The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
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A POEM to the Memory of the incomparable
Mr. J. PHILIPS;
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 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
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A POEM to the Memory of the incomparable Mr. J. PHILIPS;
humbly inscribed to the Right Honourable HENRY ST. JOHN, 1710.
“Ergo Quintilium perpetuus sopor
“Urget! Cui Pudor, & Justiciæ soror
“Incorrupta fides, nudaque veritas
“Quando ullum invenient parem?”
Hor. 1 Od. xxiv. 5.
“Urget! Cui Pudor, & Justiciæ soror
“Incorrupta fides, nudaque veritas
“Quando ullum invenient parem?”
Hor. 1 Od. xxiv. 5.
Quinctilius sunk to endless rest,
With Dearh's eternal sleep opprest!
Oh! when shall Faith of soul sincere,
Of Justice pure the Sister fair,
And Modesty, unspotted maid,
And Truth in artless guise array'd,
Among the race of human kind
An equal to Quinctilius find?
Francis.
With Dearh's eternal sleep opprest!
Oh! when shall Faith of soul sincere,
Of Justice pure the Sister fair,
And Modesty, unspotted maid,
And Truth in artless guise array'd,
Among the race of human kind
An equal to Quinctilius find?
Francis.
“Aggredere O magnos (aderit jam tempus) honores;
[OMITTED]
“Aspice venturo lætantur ut omnia seclo!”
Virg. Ecl. iv. 48—52.
“Aspice venturo lætantur ut omnia seclo!”
Virg. Ecl. iv. 48—52.
Assume thy state! thy destin'd honours prove,
Dear to the gods! O progeny of Jove!
Behold how tottering Nature nods around,
Earth, air, the watery waste, and heaven profound!
At once they change—they wear a smiling face,
And all with joy th' approaching age embrace!
Warton.
Dear to the gods! O progeny of Jove!
Behold how tottering Nature nods around,
Earth, air, the watery waste, and heaven profound!
At once they change—they wear a smiling face,
And all with joy th' approaching age embrace!
Warton.
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FORGIVE my crime, forgive it, gentle Shade;
If, by the fondness of my grief betray'd,
I make that grief inelegantly known,
In sounds that are but echoes to thy own.
How can I write? Could Israel's captive band
Sing Songs of Sion in a foreign land?
Or do the birds in bleak December play
Their vernal musick and their notes of May?
On my cold brow a rising damp appears,
And all my rhetorick is in my tears;
What witty sorrow is, I never knew,
And grief that's eloquent is seldom true.
If, by the fondness of my grief betray'd,
I make that grief inelegantly known,
In sounds that are but echoes to thy own.
How can I write? Could Israel's captive band
Sing Songs of Sion in a foreign land?
Or do the birds in bleak December play
Their vernal musick and their notes of May?
On my cold brow a rising damp appears,
And all my rhetorick is in my tears;
What witty sorrow is, I never knew,
And grief that's eloquent is seldom true.
If, Strephon, from the shades you could transmit
One pregnant beam of your enlivening wit,
That might raise all my powers, inform the whole,
And with harmonious vigour tune my soul;
Then, like young prophets with new visions blest,
Like lovers of their bridal charms possest,
With pleasing raptures I might fill my breath,
And give ev'n beauty to the face of death;
Nor need, for want of poesy or sense,
Those idle fictions, and that dull pretence
Of weeping nymphs and melancholy floods,
Of pensive shepherds and more pensive woods,
To make my verse emphatically low,
And furbish up a threadbare tale of woe.
One pregnant beam of your enlivening wit,
That might raise all my powers, inform the whole,
And with harmonious vigour tune my soul;
18
Like lovers of their bridal charms possest,
With pleasing raptures I might fill my breath,
And give ev'n beauty to the face of death;
Nor need, for want of poesy or sense,
Those idle fictions, and that dull pretence
Of weeping nymphs and melancholy floods,
Of pensive shepherds and more pensive woods,
To make my verse emphatically low,
And furbish up a threadbare tale of woe.
But, since that hope is vain, and human art
Can act no other than a human part;
Accept this mute but unaffected tear;
The speechless mourner truly speaks his care;
And, if words here and there confus'd are found
(For grief sometimes will vent itself in sound),
Attribute them to no poetic strain,
Nor the kind dictates of a happy vein;
They're but the signs of sorrow in excess,
The sallies of a dumb but wild distress;
The fruitless efforts of distracted care,
Of grief and passion blended with despair.
Can act no other than a human part;
Accept this mute but unaffected tear;
The speechless mourner truly speaks his care;
And, if words here and there confus'd are found
(For grief sometimes will vent itself in sound),
Attribute them to no poetic strain,
Nor the kind dictates of a happy vein;
They're but the signs of sorrow in excess,
The sallies of a dumb but wild distress;
The fruitless efforts of distracted care,
Of grief and passion blended with despair.
O'er thy dear reliques how could I complain,
And in soft murmurs rigid Fate arraign!
Oh, I could languish, till I were become
A breathless shape, a statue to thy tomb.
Yet, lest my silence should be thought pretence,
And or misconstrued want of zeal or sense,
Lest I should seem (when Piso does commend,
Piso at once my Patron and my Friend)
More cold to Virtue than averse to Rhime,
And my excuse itself be made my crime;
I'll give thee what my sorrows will admit,
What may evince my love, though not my wit;
And sing thy virtues in a lowly strain,
Though every virtue makes me weep again.
And in soft murmurs rigid Fate arraign!
Oh, I could languish, till I were become
A breathless shape, a statue to thy tomb.
Yet, lest my silence should be thought pretence,
And or misconstrued want of zeal or sense,
Lest I should seem (when Piso does commend,
Piso at once my Patron and my Friend)
More cold to Virtue than averse to Rhime,
And my excuse itself be made my crime;
I'll give thee what my sorrows will admit,
What may evince my love, though not my wit;
And sing thy virtues in a lowly strain,
Though every virtue makes me weep again.
Each all my tears and all my art demands;
But Modesty the first and fairest stands;
She strove with virgin blushes to conceal
The charms her Sister Graces did reveal;
She strove with conscious shame to veil their light,
But made them shine more eminently bright.
So when some shade would drive the light away,
And intercept the gladsome beams of day;
Taught by the sun to shine, that painted cloud
Contributes to the lustre it would shrowd.
But Modesty the first and fairest stands;
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The charms her Sister Graces did reveal;
She strove with conscious shame to veil their light,
But made them shine more eminently bright.
So when some shade would drive the light away,
And intercept the gladsome beams of day;
Taught by the sun to shine, that painted cloud
Contributes to the lustre it would shrowd.
All power of numbers in thy verse did meet,
Which Learning made correct, and Nature sweet;
Wit mix'd with spirit through the whole was found,
And manly sense supported lofty sound;
Judgement, combin'd with fancy, grac'd the song,
And all was solid, beautiful, and strong.
Thy sweet but nervous lines were doubly fair,
Food to the soul, and musick to the ear;
To the strong features of a lively face,
You still the last embellishments did place,
An easy sweetness and a flowing grace.
Which Learning made correct, and Nature sweet;
Wit mix'd with spirit through the whole was found,
And manly sense supported lofty sound;
Judgement, combin'd with fancy, grac'd the song,
And all was solid, beautiful, and strong.
Thy sweet but nervous lines were doubly fair,
Food to the soul, and musick to the ear;
To the strong features of a lively face,
You still the last embellishments did place,
An easy sweetness and a flowing grace.
With Classicks intimate and friendly grown,
Whate'er you writ, or said, was still your own;
And, though so fondly Milton's Muse you lov'd,
His graces were not borrow'd, but improv'd;
Nor didst thou rob great Maro's sacred shrine;
But by amendment mad'st his beauties thine.
They flourish, and confess thy generous toil,
Like plants translated to a richer soil.
Thoughts proper, words expressive and polite,
A judgement piercing, an invention bright,
In thy great labours all exert their part,
And much you owe to Nature, much to Art.
Whate'er you writ, or said, was still your own;
And, though so fondly Milton's Muse you lov'd,
His graces were not borrow'd, but improv'd;
Nor didst thou rob great Maro's sacred shrine;
But by amendment mad'st his beauties thine.
They flourish, and confess thy generous toil,
Like plants translated to a richer soil.
Thoughts proper, words expressive and polite,
A judgement piercing, an invention bright,
In thy great labours all exert their part,
And much you owe to Nature, much to Art.
How nobly daring in thy pompous page
The German and the British Prince engage!
With what impetuous force and rage divine
The Gallick and confederate squadrons join!
To worlds unborn our deathless fame is told;
And Blenheim will be young, when Time is old.
But hear, oh hear, the mourning Muse relate
Our once young Churchill's and our Gloster's fate.
Less sad is Philomel's nocturnal tune,
Less sad the musick of a dying swan;
Involv'd in pleasing pangs the Reader lyes,
And languishing on every accent dies.
Each word revives indulgent Anna's pain,
And makes her act the Mother o'er again;
The mourning Victor drops his laurel crown,
Proclaims thy conquest, and forgets his own.
The German and the British Prince engage!
With what impetuous force and rage divine
The Gallick and confederate squadrons join!
To worlds unborn our deathless fame is told;
And Blenheim will be young, when Time is old.
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Our once young Churchill's and our Gloster's fate.
Less sad is Philomel's nocturnal tune,
Less sad the musick of a dying swan;
Involv'd in pleasing pangs the Reader lyes,
And languishing on every accent dies.
Each word revives indulgent Anna's pain,
And makes her act the Mother o'er again;
The mourning Victor drops his laurel crown,
Proclaims thy conquest, and forgets his own.
When of big war and martial fame you write,
War seems your province, conquest your delight;
And, when you choose some peaceful rural theme,
By Nature fram'd for rural lays you seem.
Thy Cyder, thy immortal Cyder, smiles
With richest fragrance through these happy Isles;
Of equal worth, since so divinely sung,
To Maro's vintage, and shall last as long.
Henceforth the pippin shall the grape outshine,
The painted redstreak triumph o'er the vine;
Henceforth this odorous liquor shall be made
The cool refreshment of each lover's shade;
Give the coy nymph a free luxurious air,
And tempt her to be kind as well as fair;
In the brisk gallant's humorous mirth surprize,
And sparkle in the maudlin coquet's eyes;
O'er jocund frolick wit it shall preside,
And raise the wishes of each longing bride;
Rouse the blithe bucksome youth to Love's alarms,
And add fresh lustre to the lady's charms.
War seems your province, conquest your delight;
And, when you choose some peaceful rural theme,
By Nature fram'd for rural lays you seem.
Thy Cyder, thy immortal Cyder, smiles
With richest fragrance through these happy Isles;
Of equal worth, since so divinely sung,
To Maro's vintage, and shall last as long.
Henceforth the pippin shall the grape outshine,
The painted redstreak triumph o'er the vine;
Henceforth this odorous liquor shall be made
The cool refreshment of each lover's shade;
Give the coy nymph a free luxurious air,
And tempt her to be kind as well as fair;
In the brisk gallant's humorous mirth surprize,
And sparkle in the maudlin coquet's eyes;
O'er jocund frolick wit it shall preside,
And raise the wishes of each longing bride;
Rouse the blithe bucksome youth to Love's alarms,
And add fresh lustre to the lady's charms.
Oh, that experience had not taught me this,
And that it were the frantick Poet's guess!
But much I fear the Shepherds told me true,
Who said, Maria, Strephon died for you;
Cyder improv'd each feature in thy face,
And gave a softer turn to every grace;
In thy all-piercing eyes did magick prove,
And warm'd his willing heart to fatal love.
Ah! gentle Strephon, was there on the plain
Such killing beauty and severe disdain,
A nymph with more than woman's charms supply'd,
A nymph, was curs'd with more than woman's pride?
If such there was, oh may the shameful blot
Be in oblivion's gloomy shades forgot!
Nor her fair name in envious annals writ,
A stain to virtuous love and solid wit!
And that it were the frantick Poet's guess!
But much I fear the Shepherds told me true,
Who said, Maria, Strephon died for you;
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And gave a softer turn to every grace;
In thy all-piercing eyes did magick prove,
And warm'd his willing heart to fatal love.
Ah! gentle Strephon, was there on the plain
Such killing beauty and severe disdain,
A nymph with more than woman's charms supply'd,
A nymph, was curs'd with more than woman's pride?
If such there was, oh may the shameful blot
Be in oblivion's gloomy shades forgot!
Nor her fair name in envious annals writ,
A stain to virtuous love and solid wit!
To speak thee generous, loyal, just, and true,
A constant friend and not unfriendly foe,
Were with superfluous trouble here annext,
And but a comment on a canvass'd text.
But that Religion, Piety, and Zeal,
Should influence thy life, and guide thy will,
Was wondrous strange! A Bard devout and good!
Why 'tis a crime unpardonably rude:
To the beau monde, the polish'd world, a jest;
Uncomplaisant and singular at best;
But monstrous in these lewd unrighteous times,
When the vile Muse's prostituted rhimes
Become subservient to dishonour's rise,
Turn pimps to wantonness, and bawds to vice;
When Priests and Poets are at open breach,
And the Stage censures what the Pulpits teach;
When jests indecent female converse stain,
And none is witty that is not prophane.
'Twas wondrous strange, in such an age, that you,
A Wit, a Lover, and a Poet too,
Should stand conform'd to strict Religion's laws,
And shun the fashionable sins of those,
Whose maxims are, to live by Nature's rule,
That the poor Parson is the Statesman's tool;
That Priesthood then began to flourish most,
And find increase, though at the people's cost,
When subtle knaves and politicians found
Mankind by laws restrain'd, by conscience bound,
Themselves in more security might reign,
And Priests perceiv'd, that “Godliness was gain.”
Yet ev'n in this degen'rate æra cast,
Thy Muse was modest, as thy manners chaste;
Whatever, though in sportive mood, she said,
By matrons might be spoke, by virgins read:
An emblem of thyself in her we see;
Wise were thy pleasures, and thy wisdom free.
A constant friend and not unfriendly foe,
Were with superfluous trouble here annext,
And but a comment on a canvass'd text.
But that Religion, Piety, and Zeal,
Should influence thy life, and guide thy will,
Was wondrous strange! A Bard devout and good!
Why 'tis a crime unpardonably rude:
To the beau monde, the polish'd world, a jest;
Uncomplaisant and singular at best;
But monstrous in these lewd unrighteous times,
When the vile Muse's prostituted rhimes
Become subservient to dishonour's rise,
Turn pimps to wantonness, and bawds to vice;
When Priests and Poets are at open breach,
And the Stage censures what the Pulpits teach;
When jests indecent female converse stain,
And none is witty that is not prophane.
'Twas wondrous strange, in such an age, that you,
A Wit, a Lover, and a Poet too,
Should stand conform'd to strict Religion's laws,
And shun the fashionable sins of those,
Whose maxims are, to live by Nature's rule,
That the poor Parson is the Statesman's tool;
That Priesthood then began to flourish most,
And find increase, though at the people's cost,
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Mankind by laws restrain'd, by conscience bound,
Themselves in more security might reign,
And Priests perceiv'd, that “Godliness was gain.”
Yet ev'n in this degen'rate æra cast,
Thy Muse was modest, as thy manners chaste;
Whatever, though in sportive mood, she said,
By matrons might be spoke, by virgins read:
An emblem of thyself in her we see;
Wise were thy pleasures, and thy wisdom free.
Thus excellent you was---
But, ah! Such heaven's mysterious ways we find;
So Providence disposes human-kind;
The most deserving have the shortest date,
And Virtue seems the mark of envious Fate;
The Learn'd, the Good, the Witty, and the Brave,
Find the cold comfort of an early grave:
Bion forsook us early, Shadwell late,
And Creech and Oldham are surviv'd by Tate.
But, ah! Such heaven's mysterious ways we find;
So Providence disposes human-kind;
The most deserving have the shortest date,
And Virtue seems the mark of envious Fate;
The Learn'd, the Good, the Witty, and the Brave,
Find the cold comfort of an early grave:
Bion forsook us early, Shadwell late,
And Creech and Oldham are surviv'd by Tate.
Whether Prometheus' bold attempt above,
To steal th' authentic real flames of Jove,
From fiction wholly or in part began,
Yet sure there's something in the soul of man,
That bears resemblance to material fire;
The brighter 'tis, the sooner 'twill expire.
To steal th' authentic real flames of Jove,
From fiction wholly or in part began,
Yet sure there's something in the soul of man,
That bears resemblance to material fire;
The brighter 'tis, the sooner 'twill expire.
Blooming and young to fall is thy reward;
While every Mævius of the age is spar'd,
From stiff Criterio to the City Bard;
With numerous D'Urfeys I omit to name,
Lest that might seem some merit to proclaim,
Implying envy still, and envy fame.
While every Mævius of the age is spar'd,
From stiff Criterio to the City Bard;
With numerous D'Urfeys I omit to name,
Lest that might seem some merit to proclaim,
Implying envy still, and envy fame.
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Virtue in all regards is Fortune's sport;
Nor are her days less wearisome than short:
Each heavier mortal may his wealth increase,
And sleep out many drowsy days in peace;
With plenty or with honours blest may thrive,
If you had what would keep content alive;
Thanks to your generous Patron, good as great,
Who, in despight of all the storms of Fate,
Though the world frown, and swift the billows throng,
Shall be the subject of my love and song;
Whose bounties, like the Nile, unweary'd flow
Through the fair realms where Arts and Learning grow,
And always come unsought, yet never slow.
Nor are her days less wearisome than short:
Each heavier mortal may his wealth increase,
And sleep out many drowsy days in peace;
With plenty or with honours blest may thrive,
If you had what would keep content alive;
Thanks to your generous Patron, good as great,
Who, in despight of all the storms of Fate,
Though the world frown, and swift the billows throng,
Shall be the subject of my love and song;
Whose bounties, like the Nile, unweary'd flow
Through the fair realms where Arts and Learning grow,
And always come unsought, yet never slow.
Nor let me pass unsung that boasted name
Which I and every British Bard should claim,
Sacred to verse, and heir to endless fame;
Harcourt, whose powerful rhetoric, when of late
In solemn judgement Britain's Peerage sate,
Ennobled Learning and Religion's cause,
And reconcil'd old truths to modern laws;
How years erase not foul Rebellion's name,
That Scripture always was and is the same,
And loyal just allegiance merits praise
As well in Anna's as in Charles's days;
His every word than honey sweeter flow'd;
His tongue more charming was than Hermes' rod.
Harcourt, while I thy death ignobly mourn,
Pays the last office to thy sacred urn;
And, rearing with majestick pomp thy tomb,
Swells the big honours of that hallow'd dome,
Where their dark gloomy vaults the Muses keep,
And, lov'd by Monarchs, near those Monarchs sleep;
Where Royal Heroes, mouldering, justly claim
Those their Associates that preserve their fame,
Justly in death with those one mansion have,
Whose works redeem their glories from the grave;
Where venerable Chaucer's antient head,
And Spenser's much-ador'd remains are laid;
Where Cowley's precious stone, and the proud mould
That glories Dryden's mortal parts to hold,
Command high reverence and devotion just
To their great relicks and distinguish'd dust.
Which I and every British Bard should claim,
Sacred to verse, and heir to endless fame;
Harcourt, whose powerful rhetoric, when of late
In solemn judgement Britain's Peerage sate,
Ennobled Learning and Religion's cause,
And reconcil'd old truths to modern laws;
How years erase not foul Rebellion's name,
That Scripture always was and is the same,
And loyal just allegiance merits praise
As well in Anna's as in Charles's days;
His every word than honey sweeter flow'd;
His tongue more charming was than Hermes' rod.
Harcourt, while I thy death ignobly mourn,
Pays the last office to thy sacred urn;
And, rearing with majestick pomp thy tomb,
Swells the big honours of that hallow'd dome,
Where their dark gloomy vaults the Muses keep,
And, lov'd by Monarchs, near those Monarchs sleep;
Where Royal Heroes, mouldering, justly claim
Those their Associates that preserve their fame,
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Whose works redeem their glories from the grave;
Where venerable Chaucer's antient head,
And Spenser's much-ador'd remains are laid;
Where Cowley's precious stone, and the proud mould
That glories Dryden's mortal parts to hold,
Command high reverence and devotion just
To their great relicks and distinguish'd dust.
'Tis well a Harcourt in this age remains,
And generous blood adorns a St. John's veins;
'Tis well our annals Trevor can enroll;
And that the Patriot lives in Harley's soul;
Else you, illustrious Virtue, might have seen
What Shakspeare saw before, and worthy Ben.
And generous blood adorns a St. John's veins;
'Tis well our annals Trevor can enroll;
And that the Patriot lives in Harley's soul;
Else you, illustrious Virtue, might have seen
What Shakspeare saw before, and worthy Ben.
Under penurious stars are Poets born,
Subject to envy, or expos'd to scorn;
By some strange force and supernatural bent
Ever betray'd to poverty and want;
To lofty garrets by degrees they rise,
And there are truly said to touch the skies;
They purchase dear their idol God Renown,
And still are complimented—and undone.
Alas! Fame's palace in the air is built;
We wooe a mistress, but we find a jilt.
Subject to envy, or expos'd to scorn;
By some strange force and supernatural bent
Ever betray'd to poverty and want;
To lofty garrets by degrees they rise,
And there are truly said to touch the skies;
They purchase dear their idol God Renown,
And still are complimented—and undone.
Alas! Fame's palace in the air is built;
We wooe a mistress, but we find a jilt.
This Cowley and this Spenser felt before,
And honest Butler died exceeding poor;
And when grim Death did tuneful Dryden seize,
He had not what would pay the sexton's fees.
Ev'n he, who sung on yellow Xanthus' shore
The Trojan Fidler and the Grecian Whore,
Whom seven proud cities wrangled for when dead,
Was a poor mendicant, that stroll'd for bread;
And, when kind almers had his wants supply'd!
“Great Jove reward you, Sirs!” in metre cry'd.
And honest Butler died exceeding poor;
And when grim Death did tuneful Dryden seize,
He had not what would pay the sexton's fees.
Ev'n he, who sung on yellow Xanthus' shore
The Trojan Fidler and the Grecian Whore,
Whom seven proud cities wrangled for when dead,
Was a poor mendicant, that stroll'd for bread;
And, when kind almers had his wants supply'd!
“Great Jove reward you, Sirs!” in metre cry'd.
Since then much poverty and little fame
Is all the dowry that a Muse can claim;
Since that sublime invigorating heat,
That makes the Poet's pulse divinely beat,
At last rewards him but with barren praise,
Which Envy sullies, and which Want allays;
Here weeping o'er thy tomb in mournful verse,
And shedding roses on thy honour'd hearse,
I'll take my last farewell, and bid adieu
To the curs'd trade and all the jingling crew;
Nay, rather than relapse to write, or strain
A miserable crambo once again;
I'll turn Horse-doctor, bear a Scotchman's pack,
Be Pettifogger, Conjurer, or Quack,
Or any thing you can conceive or know,
All but a Poet, Pedant, or a Beau.
Is all the dowry that a Muse can claim;
Since that sublime invigorating heat,
That makes the Poet's pulse divinely beat,
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Which Envy sullies, and which Want allays;
Here weeping o'er thy tomb in mournful verse,
And shedding roses on thy honour'd hearse,
I'll take my last farewell, and bid adieu
To the curs'd trade and all the jingling crew;
Nay, rather than relapse to write, or strain
A miserable crambo once again;
I'll turn Horse-doctor, bear a Scotchman's pack,
Be Pettifogger, Conjurer, or Quack,
Or any thing you can conceive or know,
All but a Poet, Pedant, or a Beau.
Ye Criticks, that like locusts vex the press,
With little reason damn, and write with less;
Ye honourable Bards, that sung of old
The mighty stories Greece or Athens told;
And thou, the worthiest of th 'inspired host,
The pride of Isis and thy St. John's boast;
Be witness to the sacred vow I make;
And when, by verse debauch'd, that vow I break,
Pure unenlightened Dullness on my head
The soul and quintessence of Blackmore shed!
With little reason damn, and write with less;
Ye honourable Bards, that sung of old
The mighty stories Greece or Athens told;
And thou, the worthiest of th 'inspired host,
The pride of Isis and thy St. John's boast;
Be witness to the sacred vow I make;
And when, by verse debauch'd, that vow I break,
Pure unenlightened Dullness on my head
The soul and quintessence of Blackmore shed!
Sooner shall Players to virtue make pretence,
And learned Pedants condescend to sense;
Sooner shall Country Curates Hebrew speak,
Physicians' noddles be o'ercharg'd with Greek,
Attorneys cease to flock in shoals to Hell,
And Maurus to write ill, or Prior well;
Sooner shall eloquence in Smalridge fail,
And humble W—ll-s over Sprat prevail;
Cuckold and Citizen two senses frame,
And, differing in sound, not mean the same;
Than I the purpose of my soul forget,
His Lordship's titles for true worth admit,
And be a Beggar to be styl'd a Wit.
And learned Pedants condescend to sense;
Sooner shall Country Curates Hebrew speak,
Physicians' noddles be o'ercharg'd with Greek,
Attorneys cease to flock in shoals to Hell,
And Maurus to write ill, or Prior well;
Sooner shall eloquence in Smalridge fail,
And humble W—ll-s over Sprat prevail;
Cuckold and Citizen two senses frame,
And, differing in sound, not mean the same;
Than I the purpose of my soul forget,
His Lordship's titles for true worth admit,
And be a Beggar to be styl'd a Wit.
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |