said she) this Purse is yours,
“It cost me many painful Hours;
“Take it, improve it, and become
“By Art and Industry a Plumb.
“But leave, for shame, this impious Street,
“All over mark'd with cloven Feet;
“In our more holy Quarter live,
“Where both your Soul and Stock may thrive;
“Where righteous Citizens repair,
“And Heav'n, and Earth, the Godly share,
“Gain this by Jobbing, that by Pray'r.
“At Jonathan's go smoke a Pipe,
“Look very serious, dine on Tripe;
“Get early up, late close your Eyes,
“And leave no Stone unturn'd to rise;
“Then each good Day at Salter's-Hall
“Pray for a Blessing upon all.”
Lowly the ravish'd Panky bows,
While Joy sat smiling on his Brows;
And without scruple, in a trice,
He took her Money, and Advice.
Not an extravagant young Heir,
Beset with Duns, and in Despair,
When joyful Tidings reach his Ear,
And Dad retires by Heav'ns Commands,
To leave his Chink to better Hands;
Not wand'ring Sailors almost lost,
When they behold the wish'd-for Coast;
Not Culprit when the Knot is plac'd,
And kind Reprieve arrives in haste;
E'er felt a Joy in such excess,
As Frank reliev'd from this Distress.
A thousand Antick Tricks he play'd,
The Purse he kiss'd, swore, curs'd, and pray'd;
Counted the Pieces o'er and o'er,
And hugg'd his unexpected Store;
Built stately Castles in the Air,
Supp'd with the Great, enjoy'd the Fair;
Pick'd out his Title, and his Place,
Was scarce contented with Your Grace.
Strange Visions working in his Head,
Frantick, half mad, he stroles to bed;
Sleeps little, if he sleeps, he dreams
Of Scepters, and of Diadems.
“Fortune (said he) shall now no more
“Trick and deceive me as of yore:
“This Passport shall admittance gain,
“In spight of all the Jilt's Disdain:
“'Tis this the Tyrant's Pride disarms,
“And brings her blushing to my Arms;
“This golden Bough my Wish shall speed,
“And to th' Elysian Fields shall lead.”
The Morn scarce peep'd, but up he rose,
Impatient, huddled on his Clothes;
Call'd the next Coach, gave double Pay,
And to Change-Alley whirl'd away.
'Tis here Dame Fortune ev'ry day
Opens her Booth, and shows her Play;
Here laughing sits behind the Scene,
Dances her Puppets here unseen,
And turns her whimsical Machine.
Powel, with all his Wire and Wit,
To her great Genius must submit:
Exact at Twelve the Goddess shows,
And Fame aloud her Trumpet blows;
Harangues the Mob, with Shams, and Lyes,
And bids their Actions fall, or rise.
Old Chaos here his Throne regains,
And here in odd Confusion reigns;
All Order, all Distinction lost,
Now high, now low, the Fools are tost.
Here lucky Coxcombs vainly rear
Their giddy Heads, there in Despair
Sits humbled Pride, with down-cast Look,
Bankrupts restor'd, and Misers broke,
Strange Figures here our Eyes invade,
And the whole World in Masquerade;
A Carman in a Hat and Feather,
A Lord in Frize, his Breeches Leather:
Tom Whiplash in his Coach of State,
Drawn by the Tits he drove of late:
A Col'nel of the bold Train-Bands,
Selling his Equipage, and Lands.
Hard-by a Cobler bidding fair
For the Gold-Chain, and next L---d Mayor:
A Butcher blust'ring in the Croud,
Of his late purchas'd 'Scutcheon proud,
Retains his Cleaver for his Crest,
His Motto too beneath the rest,
Virtue, and Merit is a Jest.
Two Toasts with all their Trinkets gone,
Padding the Streets for Half-a-Crown:
A daggled Countess, and her Maid,
Her House-Rent, and her Slaves unpaid,
A Taylor's Wife in rich Brocade.
All Sects, all Partys, high, and low,
At Fortune's Shrine devoutly bow;
Nought can their ardent Zeal restrain,
Where each Man's Godliness is Gain.
From Taverns, Meeting-Houses, Stews,
Atheists, and Quakers, Bawds, and Jews,
Statesmen, and Fidlers, Beaux, and Porters,
Blue Aprons here, and there blue Garters.
As Human Race of old began
From Stones, and Clods, transform'd to Man,
So, from each Dunghil, strange Surprize!
In Troops the recent Gentry rise,
Of Mushroom Growth, they wildly stare,
And Ape the Great with aukward Air:
So Pinkethman upon the Stage,
Mounting his Ass in warlike Rage,
With simp'ring Dicky for his Page,
In Lee's mad Rant, with Monkey Face,
Burlesques the Prince of Ammon's Race.
Industrious Frank, among the rest,
Bought, sold, and cavill'd, baul'd, and press'd;
Lodg'd in a Garret on the spot,
Follow'd Instructions to a jot,
The praying Part alone forgot.
Learnt ev'ry dealing Term of Art,
And all th' ingenious Cant by heart;
Nor doubted but he soon should find
Dame Fortune complaisant, and kind.
After her oft he call'd aloud,
But still she vanish'd in the Croud;
Now with smooth Looks, and tempting Smiles,
The faithless Hypocrite beguiles;
Then with a cool, and scornful Air,
Bids the deluded Wretch despair;
Takes pet without the least pretence,
And wonders at his Insolence.
Thus with her fickle Humours vex'd,
And between Hopes, and Fears perplex'd;
His Patience quite worn out, at last
Resolves to throw one desperate Cast.
“'Tis vain (said he) to whine and wooe,
“'Tis one brisk Stroke the Work must do.
“Fortune is like a Widow won,
“And truckles to the Bold alone;
“I'll push at once, and venture all,
“At least, I shall with Honour fall.”
But curse upon the treach'rous Jade,
Who thus his Services repaid;
When now he thought the World his own,
He bought a Bear, and was undone.