 | Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose |  |
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SEASONABLE REPROOF:
OR, The Poetical Pillory.
A SATIRE. In the Manner of HORACE.
Amicus Plato, Amicus Socrates, sed magis Amica Veritas.
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To His Grace the DUKE of ARGYLE.
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Ask
Faronelli, 'please your Grace, to sing,
No, the cram'd Capon answers—no such Thing:
Shall I, who, being less than Man, am more;
Whom Beaux, Belles, Peers, and Senators adore;
For whose sweet Pipe the City's so forsaken
That, by Excisemen it might now be taken,
And great Sir Bob ride thro', and save his Bacon;
What! shall I sing when ask'd?—I'm no such Elf,
Not I, by Jove, tho' ask'd by George himself.
Yet, for that single End the Worm was bred;
Yet, by that single Means, both cloath'd and fed.
That Poitier Dance, if the whole Town should chuse,
The skipping Grashopper will straight refuse,
Tho' that alone must furnish him with Shoes.
No, the cram'd Capon answers—no such Thing:
Shall I, who, being less than Man, am more;
Whom Beaux, Belles, Peers, and Senators adore;
For whose sweet Pipe the City's so forsaken
That, by Excisemen it might now be taken,
And great Sir Bob ride thro', and save his Bacon;
What! shall I sing when ask'd?—I'm no such Elf,
Not I, by Jove, tho' ask'd by George himself.
Yet, for that single End the Worm was bred;
Yet, by that single Means, both cloath'd and fed.
That Poitier Dance, if the whole Town should chuse,
The skipping Grashopper will straight refuse,
Tho' that alone must furnish him with Shoes.
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Sleep, Britain, in thy State of Reprobation,
Thou mere Milch-cow to ev'ry foreign Nation!
Heaps upon Heaps thy Fair expire, alas!
Slain by the Jaw-bone of a warbling Ass:
Whilst Shoals of Locusts, spawn'd in Rome or France,
Gelt for a Song, or shrivel'd for a Dance,
O'er thy dup'd Sons usurp supreme Command,
And carry off the Fat of half the Land.
Thou mere Milch-cow to ev'ry foreign Nation!
Heaps upon Heaps thy Fair expire, alas!
Slain by the Jaw-bone of a warbling Ass:
Whilst Shoals of Locusts, spawn'd in Rome or France,
Gelt for a Song, or shrivel'd for a Dance,
O'er thy dup'd Sons usurp supreme Command,
And carry off the Fat of half the Land.
Such is the Vice of some, they make a Task
Of the least Favour that a Friend can ask;
Whilst others, ten times more provoking still,
Oblige you cruelly against your Will.
If hymning Harry Cary once begin,
Where shall I fly from his eternal Din?
In vain I plead the Head-ach, or the Spleen;
Blushing to shew so plainly what I mean,
For, stop his Mouth, still the suspended Note,
Eager for Vent, lives quav'ring in his Throat.
Of the least Favour that a Friend can ask;
Whilst others, ten times more provoking still,
Oblige you cruelly against your Will.
If hymning Harry Cary once begin,
Where shall I fly from his eternal Din?
In vain I plead the Head-ach, or the Spleen;
Blushing to shew so plainly what I mean,
For, stop his Mouth, still the suspended Note,
Eager for Vent, lives quav'ring in his Throat.
Beg blust'ring Aaron to recite no more;
Aaron straight steps between you and the Door,
Then mouths the same coarse Fustian o'er and o'er.
Verse behind Verse the fatal Entrance keep,
Whilst, in their Wombs, ten Thousand Nothings sleep.
Aaron straight steps between you and the Door,
Then mouths the same coarse Fustian o'er and o'er.
Verse behind Verse the fatal Entrance keep,
Whilst, in their Wombs, ten Thousand Nothings sleep.
Others again, and those not few, you'll find,
To both Extremes, alternately inclin'd.
Mortals, who're curst with Tempers so unev'n,
They're always under Ground, or above Heav'n;
Now they are this, now that, and just now t'other,
And no one Hour, in Conduct, has it's Brother.
To both Extremes, alternately inclin'd.
Mortals, who're curst with Tempers so unev'n,
They're always under Ground, or above Heav'n;
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And no one Hour, in Conduct, has it's Brother.
Lo! Plautus, who was yesterday so rough,
Clad in coarse Frieze, and plaister'd down with Snuff,
See how his Instant gaudy Trappings shine;
What Play-house Bard was ever seen so fine!
But this, not from his Humour flows, you'll say,
But mere Necessity;—for last Night lay
In Pawn, the Velvet which he wears to Day.
Clad in coarse Frieze, and plaister'd down with Snuff,
See how his Instant gaudy Trappings shine;
What Play-house Bard was ever seen so fine!
But this, not from his Humour flows, you'll say,
But mere Necessity;—for last Night lay
In Pawn, the Velvet which he wears to Day.
Perhaps so. —But his Grace would scorn that Plea;
Yet there as strange Disparity you see.
At Morn, in Valet's Guise, he scours the Park,
Known from his Valet by this only Mark,
That Tom will give his Betters way—his Grace
Runs his protub'rant Nose full in your Face;
At Noon, distinguish'd by the String and Star,
Lolling in drowsy Pomp, he's known from far,
Whilst Slaves by Dozens load his gilded Car.
Plac'd in the Senate, with a Peer-like Pride,
Stares round, takes Snuff, and cries—Pax, let's divide.
For why? He'd serve his King with all his Soul,
Before he goes to White's, or Hockley-Hole.
Yet there as strange Disparity you see.
At Morn, in Valet's Guise, he scours the Park,
Known from his Valet by this only Mark,
That Tom will give his Betters way—his Grace
Runs his protub'rant Nose full in your Face;
At Noon, distinguish'd by the String and Star,
Lolling in drowsy Pomp, he's known from far,
Whilst Slaves by Dozens load his gilded Car.
Plac'd in the Senate, with a Peer-like Pride,
Stares round, takes Snuff, and cries—Pax, let's divide.
For why? He'd serve his King with all his Soul,
Before he goes to White's, or Hockley-Hole.
Yet more;—This Inequality you'll find
Oft' in the best, and noblest of the Kind:
Tho' Reason's Lord, some ruling Passion's Tool,
The wisest Man, in some things, is a Fool.
Oft' in the best, and noblest of the Kind:
Tho' Reason's Lord, some ruling Passion's Tool,
The wisest Man, in some things, is a Fool.
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DECIUS, adorn'd with all that's Great and Good,
No Peer in Genius, tho' a Peer by Blood;
Whom Heav'n has condescended to afford
Ten Talents more than usual to a Lord:
Unrivall'd Wit, with Sense and Candor join'd,
Taste unaffected, Knowledge unconfin'd;
Politeness to Sincerity ally'd,
And Frankness guarded by a gen'rous Pride;
A Breast, where all the Social Virtues reign,
A Tongue that knows no Guile, a Hand no Stain;
Alas! Deluded by one darling Vice,
His Life's whole Bus'ness is a Box and Dice:
The Sharper's Blessing, and the Rook's rich Prey,
He games, O shameful Vigils! Night away,
Then damns the Dice, and snores it all the Day.
Good Heav'ns! Did Talents ere thus disagree?
Or Man thus differ from himself, as He?
No Peer in Genius, tho' a Peer by Blood;
Whom Heav'n has condescended to afford
Ten Talents more than usual to a Lord:
Unrivall'd Wit, with Sense and Candor join'd,
Taste unaffected, Knowledge unconfin'd;
Politeness to Sincerity ally'd,
And Frankness guarded by a gen'rous Pride;
A Breast, where all the Social Virtues reign,
A Tongue that knows no Guile, a Hand no Stain;
Alas! Deluded by one darling Vice,
His Life's whole Bus'ness is a Box and Dice:
The Sharper's Blessing, and the Rook's rich Prey,
He games, O shameful Vigils! Night away,
Then damns the Dice, and snores it all the Day.
Good Heav'ns! Did Talents ere thus disagree?
Or Man thus differ from himself, as He?
“But hold, Sir, have you then no Fault?” says one,
Yes, Sir,—But you and I o'erlook our own;
Were all oblig'd to practise what they teach,
Some warm sleek Clerks would still more seldom preach.
Stall-fed TARTUFF reclining in his Seat,
High heap'd his Board, himself brimfull of Meat,
Yawning, with Pain thus sleepy Silence broke,
And to his meagre Curates sagely spoke;
“My loving Brethren, we should rest content
“With the small Pittance gracious Heav'n has sent:
“'Tis better much to want, than much abound;
“Hunger and Thirst hereafter will be crown'd.
“If we've Prunella, which will hang together,
“Like the good Baptist, girt about with Leather;
“And Bread and Water, we should ne'er complain—
“Here, John, give me a—Bumper of Champaigne.”
Yes, Sir,—But you and I o'erlook our own;
Were all oblig'd to practise what they teach,
Some warm sleek Clerks would still more seldom preach.
Stall-fed TARTUFF reclining in his Seat,
High heap'd his Board, himself brimfull of Meat,
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And to his meagre Curates sagely spoke;
“My loving Brethren, we should rest content
“With the small Pittance gracious Heav'n has sent:
“'Tis better much to want, than much abound;
“Hunger and Thirst hereafter will be crown'd.
“If we've Prunella, which will hang together,
“Like the good Baptist, girt about with Leather;
“And Bread and Water, we should ne'er complain—
“Here, John, give me a—Bumper of Champaigne.”
But Heav'n forbid, you'll say, those Men should be
Stamp'd for the Standard of Humanity:
Who, with an Eagle's penetrating Ken,
And all the Serpent Rancour of a V***n,
A Brother's Mote will labour to descry,
Blind to the Beam in their own evil Eye.
Suppose good Rundle's social and sincere,
Void of the quaint Grimace, the guileful Sneer;
The Pride of Mind, with Lowliness profess'd,
The Sanctity of Brow instead of Breast:
The Spite at Heart with Smiles upon the Face,
The Want of Morals, with the Boast of Grace:
The Cant, the Cringe, the gloomy Buckram Air,
And all the powerless Forms which these Men wear:
Suppose he serves his Friend, forgives his Foe,
Which those smooth Pharisees would blush to do;
And such just Hospitality preserves,
That while He feasts, not any good Man starves:
Like his great Patron, gen'rously inclin'd
To mend, redress, and dignify his Kind;
Shall he, for this, be judg'd unfit to bear
The awful Crosier, or the Mitre wear?
No, tho' our rigid Bench denies him Place,
Hibernia gladly will the Gift embrace.
Happy Hibernia! still appointed Heir
To all those dangerous Virtues which we fear;
Whilst thou, false Sister! pour'st on us the while,
All the Macrays and Gasneys of thy Isle.
Stamp'd for the Standard of Humanity:
Who, with an Eagle's penetrating Ken,
And all the Serpent Rancour of a V***n,
A Brother's Mote will labour to descry,
Blind to the Beam in their own evil Eye.
Suppose good Rundle's social and sincere,
Void of the quaint Grimace, the guileful Sneer;
The Pride of Mind, with Lowliness profess'd,
The Sanctity of Brow instead of Breast:
The Spite at Heart with Smiles upon the Face,
The Want of Morals, with the Boast of Grace:
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And all the powerless Forms which these Men wear:
Suppose he serves his Friend, forgives his Foe,
Which those smooth Pharisees would blush to do;
And such just Hospitality preserves,
That while He feasts, not any good Man starves:
Like his great Patron, gen'rously inclin'd
To mend, redress, and dignify his Kind;
Shall he, for this, be judg'd unfit to bear
The awful Crosier, or the Mitre wear?
No, tho' our rigid Bench denies him Place,
Hibernia gladly will the Gift embrace.
Happy Hibernia! still appointed Heir
To all those dangerous Virtues which we fear;
Whilst thou, false Sister! pour'st on us the while,
All the Macrays and Gasneys of thy Isle.
“Why on our Bench, you'll cry, this general Sneer,
“Have we no shining Lights to guide us here?”
Yes, Sherlock, Hare, for noble Talents fam'd,
And hoary Hough, with Rev'rence ever nam'd:
Secker with Force of Sense and Virtue arm'd,
Who with his Life or Doctrine but is charm'd?
Unblemish'd Hoadly! lov'd by all, but those
Who're Virtue's, Wisdom's, Truth's, and Rundle's Foes.
Sure of their Hate, since not so Blind, as they;
For Owls and Batts abhor the Bird of Day:
What! own the Reason which God gave Mankind,
Was giv'n to prove God's Word, discern God's Mind;
That all true Faith is not on Ign'rance built,
Nor Thinking, in Heav'n's Sight, held mortal Guilt!
That common Sense with Christian Rites may join,
And Morals not prophane a sound Divine;
That Creeds can never alter Wrong to Right,
Nor Orthodoxy wash an Æthiop white:
What! preach Christ's Kingdom is not here below,
But far, far off, where They must never go!
Write Tartuff, V***n inform, rail W***r, rail,
Your Craft's in Danger if such Truths prevail.
What! make Integrity the Test—and next,
His Life a standing Sermon on his Text;
To be polite as good, humane as wise,
Whilst Charity sits smiling in his Eyes:
To frown on Vice, tho' ne'er so high or gay,
And still send naked Merit cloath'd away:
To deal in Honour, Justice, Probity,
And all those Heath'nish Virtues which They fly!
Write Tartuff, V***n inform, rail W***r, rail,
Your Lives must stink, if Deeds like these prevail.
“Have we no shining Lights to guide us here?”
Yes, Sherlock, Hare, for noble Talents fam'd,
And hoary Hough, with Rev'rence ever nam'd:
Secker with Force of Sense and Virtue arm'd,
Who with his Life or Doctrine but is charm'd?
Unblemish'd Hoadly! lov'd by all, but those
Who're Virtue's, Wisdom's, Truth's, and Rundle's Foes.
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For Owls and Batts abhor the Bird of Day:
What! own the Reason which God gave Mankind,
Was giv'n to prove God's Word, discern God's Mind;
That all true Faith is not on Ign'rance built,
Nor Thinking, in Heav'n's Sight, held mortal Guilt!
That common Sense with Christian Rites may join,
And Morals not prophane a sound Divine;
That Creeds can never alter Wrong to Right,
Nor Orthodoxy wash an Æthiop white:
What! preach Christ's Kingdom is not here below,
But far, far off, where They must never go!
Write Tartuff, V***n inform, rail W***r, rail,
Your Craft's in Danger if such Truths prevail.
What! make Integrity the Test—and next,
His Life a standing Sermon on his Text;
To be polite as good, humane as wise,
Whilst Charity sits smiling in his Eyes:
To frown on Vice, tho' ne'er so high or gay,
And still send naked Merit cloath'd away:
To deal in Honour, Justice, Probity,
And all those Heath'nish Virtues which They fly!
Write Tartuff, V***n inform, rail W***r, rail,
Your Lives must stink, if Deeds like these prevail.
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In State Disputes, too, as in Church, we see
This barb'rous, headlong Partiality;
Where Men are damn'd or sav'd for Forms, not Fact,
For how they're dress'd or shap'd, not how they act:
Where round thick Shoulders, or a Coat cut ill,
Spoil all the Patriot's Honour, Statesman's Skill:
Ribbands must rank Corruption straight impart,
And the gilt Star betray a grov'ling Heart;
The garter'd Knee must needs to Baal bend,
And who, ungarter'd, is his Prince's Friend?
Strange! that a diff'rent Eye-brow, Air or Mien,
Hose roll'd, or unroll'd, dirty Nails or clean;
Should make false Patriots, Courtiers most sincere,
A blund'ring Marr-all, or a deep State-seer!
This barb'rous, headlong Partiality;
Where Men are damn'd or sav'd for Forms, not Fact,
For how they're dress'd or shap'd, not how they act:
Where round thick Shoulders, or a Coat cut ill,
Spoil all the Patriot's Honour, Statesman's Skill:
Ribbands must rank Corruption straight impart,
And the gilt Star betray a grov'ling Heart;
The garter'd Knee must needs to Baal bend,
And who, ungarter'd, is his Prince's Friend?
Strange! that a diff'rent Eye-brow, Air or Mien,
Hose roll'd, or unroll'd, dirty Nails or clean;
Should make false Patriots, Courtiers most sincere,
A blund'ring Marr-all, or a deep State-seer!
What tho' sage Horace can't be call'd a Beau;
What tho' his Shoes no Diamond Buckles know;
Tho' coated in a Taste uncouth, and breech'd
With Trowsers often calling to be hitch'd;
Shall he, for this, on Satire's Wheel be broke;
Or made the Courtier's Gibe, and Coxcomb's Joke?
No; One who wants the polish'd Trim, and Grace,
The supple Knee, and promisory Face:
May yet be Master of a noble Heart,
Prepar'd to act the friendly, gen'rous Part;
For many a Mortal Case that's rough or drole,
Contains a polish'd, brave, and spotless Soul.
What tho' his Shoes no Diamond Buckles know;
Tho' coated in a Taste uncouth, and breech'd
With Trowsers often calling to be hitch'd;
Shall he, for this, on Satire's Wheel be broke;
Or made the Courtier's Gibe, and Coxcomb's Joke?
No; One who wants the polish'd Trim, and Grace,
The supple Knee, and promisory Face:
May yet be Master of a noble Heart,
Prepar'd to act the friendly, gen'rous Part;
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Contains a polish'd, brave, and spotless Soul.
Search each his own Breast first, read that with Care,
And mark if no one Crime be written There!
For Thou who, faulty, wrong'st another's Fame,
Howe'er so great and dignify'd thy Name,
The Muse shall drag thee forth to publick Shame;
Pluck the fair Feathers from thy Swan-skin Heart,
And shew thee black and guileful as thou art.
And mark if no one Crime be written There!
For Thou who, faulty, wrong'st another's Fame,
Howe'er so great and dignify'd thy Name,
The Muse shall drag thee forth to publick Shame;
Pluck the fair Feathers from thy Swan-skin Heart,
And shew thee black and guileful as thou art.
True Lovers, in their fav'rite charming She,
Can find no Faults, or love those Faults they see.
Cassius no Stain in his lewd Wife can spy;
Whilst Delia's purple Nose charms Bubo's Eye.
Fond Parents, partial to their darling Son,
Or hide his Faults, or point 'em out as none.
Mark how his Grace chucks up his squint-ey'd Boy,
And cries, 'Tis mighty pretty in my Joy:
Lo! Master's bandy Legs Sir William shows,
And Lisping, says—The Child turns in his Toes.
Oh, that these Errors, if they Errors be,
Reign'd in our Friendship, oftner than we see!
One Friend is close, perhaps—that Prudence call;
Another's apt to brag—That's Frankness all;
One's something vain—Consider, pray, his Birth;
Assuming, one—He's conscious of his Worth:
Doth Socius drink his Gallon of Champaigne?
Why Socius loves his Friend, and is humane;
Or is Sir John with Celia caught in Bed?
He's young and gay, that's all that can be said.
At least be silent, where you can't commend;
This, this will purchase, and preserve a Friend.
Can find no Faults, or love those Faults they see.
Cassius no Stain in his lewd Wife can spy;
Whilst Delia's purple Nose charms Bubo's Eye.
Fond Parents, partial to their darling Son,
Or hide his Faults, or point 'em out as none.
Mark how his Grace chucks up his squint-ey'd Boy,
And cries, 'Tis mighty pretty in my Joy:
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And Lisping, says—The Child turns in his Toes.
Oh, that these Errors, if they Errors be,
Reign'd in our Friendship, oftner than we see!
One Friend is close, perhaps—that Prudence call;
Another's apt to brag—That's Frankness all;
One's something vain—Consider, pray, his Birth;
Assuming, one—He's conscious of his Worth:
Doth Socius drink his Gallon of Champaigne?
Why Socius loves his Friend, and is humane;
Or is Sir John with Celia caught in Bed?
He's young and gay, that's all that can be said.
At least be silent, where you can't commend;
This, this will purchase, and preserve a Friend.
But few, in our censorious Age, we find,
To such just Candor gen'rously inclin'd;
For many toil ev'n fairest Fame to spot,
With If-so, But, Perhaps, and May-be-not;
By Slight of Wink, and Shrug, they'll in a Trice
Juggle Men's very Virtues into Vice.
To such just Candor gen'rously inclin'd;
For many toil ev'n fairest Fame to spot,
With If-so, But, Perhaps, and May-be-not;
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Juggle Men's very Virtues into Vice.
Is any modest? He's a mean-soul'd Tool:
Good-natur'd, honest Man, still stands for Fool.
Reserve is Craft, Sincerity Ill-breeding,
And Charity a very strange Proceeding.
Religion, Psha! 'tis nothing but mere Cant;
Simple, blunt Honour;—why, 'tis all a Rant.
Good-natur'd, honest Man, still stands for Fool.
Reserve is Craft, Sincerity Ill-breeding,
And Charity a very strange Proceeding.
Religion, Psha! 'tis nothing but mere Cant;
Simple, blunt Honour;—why, 'tis all a Rant.
What Rules, alas! we fix, what rash Decrees,
Injurious to our own, and Neighbour's Ease!
We all our Frailties share, and He's the best,
Most happy He, who's loaded with the least.
Those then, who would not have Their Sores offend,
Ought not to fret the Pimples of a Friend:
And, surely, 'tis but just that He who'd claim
A candid Cov'ring where he proves to blame,
Should to an erring Neighbour grant the same;
This is my greatest Boast, This.—“Ay, say you,
“This is Haranguing very fine, 'tis true;
“But, Sir, your Writings,—Well, Sir, what of them?
“They're guilty of the Crime, which you condemn:
“Each Page is blotted with some injur'd Name;
“Each Line's destructive of some Neighbour's Fame.
Whence this black Charge on me? Who know me best,
Know 'tis a Crime, I from my Soul detest.
The Man, who loves to wound an absent Friend,
Or, wounded, cares not, dares not to defend;
Who ne'er would stifle an injurious Joke,
To gain a Laugh regardless what he spoke;
Who sweats to spread forg'd Scandal thro' the Town,
And basely whispers Reputations down;
Who, what he never saw, proclaims for true,
And vends for Secrets what he never knew;
That, that's the Wretch, to whom your Censure's due.
But, have I acted such a brutish Part?
No, 'tis not in my Writings, or my Heart:
Here, Sir, you'll find, if you'll be pleas'd to read,
None, but the Vicious, in my Verses bleed:
Neighbour, or Stranger, 'tis to me alike;
Not at the Man, but at the Vice I strike:
I call none Friends, whom Vice and Folly stain;
I call none Foes, where Truth and Wisdom reign.
What tho' some Lines are with more Freedom writ;
Some hum'rous Scenes are drawn, which chance to hit
A fopling Courtier, or a knavish Cit,
Am I, ARGYLE, am I for this to blame?
No, 'tis a British Right I still shall claim.
Injurious to our own, and Neighbour's Ease!
We all our Frailties share, and He's the best,
Most happy He, who's loaded with the least.
Those then, who would not have Their Sores offend,
Ought not to fret the Pimples of a Friend:
And, surely, 'tis but just that He who'd claim
A candid Cov'ring where he proves to blame,
Should to an erring Neighbour grant the same;
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“This is Haranguing very fine, 'tis true;
“But, Sir, your Writings,—Well, Sir, what of them?
“They're guilty of the Crime, which you condemn:
“Each Page is blotted with some injur'd Name;
“Each Line's destructive of some Neighbour's Fame.
Whence this black Charge on me? Who know me best,
Know 'tis a Crime, I from my Soul detest.
The Man, who loves to wound an absent Friend,
Or, wounded, cares not, dares not to defend;
Who ne'er would stifle an injurious Joke,
To gain a Laugh regardless what he spoke;
Who sweats to spread forg'd Scandal thro' the Town,
And basely whispers Reputations down;
Who, what he never saw, proclaims for true,
And vends for Secrets what he never knew;
That, that's the Wretch, to whom your Censure's due.
But, have I acted such a brutish Part?
No, 'tis not in my Writings, or my Heart:
Here, Sir, you'll find, if you'll be pleas'd to read,
None, but the Vicious, in my Verses bleed:
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Not at the Man, but at the Vice I strike:
I call none Friends, whom Vice and Folly stain;
I call none Foes, where Truth and Wisdom reign.
What tho' some Lines are with more Freedom writ;
Some hum'rous Scenes are drawn, which chance to hit
A fopling Courtier, or a knavish Cit,
Am I, ARGYLE, am I for this to blame?
No, 'tis a British Right I still shall claim.
'Twas thus my good old Sire, to whom I owe
What best I practice, and what best I know;
'Twas thus he labour'd to direct my Will,
Point me to Good, or turn me back from Ill:
Plac'd branded Knaves, or Fools, before my Eyes,
And bid me mark their Errors, and be wise.
When studious to inculcate frugal Care,
“Observe, said he, Pygmalion's spend thrift Heir,
“By Harlots, Dice, and Luxury undone,
“Now till for Hire, those Lands which were his own.
“Beware the wily Prostitute, he'd cry,
“Lest you like Clodio live, like Laches die:
“Nor let adult'rous Joys thy Soul defile,
“Lo! Ly***l banish'd from his native Isle.”
What best I practice, and what best I know;
'Twas thus he labour'd to direct my Will,
Point me to Good, or turn me back from Ill:
Plac'd branded Knaves, or Fools, before my Eyes,
And bid me mark their Errors, and be wise.
When studious to inculcate frugal Care,
“Observe, said he, Pygmalion's spend thrift Heir,
“By Harlots, Dice, and Luxury undone,
“Now till for Hire, those Lands which were his own.
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“Lest you like Clodio live, like Laches die:
“Nor let adult'rous Joys thy Soul defile,
“Lo! Ly***l banish'd from his native Isle.”
'Twas thus the watchful Parent taught the Son,
To dread those Crimes which others had undone.
Then urg'd,—“To consecrate whate'er you do,
“Have some illustrious Pattern still in View,
“Some shining, worthy, Worth-approving Man:
“Him follow, copy him in all you can:
“Lo! Bernard, fam'd for Wisdom, Publick Spirit,
“And ev'ry thing that bears the Name of Merit!
“Nor can you doubt what Actions merit Blame,
“When shrill-tongu'd Rumour sounds each Culprit's Shame.
“Who, but a Chartres, or a W***d must hate;
“Or who e'er pity'd wretched W**rt**n's Fate?
“Who does not scorn a fibbing, chattering G.
“Or who, but must detest corrupted P.?
To dread those Crimes which others had undone.
Then urg'd,—“To consecrate whate'er you do,
“Have some illustrious Pattern still in View,
“Some shining, worthy, Worth-approving Man:
“Him follow, copy him in all you can:
“Lo! Bernard, fam'd for Wisdom, Publick Spirit,
“And ev'ry thing that bears the Name of Merit!
“Nor can you doubt what Actions merit Blame,
“When shrill-tongu'd Rumour sounds each Culprit's Shame.
“Who, but a Chartres, or a W***d must hate;
“Or who e'er pity'd wretched W**rt**n's Fate?
“Who does not scorn a fibbing, chattering G.
“Or who, but must detest corrupted P.?
95
As when Sir Epicure, who liv'd to eat,
Fell a sad Victim to a City Treat,
His Brother-Brutes, with Cheney, damn'd all Meat:
So brand the Wretch, whom flagrant Crimes debase,
And each taught Youth will shun the dire Disgrace.
Fell a sad Victim to a City Treat,
His Brother-Brutes, with Cheney, damn'd all Meat:
So brand the Wretch, whom flagrant Crimes debase,
And each taught Youth will shun the dire Disgrace.
| Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose | |