The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop

... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare

Bishop, Samuel (1731-1795)

II.

VERSES ON OCCASIONAL SUBJECTS.

II.

VOL. II.

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II. VOL. II.

MISCELLANEOUS.

VERSES SENT WITH A COPY OF MOORE's FABLES TO MISS MARY PALMER, AFTERWARDS MRS. BISHOP.

Miss! Cousin! Molly! Terms like those
Become the simple style of prose.—
When One to claim our verse we find
Dear, because good, above her kind,
To mark her from the vulgar throng,
Melissa is her name in song.

Melissa! then, (for you may claim
Dear, because good, the favorite name,)
Accept, acknowledge, and approve
Esteem, that means much more than Love;

Esteem, that greets each native trace
Of Spirit, Sentiment, and Grace;
And tho' in You she owns them met,
Presumes you not quite perfect yet;
But hopes to see you (doubt who will)
Still dearer, because better still.

How nicely form'd the Female Heart
For genuine Merit's noblest part!
How might your livelier Fancy's pow'rs
Extend, adorn, and soften ours!
How brilliant, how almost divine,
Would every sterner Virtue shine,
Transferr'd into a Woman's breast,
And in the Sex's sweetness drest!

Why then so barren lies a soil,
So worthy of the cultor's toil?

Ah! Ladies! by one fate you fall;
One little error ruins all!

I'll tell it,—tho' I stand reprov'd:
—You'd rather be admir'd than lov'd!
Hence is the Coxcomb's task so easy;
He makes you like himself, to please ye.

“Tis great to astonish and subdue,
“And lead a train of Captives.”—True—
Yet little Glory gilds your Reign,
If Knaves and Fops compose the train.
And take it, Fair-ones, for a rule,
A Flatterer must be Knave or Fool;
Whose treacherous tale, howe'er exprest,—
(Knaves do their worst, and Fools their best,)
Too soon, too surely lures your youth
From youth's first friend, Impartial Truth.
Truth, which would teach you to obtain
That Excellence it scorns to feign.

From Truth's award Melissa's ear
Had ever more to hope than fear:

Melissa therefore will agree,
Applauding Moore, to pardon me,
If proud in such a plan to join,
I preface Verse like his, with mine.

The Glass bright Laura's Toilette grac'd,
Patch, powder, and perfume were plac'd:—
—Before the gentle Dame drew nigh,
Her Monkey, and her Parrot by,
A courtly tête-à-tête began:—
And thus the conversation ran.

“Sweet Poll, permit me, or I burst,
“To tell my thought—Indeed! I must!
“That mimic archness—(Ah! mon cœur!)
“What mortal Monkey can endure!
“Such endless humour you have got!
“So fluent! so!—I can't say what!
“You rise in harmony and style,
“Above the feather'd race, a mile!

“In every tone of every word,
“A very, very human bird!
“And Toasts, would Toasts my hint pursue,
“To know themselves should study You.”
—He said, the Parrot thus reply'd;
“Your praises are just ground for pride:
“For sure, what Men themselves appear
“None knows so well, none comes so near;
“Trust me, your Grin displays to sight,
“Meaning as deep, and Teeth as white.—
“What Man could puff with happier face,
“For Wisdom, Spleen; for Wit, Grimace?
“This tongue, whose harmony of tone,
“Your rare discernment deigns to own,
“Would fail, insensible and cold,
“Ere half your parts and worth was told.
“Never in Manners, Air, or Feature,
“Was such a Gentleman-like Creature!”

Flattering and flatter'd, each believes:
Conceit takes all, that Folly gives.
Genius, it seems, with men they share:
Why not as graceful? and as fair?
Flush'd with the thought before the Glass
The self-made dupes resolve to pass:
Assur'd (what else could they suppose?)
Each peep would some new Grace disclose.

The Monkey turning first, survey'd
His own odd likeness;—shrug'd,—and said,—
“False Mirror, no!—it cannot be!
“I'm not that frightful Thing, I see!
“Spite, thy mere spite, protracts, I vow,
“My visage; and deforms my brow.”

The Parrot next, with fluttering breast,
Her disappointment thus confest;
“What have we here?—Is that my figure?
“Have Pow'rs so various, bulk no bigger?

“What symptom of a Wit so keen,
“Can in that drowsy Phiz be seen?
“Can from that pot-hook of a Bill,
“The honey of my Voice distill?
“Second, dear Pug, my vengeful blow;
“And shiver this insulting foe.”

She spoke,—and both with eager aim,
Rush'd furious, tow'rd the little frame.

“Hold! Blockheads! hold!” a Lap-dog cry'd,
(Who listen'd by the Toilette's side,)
“From wrath so base, so rash, forbear:—
“The Glass reflects you—as you are!
“Ugly, contemptible, absurd!
“A silly Brute, and paltry Bird!
“That Glass, when Laura's form it shows,
“With Beauty's liveliest lustre glows;
“Yet then, as now, no Blemish spares;
“Nor favour, nor affection bears:

“But gives to all—e'en all their Due;
“Her Charms to her—your Shame to you.”

Truth, like a Glass, when it conveys,
In moral Portraits, Blame or Praise,
Paints from the Life;—and will offend
Those only, whom it cannot mend.

TO MISS DICKINS,

WITH A PRESENT OF MOORE'S FABLES.

Books, my dear Girl, when well design'd,
Are moral Maps of human kind;
Where, sketch'd before judicious eyes,
The Road to Worth and Wisdom lies.

Severe Philosophy portrays
The steep, the rough, the thorny ways:

Cross woods and wilds, the Learned Tribe
A dark and doubtful path describe:

But Poesy her votaries leads
O'er level lawns, and verdant meads;

And if perchance, in sportful vein,
Thro' Fable's scenes she guide her train,
All is at once enchanted ground,
All Fancy's Garden glitters round.

I, Sally! (who shall long to see
In you, how good your Sex can be)
Before you range with curious speed,
Where'er that Garden's beauties lead,
And mark how Moore could once display
A scene so varied, and so gay,
Beg you, for introduction's sake,
A short excursive trip to make
O'er one poor plat, unlike the rest,
Which my more humble care hath drest:
Where, if a little flow'ret blows,
From pure Affection's root it grows.

A Virgin Rose, in all the pride
Of Spring's luxuriant blushes dy'd,
Above the vulgar Flowers was rais'd,
And with excess of lustre blaz'd.—

In full career of heedless play,
Chance brought a Butterfly that way;
She stopt at once her giddy flight,
Proud on so sweet a spot to light;
Spread wide her plumage to the sun,
And thus in saucy strain begun:

“Why, but to soften my repose,
“Could Nature rear so bright a Rose?
“Why, but on Roses to recline,
“Make forms so delicate as mine?
“Fate destin'd by the same decree,
“Me for the Rose; the Rose for me.”

A tiny Bug, who close between
The unfolding bloom had lurk'd unseen,

Heard, and in angry tone addrest
This rude invader of his nest:

“For thee, consummate fool, the Rose!
“No—to a nobler end it blows:—
“The velvet o'er it's foliage spread
“Secures to me, a downy bed:
“So thick it's crowding leaves ascend,
“To hide, to warm me, and defend:
“For me those odours they exhale,
“Which scent at second hand the gale;
“And give such Things as thee to share,
“What my superior claim can spare!”

While thus the quarrel they pursu'd,
A Bee the petty triflers view'd;
For once, reluctant, rais'd her head
A moment from her toil; and said;

“Cease, abject animals, to contest!
“They claim things most, who use them best.

“Would Nature finish Works like these,
“That Butterflies might bask at ease?
“Or Bugs intrench'd in splendor lie,
“Born but to crawl, and doze, and die?
“The Rose you vainly ramble o'er,
“Breaths balmy dews from every pore;
“Which yield their treasur'd sweets alone
“To skill and labour like my own:
“With sense as keen as yours, I trace
“Th' expanding blossom's glossy grace;
“It's shape, it's fragrance, and it's hue;
“But while I trace, improve them too:
“Still taste; but still, from hour to hour,
“Bear home new Honey, from the flow'r.”

Conceit may read for mere pretence;
For mere amusement, Indolence;
True Spirit deems no study right,
Till Profit dignify Delight.

TO MRS. BISHOP,

WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE.

“A Knife,” dear Girl, “cuts Love,” they say!
Mere modish Love, perhaps it may—
—For any tool, of any kind,
Can separate—what was never join'd.

The Knife, that cuts our Love in two,
Will have much tougher work to do;
Must cut your Softness, Truth, and Spirit,
Down to the vulgar size of Merit;
To level yours, with modern Taste,
Must cut a world of Sense to waste;

And from your single Beauty's store,
Clip, what would dizen out a score.

That self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, Judgment, Sight, for ever:
All Memory of Endearments past,
All Hope of Comforts long to last;—
All that makes fourteen Years with you,
A Summer;—and a short one too;—
All, that Affection feels and fears,
When hours without you seem like years.

Till that be done, (and I'd as soon
Believe this Knife will chip the Moon,)
Accept my Present, undeterr'd,
And leave their Proverbs to the Herd.

If in a kiss—delicious treat!—
Your lips acknowledge the receipt,

Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only—“cut and come again!”

TO THE SAME,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING DAY, WHICH WAS ALSO HER BIRTH DAY. WITH A RING.

“Thee, Mary, with this Ring I wed”—
So, fourteen Years ago, I said.—
Behold another Ring!—“for what?”
“To wed thee o'er again?”—Why not?

With that first Ring I married Youth,
Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth;
Taste long admir'd, Sense long rever'd,
And all my Molly then appear'd.

If she, by Merit since disclos'd,
Prove twice the Woman I suppos'd,
I plead that double Merit now,
To justify a double Vow.

Here then to-day, (with Faith as sure,
With Ardor as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the Rites divine,
I took thy Troth, and plighted mine,)
To thee, sweet Girl, my second Ring
A Token and a Pledge I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper Virtues to my heart;
Those Virtues, which before untry'd,
The Wife has added to the Bride:
Those Virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing Wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake, as well as Love's.

And why?—They shew me every hour,
Honour's high thought, Affection's power,
Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence,—
—And teach me all things—but Repentance.—

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH AN ORANGE-BERGAMOT SNUFF-BOX.

An husband, as in duty bound,
Presents, what an admirer found;
(Pray start not, when you lift the lid!)
A portrait in a Snuff-Box hid:
Aye marry—and myself alone
Can boast th' original my own.

By nature's early cunning wrought,
This Box no second polish sought;
Such in this form, as on the bough;
Plain orange then, plain orange now.

Apt outline of a certain Dame,
Whose taste from nature's judgment came;
To whom mere genius gives a style,
Which fashion ne'er could mend—nor spoil.

Our Boxes of more modish make,
From various sources value take;
An artist's name; an humourist's whim;
The curious hinge; the costly rim:
But all in this agree, they bear
No perfume, till we place it there;
While modest Orange here, augments
From it's own store the richest scents;—
A miniature complete, and true,
Of—why not speak at once?—of you!—
Whose manner, in each part you fill,
Makes pleasure's self, more pleasing still.

This Orange, in some former hour,
Had, like all oranges, it's sour;

But soon that acid fount was drain'd;
And endless fragrancy remain'd:
So, in the Woman I admire,
If pregnant sense, perchance, inspire
A little jest, a little tart,
'Tis from the fancy, not the heart;
Fancy—whose sour a moment quells;
An heart—where sweetness ever dwells.

And is not then the picture like?
And does not every feature strike?—
Yes!—And the world would own it too,
If what I've seen, the world could view;—
I, who with this poor gift and lay,
Thus greet again our Wedding Day;
And cent'ring in one friend and guide,
My joy's excess, my reason's pride,
Would for increasing love engage,—
Were every day to come, an age!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A PEARL BUCKLE, AND VELVET COLLAR.

The day declin'd; the year was clos'd;—
Beside his forge, tir'd Labour doz'd:—
A Golden Buckle, meant to deck
At morn's return my Mary's neck,
(Tribute mere justice long'd to pay,)
Half finish'd, on his anvil lay.

Benighted, (how, it matters not,)
Love, Truth, and Time, approach'd the spot:
They saw th' imperfect toy; they knew
Where, and from whom, and when, 'twas due.

Since our connubial bliss begun,
How many years their course have run!
And, if more dear could be, more dear,
How Love has made you, year by year!

What wonder therefore, if my breast,
By one idea all possest,
Whene'er I think, whate'er I do,
Enjoys the slightest hint of You!

Ev'n in a Toy at random wrought,
Some features faithful Fancy caught;

Whence Love could trace, and Truth portray,
The Wife and Woman of to-day.

In this same simple Bag, I see
A type of female Industry:—
And where's the Labour, where's the Care,
You've fear'd to meet, or grudg'd to share?
A scanty Lot the world supplies!—
—You make that scanty lot suffice.
Hope for a little moment gleams!—
—More liberal efforts prompt your schemes.
While sense improves a thousand ways,
What Patience bore, with equal praise:
And frugal skill, correcting Taste,
Seems only Ornament more chaste:
Or Toils express, as each takes place,
How new exertions vary grace.

Two-fold Materials, aptly join'd,
To form this votive Bag combin'd:

A Silken Top invites our hands,
Whose Base mere humble Paper stands.
That Base, (too well experience knows,)
Your tender Frame's true semblance shows;
Which pain now rends, now weakness wears,
And every ruder touch impairs:—
While, like the Silken Top, your Mind,
Preserves, unconquer'd tho' resign'd,
Gentle to sooth, firm to endure,
It's texture whole, it's lustre pure.

A Band, scarce obvious to the sight,
Extends this Bag, or draws it tight;
Fit emblem of the secret clue,
(As delicate, and as powerful too,)
With which our judgments you controul,
And move, or fix at will, the soul:—
While all a daughter's feelings say,
'Tis mere indulgence to obey;

And fondness knows not how to boast
An husband's pride, or pleasure, most.

When in this Bag, your care has pent
Each future needful implement,
'Twill be the perfect counter-part,
Of that large treasury—your heart:
Where gradual exercise hath stor'd
Whate'er makes merit more ador'd:
Where every grief your friends endure,
Expects it's comfort; or it's cure!

Still, Molly, let that Heart find room,
For all th' extremes of mortal doom;
To every sorrow round apply
A cordial, or devote a sigh;—
But keep from all, save rapture, free
A corner there for Love and Me.

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH HIS OWN PROFILE IN SHADOW.

In many an emblem's better part,
I've pictur'd oft, your head and heart;
Permit me now to let you see,
A Shadow, that should look like me;
The Shadow of a Man obscure,
In all, but one dear treasure, poor;
Yet more than wealthy, happy too,
To call that one dear treasure—You!

The Shadow of a Man, whose eye
Could Worth in Beauty's form descry:

Mark'd where the worthiest charm the most;
And saw in You, all each could boast;
And seeing, lov'd; and loving, thought,
The more he lov'd, the more he ought.

The Shadow of a Man, who knows
How likeness from affection grows;
And his own Virtue best secures,
When most he feels, and honours Yours.

In short, mere Shadow, as it is,
Queer copy of as queer a Phiz,
This mimic bawble of a face,
Assumes a style, and claims a place,
All other Pride and Praise above—
—The Shadow of the Man You love!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY, WITH A SILVER TEA-POT, AND OTHER PLATE.

Affection, which in humbler Toys,
Has oft expressed it's annual joys,
Boasts no increase, assumes no state,
In these more gaudy gifts of Plate:
Small odds their previous price procures,
Their Worth commences, when they 're Yours:
And Love so just as mine before,
Was never less—nor can be more.

I knew you amiably great,
When hallow'd Union join'd our fate;

Whatever part esteem inspir'd,
Or duty taught, or need requir'd,
Took from your Spirit double force;
'Twas good—and it was yours, of course;
Or, vice versâ understood,
Was yours—and therefore it was good.

Imagin'd powers, if fiction drew,
Your real powers made fiction true:
If praise indulged a loftier tone,
'Twas praise of manners—like your own.

Years following years disclos'd to sight,
The same dear merit in new light;
Merit, that every light could bear,
More varied, but to seem more fair.
Th' Address, that made my fondest hope,
The centre of it's earlier scope,
With equal latitude still shares
Th' acute excess of all my cares;—

Now, drooping nature to sustain,
Smiles Comfort on the bed of pain:—
Now, shows me on how sure a base,
Temper and Sense build Taste and Grace;—
Now, adds a plume to Fancy's flight:—
Now, points my views to nobler Height.

Meanwhile, thus cheer'd, assisted, blest,
I ('tis the most I can) attest
My grateful heart's applausive truth,
With paltry Plate, and Rhymes—forsooth!

Yet take 'em, Girl, as meant to prove
Tokens, not measures, of my Love:
If value, more than that, they plead,
They're miserably short indeed!
No Verse can make my feelings known,
While Verse consists of words alone:
No Silver give you half your due,
Till Silver is as pure as You!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH AN IVORY TOOTH-PICK CASE, OF FRENCH MANUFACTORY.

A Toy from France craves leave to pay,
With me, it's homage to the Day:—
A Toy indeed!—from France indeed!—
—That's all it pleads—or has to plead.

My little tokens, oft, of yore,
Your emblematic semblance bore:
But this, the portrait I propose,
By not resembling, will disclose.

Long us'd, in annual gifts to find
Some semblance of your form, and mind,
I stood resolv'd, this year, to make
One change at least, for changing sake;
And by a powerful pencil's aid,
Present you with—Myself portray'd.

Vain scheme!—My Face the canvas shows;
My Verse no change of Object knows;
Fancy, tho' vagrant, faithful too,
Extends, but never quits the clue.

Perhaps, when there, henceforth she marks,
It's glittering sparks succeed to sparks,
She'll think, how oft my joy confest
Each brighter part her life exprest:
And saw, in such gradation plac'd,
The rays of Genius, Sense, and Taste,
That scarce affectionate applause,
Had known a limit, or a pause!

Perhaps, when she observes how pure,
How glowing, how intense t' endure,
The lustre every point displays,
Whose each new motion beams new blaze,

Her conscious Memory will return,
To similar proofs of my concern;
Attachment, whose perpetual care,
Her interests, merits, comforts share;
Regard, which nothing could transfer,
Ev'n to a wish, estrang'd from her;
Feelings, which Fate's eventful range
Did never chill, shall never change.

Perhaps, Reflection's eye will seize
An hint, from Brilliants, hard as these;
Impassive substance; firm to mock,
Assailing pressure's rudest shock:
And thence a kind remembrance cast,
On years of patient effort past;
When her Exertion, Skill, Address,
Made all my Toils and Sorrows less;
Till emulous Perseverance caught
The Spirit, her example taught;

And Hope, thro' pain, suspense, dismay,
Cheer'd by her aid, pursued it's way;
Hope, doubly welcome, when it's aims
Unite my prospects, with her claims.

Perhaps, in short, sometimes by chance,
These Gems may catch her graver glance;
And Thought suggest, how soon may fail
The voice, that loves her worth to hail!
Then, while her silent sighs ascend,
The Ring will bring to mind the Friend;
Th' Admirer, Lover, Husband, Man,
Who glorying in one favorite plan,
Resolv'd t' announce, in Time's despite,
(As long, at least, as Diamonds might,)
That Heav'n's award to him assign'd
The Best and Dearest of her kind!

TO THE SAME,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER WRITTEN TO HIM DURING HIS ABSENCE ON A JOURNEY INTO KENT.

FROM THE GATE-POST LEADING TO LEYBURN GRANGE, AUGUST 27, 1786.

Do you ask how I fare, and how matters turn out?
—I am heartily pleas'd; and am happily stout;

And can give every wish, except one, it's Quietus;
'Tis a wish, that occurs with each prospect I view;
Let Horace tell Clare, and let Clare tell it you;—

“Excepto quod non simul esses, cætera lætus.”
Or if Clare's too engag'd with his Adams and Sandby,
And you'll take a translation in my Nanby Panby,
“Wanting only yourself, to be snug, as snug can be.”

TO THE SAME,

WITH A PRESENT OF APPLES.

FROM THE RUINS OF DITTON PARSONAGE, AUGUST 28, 1786.

Your Golder's Hill, you oft exclaim,
Fills every wish your heart can frame:—
No such proud boast can Ditton make;
Yet gives you for a token's sake,
What ev'n at Golder's Hill you miss,
—A Dumplin, in a year like this!

TO THE SAME.

CANTERBURY, AUGUST 28, 1789.

I

Will you hear a new sing-song, of hey! diddle derry?
How a Bishop ran rambling to fair Canterbury?
A Bishop by name, tho' no Bishop in deed,
Un-Doctor'd, un-Lordship'd, un-Mitred, un-See'd;
Derry Down.

II

This Bishop left All, when his journey he took;
Nay his own better half, his dear Wife, he forsook;
From whence you'll perceive, if at Irish you laugh,
That this Bishop's All—was an All and an half:
Derry Down.

III

But a truce with this paddy-cal, punnical scrawl,
Whose sense, when you've found it, is no sense at all:
Our torrent of wit let us wisely contract;
And glide on in plain terms, to plain matter of fact:
Derry Down.

IV

Master Bishop, to do things a little in style,
Took a seat in a Dilly, at so much per mile,
And because the best Company suited his palate,
Had on this side a Brim, and on that a French Valet:
Derry Down.

V

Monsieur to the Lady meet rapture addrest,
With whose beauty our sight was so happily blest!
Tho' the Dame, if appearance will authorise guessing,
Was experter in blasting of eyes, than in blessing.
Derry Down.

VI

The Bishop sat wishing with many a pout;—
Wishing what?—Why the end of the journey, no doubt;—
For tho' tempted, he scorn'd, for mere Charity's sake,
To wish their necks broke—while his own was at stake.
Derry Down.

VII

But luck, which had play'd him full oft a dog-trick,
For this once, in his life, stood his friend, in the nick;
And by changing about, at Stone's End, he was carry'd
With a rich Kentish Squire, and a Maid he had marry'd:
Derry Down.

VIII

So leaving the Dilly and also it's Vermin,
To make love, or be hang'd, as their fate shall determine,
He got safe in good quarters, in fair Canterbury:—
And thus ends this queer sing-song of hey! diddle derry.
Derry Down.

TO THE SAME.

CANTERBURY, AUGUST 29, 1789.

Thro' tower-crown'd battlements I stray,
Whence Kings th' assault of rage defy'd;
Or take midst gorgeous shrines my way,
August remains of priestly pride.

Those priests so proud, those kings so great,
Their pomp and power, have long resign'd;
Tho' haply at the hour of fate,
They sigh'd—for what they left behind!

I pity them, alas!—and why?
Ev'n now a similar grief I share;
Who think of Golder's Hill, and sigh,
For what I left behind me there!

TO THE SAME,

ON HER DESIRING TO KNOW WHAT SORT OF JOURNEY HE HAD TO DITTON.

1791.

A Dame, frank, spirited, and smart,
With lively daughters two,
Reliev'd my journey's tedious part;
But none of them—was You!

A comfortable Inn's retreat,
My just approval drew;
'Twas neatness, drest in style most neat,
But still it wanted—You!

Nature display'd her Vernal Face,
In all it's pride of hue;
'Twas bloom, 'twas beauty, sweetness, grace,
But yet it was not—You!

Bright Scenes, good Quarters, Converse gay,
For other hearts might do;
But I've a wish, where'er I stray,
Which nothing fills—but You!

TO THE SAME,

DESIRING HIM TO WRITE ONLY ABOUT HIMSELF, ON A JOURNEY.

MAIDSTONE, AUGUST 11, 1792.

You charg'd me, from the Bell, Maidstone,
To write about myself alone;
“For why? My health, and my glad cheer,
“Was all the news, you long'd to hear.”

Mary! I love to meet your will,
But this injunction mocks my skill:
Your Bard, I'll rhyme; your Slave, I'll run;
But cannot do, what can't be done.

For instance;—note the truths I tell—
“Your Bishop has arriv'd right well;”

“Enjoy'd a journey, warm, but good,”
“And pleasant—as you wish'd he shou'd;”
“O'er his lamb-chop to you he drinks:”
“Of you, when happiest, most he thinks.”

Now mark!—and speak, what justice ought.—
—Could this be written, told, or thought,
Without (pray count them, if you please)
At least as many you's as me's?

While then, your kind concern I own,
I've no such thing, as self alone:
Expression can no more disjoin,
My-self from yours, your-self from mine,
Than time or tide, can ever part,
One Faith in both; one Will; one Heart!

And I must be a strange forgetter,
If e'er, in fancy, phrase, or letter,
By any means, on any spot,
I share a self, which you share not;

Or let two words, in my mind's eye,
Unite more close, than You, and I.

Bate this impossible condition,
In all things else, I'm all submission:
But every mention how I fare,
Must one predominant feature bear;
While each idea's constant clue,
Begins with me!—to end with you!

TO THE SAME,

ON HER WEARING A NEW DRESS.

Sweet negligence and happy art,
Leave Mary equally complete;
Her Taste makes smartness, still more smart;
Her Grace makes neatness, still more neat.

Your sex, with too immense a claim,
Our hearts, dear Mary, would subdue,
If dress could give to every dame,
As much as it receives from you!

TO THE SAME,

ON HER HAVING ACCIDENTALLY HURT HER EYE.

That orb extinct a general grief would draw;
For you and for the world, how just! how keen!
You'd lose the clearest eye that ever saw;
The world the brightest, that was ever seen!

TO THE SAME,

WITH A PRESENT OF PICKLED OYSTERS.

I Hope, you'll not quarrel
With this little barrel;
Nor scornfully stickle
Against oysters in pickle,
Since so freely they pass
O'er your palate in sauce.
If the Critics look cross,
As if sauce should be sawce;
Let them tie their wit up,
While on oysters you sup:—
And as soon as you've done,
If their tongues then must run,
Let them take for their pains, what these tubs left behind 'em,
And lick the shells clean—if they know, where to find 'em!

TO MRS. AND MISS BISHOP,

IN EXCUSE FOR NOT COMING INTO THE COUNTRY TO DINNER.

A Visit, in due form, I paid,
To my good Lord of Bangor's—maid!
Himself!—no friends in Town will share him,
Till Senates call, and Wales can spare him.

Then strove I, (but in vain I strove,)
To shew my shapes in time for Grove.

The cross puss Fortune still turn'd tail;
And distanc'd me again with Gale.

Fretting to fiddle-strings my guts,
I found 'twas now too late for Cutts.

No huswife, in a cookmaid's pocket,
Was e'er cram'd half so full as Crockett.

Both Houlds and Weeks (could I have gotten 'em)
Requir'd a previous tramp to Tottenham;
And should I miss 'em, double, double,
(Going and coming,) toil and trouble.

On foot, I might as well pretend
To reach the North Pole, as North End;
Tho' you were dearer, three times told,
And Golder's Hill, an Hill of Gold.

I therefore am compell'd to clap,
This scurvy scribble on this scrap,

And send Amigôs assientôs
The greeting I can't bring on ten-toes.

I am, dear girls, to dam and cub,
Affectionate dad, and loving hub!

TO MISS BISHOP, BEING ON A VISIT AT RICHMOND.

[_]

MARTIAL. BOOK 10. EPIGRAM 47. IMITATED.

The things, my dearest girl, that please
In visitants like you—are these:
—Politeness, that appears inspir'd
By Nature, not by Art acquir'd:
Sense quick to learn, and glad t' inform:
Good-humour ever frank and warm:

100

Will, that contends not: No Excess,
Nor needless Frequency of Dress:
An Heart that is, and seems serene:
Youth's active Ease: Health's cheerful Mien:
Prudent Simplicity: A Mind,
To social Gentleness inclin'd:
An Appetite, that scorns no Treat;
Yet most enjoys the simplest Meat:
Spirits from Morn to Night that last,
By no affected Gloom o'ercast:
Mirth not extravagant, nor loud:
And Seriousness nor cross, nor proud:

101

A firm Resolve in Act and Thought,
To be the very thing you ought;
Whate'er you do, where'er you go,
Sleeping and waking, still to show
For Friends abroad all just concern;
Nor long, nor scruple to return.

102

TO THE SAME, AT RICHMOND.

SUPPOSED TO COME FROM A FAVORITE PERSIAN KITTEN.

'Tis but a little wish I send,—
Accept it from a little friend.—

May the whole period of your stay
Be jocund, as a Kitten's Day!
Your temper and your manner shine,
Sprightly and innocent, as mine!
May Pleasure's self, for your dear sake,
A portion of my likeness take!
Be brilliant, as the eye so blue;
Be spotless, as the snowy hue;
Be frequent, as the frisks; and yet,
Smooth, as the fur, of your—Minette!

103

TO THE SAME,

WITH A POCKET-MIRROR.

This Glass above all price you'll raise,
Yourself, dear girl, above all praise;
If you can teach it to display,
(As all my hopes portend it may,)
One living likeness of your Mother—
—The World can hardly show another!

104

TO THE SAME,

WITH A COPY OF MADAM SÉVIGNÉ'S LETTERS.

Such was, in France, but in another age,
A polish'd Woman's sweetly moral Page;
Taught by a Mother's Feelings to display
An Heart so tender, in a Style so gay!

Mary! 'tis yours th' alternate part to prove!
How Filial, can return Maternal Love!
To urge a claim on present Excellence plac'd;
Perfect in Act; as Sévigné was in Taste!

105

While conscious Candor shall rejoice to learn,
From what She wrote, and what your Virtues earn,
That Heav'n appropriates Genius, to no time;
Sense, to no sex; and Merit, to no clime!

Superior Minds, like Stars, o'er infinite space,
With separate radiance, various orbits trace:
But when impell'd by Pious Ardor's force,
(Whate'er their period, magnitude, or course,)
Rise in full glow; and shine sublimely fair!—
—For Nature's noblest Energies center there.

106

TO THE SAME,

WITH A MEDALLION, ON WHICH WAS REPRESENTED A FIGURE OF HOPE, LEANING ON AN ANCHOR OF DIAMONDS.

When Filial Piety, Female Worth refines,
Parental Hope, on Adamant reclines.

TO THE SAME,

WITH A SILVER SEAL, WHICH HAD BELONGED TO THE AUTHOR'S FATHER, SET IN GOLD.

Let this Domestic Relique prove,
If not your Father's wealth, his love;
Of all his Father once enjoy'd,
The only Relique, not destroy'd;

107

Devolving, by unquestion'd claim,
On You—sole Heiress—of our Name.

If, when your Grandsire's Arms you view,
Nature should catch th' affecting cue,
And prompt a pious wish t' explore,
What Form, what Mind, that Grandsire bore,
The very Seal, those Arms which shows,
Some prominent Features will disclose:—
The Silver marks his mental store;
Pure, unambitious, useful Ore:
While ever, like the Gold, his Deed,
Each moral Touchstone's test could plead.—
—For other traits my pencil trust:
Tho' faint the tints, the lines are just.

A Stature, full, compact, erect,—
A Manner, to command respect,—
An Eye, that look'd a friendly joke,—
The frank, but firm Old Briton spoke.

108

Well-principled, well-inform'd, well-skill'd,
He dignified the part he fill'd;
Wrought no man's wrong—nor e'er delay'd,
When injur'd right requir'd his aid:
Stern to condemn, tho' slow to wound
The guilt, his keen discernment found;
To fraud inflexible;—yet prone
To mitigate suffering folly's moan;
And spare the criminal, while he gave
To sure conviction all the knave:
By Craft, at once admir'd and fear'd;
By Sense approv'd; to Worth endear'd.

Tho' crush'd by pain, entomb'd he lay,
Ere your eyes open'd to the day,
Myself have heard, on public ground,
Within the passing year's short round,
Surviving evidence proclaim
Spontaneous reverence for his name;

109

While thus the cordial suffrage ran,—
“'Twas generous George, the Upright Man!”
How few among the sumptuous shrines,
Where proud mortality reclines,
Boast merit, on that basis rais'd?
So long remember'd?—or so prais'd?

If aught in his contracted sphere,
An Heart so manly, Hands so clear,
By Spirit nerv'd, by Fortune crost,
With Honour earn'd, with Patience lost,
May that arrear, whate'er th' amount,
Be plac'd, dear Girl, to your account!
To you, may Heaven's award benign,
The Health, to him denied, assign!
To you, with this his Seal, make o'er
His right to Better Days, of yore!
And add, your own Deserts to grace,
All Time's old Debts, to all your Race!

110

TO THE REV. THOMAS CLARE.

SEPTEMBER 6, 1779.

While all the quid-nunc tribe aghast lies,
Bamm'd by the present, and the past Lies,
Such desperate here—there such bombast Lies,
Twixt which, small odds, tho' great contrast lies,
(I would to heav'n, they were the last Lies,)
What if we two, whose dim forecast lies,
Bewilder'd in so vague, and vast Lies,
Quit Politics—and meet at Astley's?

111

TO THE SAME.

LEFT AT THE BAR OF THE SOMERSET-HOUSE COFFEE-HOUSE.

Where are the Wits, extoll'd of yore?
Like Master Bishop—Gone before—
—Where's Master Bishop?—As they are,
Gone forward—but not quite so far!
—Him and his ways, three words explain—
The Pit—Orchestra—Drury-Lane.

112

TO ANTHONY DICKINS ESQ.

IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER.

JUNE 5, 1777.

Before your friendly note I got,
Two Abchurch hams were in the pot:—
So much I heard upon the spot;—
And people deeper in the plot,
Dropt hints (I heard not clearly what)
Of fish-pans, sauce, and water hot,
Which put together, spelt turbot;
For which the parish pays the shot.

But viands move me not a jot;
To Lincoln's Inn, at four, I'd trot,

113

But that my promise bids me not,
—To break such promise would (God wot)
Be in my scutcheon a foul blot:—
The more unlucky is my lot.

Yet must I pass for knave or sot,
If your kind summons be forgot:
Some fitter day I'll soon allot,
At your and Madam's side to squat,
Enjoy her pie, and Sal's Gavot.—
—Else may each Muse in grove or grot
Despise me, more than Wilkes a Scot;
More than a lion, a marmot!
May cookmaids hoot me for a cot!
May Dutchmen call me Hottentot!
May all my rhymes on dunghils rot!
Still may I sail, without pilot,
On board the Disappointment Yatch;
Meagre and mad as Don Quixote,

114

My wealth, a cypher and a dot;
May Tyburn's self, in the upshot,
String for my neck a running knot!
And my good name, outstink schalot!

115

TO THE SAME,

SHOT ON THE POINT OF AN ARROW, INTO HIS GARDEN AT EWELL.

OCTOBER 27, 1779.

“From whence,” you'll cry, “comes This, I trow?”
“From Spirits on high? or Imps below?”

'Tis not from Spirits on high—tho' sure
What claims our Love, must theirs procure.

'Tis from no Imp—for, entre-nous,
The Devil better knows his cue:
Busy inferior souls to catch,
But shy of Worth—above his match.

In short (of doubts, at once, to ease ye)
'Tis from the Dorking Stage, and please ye!

116

A flying How d'ye! and God bless ye!
—But why in this odd mode address ye?—
To make you laugh, and, laughing, say,
“The Fool has shot his bolt to day.”

Tho' should you giggle, till you cry, Sir;
Till doom's-day; or till I grow wiser;
You can't my folly more deride,
Than I do, half the world's beside.

For, truly, when with closer ken,
One views the trim of things and men;
How oft convenience, stands for conscience,
And wisdom, is but graver nonsense;
While, hare-um! scare-um! crowds jog on,
Imposing, and impos'd upon;
While this, I say, still meets one's eye;
Tho' sometimes it provoke a sigh,
At others, 'tis at least as well,
Voir, etre, faire—la Bagatelle.

117

TO THE SAME,

ON HIS CALLING TO INQUIRE AFTER THE AUTHOR'S HEALTH, WHEN CONFINED TO HIS CHAMBER WITH THE GOUT.

[_]

EXTEMPORE.

Soon as I heard your friendly rap,
I wish'd of course from gouty lap,
To greet you with poetic scrap,
But Fancy cried, “Negatur:”
She deals in vanity, a bit,—
But never, in her vainest fit,
Could think of keeping pace in wit,
With Dickins in Good-nature.

118

TO A LADY,

ON THE BIRTH OF HER GRANDSON.

In your, and in your Grandson's name,
A short, but hearty wish we frame:—
May he down Life's smooth current swim,
And still new cause occur,
To make his Mother's pride in Him,
As just, as Yours in Her!

119

TO THE BISHOP OF BANGOR.

APRIL 8, 1780.

'Tis true—we see, my Lord, the Times
So rank in Follies, Vices, Crimes,
That all the serious Truths you preach,
Instruct not, more than they impeach.

Yet while th' enormities, you blame,
Eclipse too visibly our fame,
One sign at least, of grace suspends
The total shame, our guilt portends.

For Censure's self will scarce engage,
Ev'n on so profligate an age
To fix an universal blot,—
Till Your Promotion is forgot.

120

TO ALDERMAN BOYDELL.

From Esteem in Cheapside, to Eclat in Pall Mall,
How happily Boydell proceeds;
While his judgment discriminates efforts so well,
To which his encouragement leads!

No wonder if loud approbation ensue!
'Tis Merit's right natural fruit;
When Spirit, like his, carries Arts into view;
And those Arts carry Shakespeare to boot!

121

TO THE REVEREND MR. FAYTING.

WOTTON, AUGUST 1779.

Dear Sir! To you this packet bears
My hearty duty, and best prayers.
To which annexed a Schedule is
Of Sundries here at Wotton—Viz:

A Country, delicately rude—
(I mean not to be quaint, or shrewd,)
My heart so calls, while my eye views it—
Had I an apter phrase, I'd use it,

A Soil, so dry, that spite of rains,
Along the ridge, or cross the plains,

122

Pope's slip-shod Sybil might have past;
And not been wet-shod, first or last.

A Congregation, of plain men:—
Of Squires I've had as yet no ken;
For truly, thro' my time at least,
They've troubled neither Church nor Priest.

A Parsonage, on a spot in which
Wisdom herself her tent would pitch;
That scorns the storm, yet greets the gale;
Below the hills; above the vale.

A Parlour, whose dimensions lie,
More long, than wide; more wide, than high;
Yet high enough to dine, with ease,
A score—of Giants if you please;
Of Giants, tall, as earth e'er bred;—
Unless one sits on t'other's head!

A Chamber, trim as trim can be:
A Bed, snugg—with a double g:

123

Furnish'd—how smartly, and how well,
In truth I slept too sound, to tell.

Lawns, Ponds, a Garden, and a Mound,
With firs of classic grandeur crown'd:
And Comfort, (some sure signs declare,)
Has taken up her Quarters there.

A Yard, where pigs and poultry stray:
A Glebe, where all things seem to say,
The sooner Friends exhaust this store,
The sooner they'll make room for more.

Two Rooms, on one foundation set;
Mere walls, and floors, and ceilings yet:
But Taste, my Landlord's engineer,
Stands bound to finish 'em next year.

An Host, and Hostess—but to show,
How far their courtesy can go,
Would puzzle an Extempore Muse;
And yet be telling you no news.

124

If peradventure, your esteem
Suggest more questions on this theme,
To solve such questions I'll endeavour,
In vivâ voce Prose—Yours ever.

125

TO THE SAME.

(ON A BROOMSTICK.)

1779.

“Write on a Broomstick, Friend,” you cry'd:—
“Write on, and for Yourself,” says Pride.—
How shall I both commands fulfil?
You ought to rule me, and Pride will.—

What if I try, in one design
Duty, and Vanity to join?—
And while I urge the Broomstick's plea,
Describe, how it resembles Me?
Perhaps you may approve the hint;
Tho' if you should, there's danger in't:

126

Approval, such as yours, to get,
Would only make me prouder yet.

“Can prouder be?”—quoth Critic Laughter.
That's even as shall appear hereafter:—
Enquire we now, wherein, and why,
Such as the Broomstick is, am I.

When once 'tis sever'd from the tree,
None heeds the Broomstick's pedigree:
And who, I wonder, cares a pin,
From whom I sprung, to whom I'm kin?

Before the Broomstick of to-day
Came, as a Broomstick, into play,
'Twas pluck'd, and peel'd, and lopt, and clipt,
Of Boughs, as I of Fortune stript;
Then, like myself, at random hurl'd,
A bare adventurer on the world.

Most Broomsticks to a twist incline,
Just like this poking Pate of mine:

127

Nor can you set, by art or might,
The Wood quite straight, the Head upright:
Nor is the Head, nor is the Wood,
Worth half the trouble, if you cou'd.

A Broomstick's point (if you attend)
Is always near it's bigger end:
So, (this dull ditty makes it plain,)
My thickest part is next my brain.

Humour a Broomstick, as you may,
'Twill crack, before it will give way:
And I, for my own whims contending,
Bear great antipathy to bending.

Tho' oft in squabbles it appear,
No Broomstick fights a volunteer;
Press'd into combat, if it break
One's head, 'tis for another's sake:
—Such would I be;—my friends to guard,
Would smite; and, if I smote, smite hard;

128

But never thro' the whole of life,
Stand forth, a Principal in strife.

The Broomstick ne'er affects extremes,
Content to be, the thing it seems:
May I, with stedfast mind and phiz,
Taking the world, as the world is,
Make such philosophy my own;
Glad to let well enough alone!

True to it's proper part, and place,
The Broomstick scorns to push a face:
And I that maxim to a tittle
Pursue, some think too far a little;
More prone to quit the ground I've got,
Than claim a rank I merit not;
Conscious how scanty, at the most,
Is all Truth can, or Sense would, boast.

Witches, 'tis said, on Lapland's coast,
Astride their Broomsticks travel post:

129

So when the Muse is pleas'd to back
My wooden Genius for an hack,
Away she scampers, like a Witch,
Thro' thick and thin, cross hedge and ditch;
As if resolv'd, before we part,
To break her own neck, or my heart.

Broomsticks on no punctilios stand,
Ready alike for every hand:
So I my skill and powers would suit,
(Powers how confin'd! skill how minute!)
To any need, at any call!—
Be useful—or not be at all.

One semblance more of me (God knows)
The Broomstick, too exactly, shows;
By bands, long! long! perhaps to last,
'Tis, like myself, to Birch bound fast!
—And shall things ever thus remain?—
'Tis fair to hope, tho' not complain.

130

I bear, meanwhile, what must be born:
And when to a mere Stump I'm worn,
Let this Eulogium on my Tomb stick,
“Here lies the Model of a Broomstick!”

131

TO THE REVEREND DR. ALTHAM.

THANKS FOR A PRESENT OF A PIG. WRITTEN UNDER AN EMBLEM OF ELOQUENCE, REPRESENTED BY THE FIGURE OF A MAN EXALTED ON A PEDESTAL, AND HOLDING THE EARS OF HIS AUDITORS IN STRINGS.

From a scrub book, no matter what,
This Type of Eloquence I got;
But think, with better right and grace,
Your Pig may take the Speaker's place.

For, from the moment I drew out
From straw and packthread it's round snout,
I've listen'd to the news it brings,
As if it held my ears in strings.

132

Ask you upon what theme it dwells?
—Hear then the tale, a dead Pig tells!—

First, Sir, and foremost, thus it saith,
“That Rumour is not ground for Faith.”
—No great discovery I allow;—
Yet mighty welcome doctrine now:
For Rumour you must know, with too many
Sad symptoms of a Peripneumony,
Had laid you up—and would, no doubt,
Ere long have kill'd, and laid you out.
But this same Pig of yours alleges,
(And for it's truth it's carcase pledges,
Whereto it adds, by way of proof,
A label scrawl'd with your own hoof,)
That you (let Fame lie more or less)
Two properties at least possess
Of Men alive, and fit to live—
—An hand to write—an heart to give.

133

Moreover, it sets forth, as fully,
As if 't had studied under Tully,
That, spite of changes and of chances,
Time, distance, and cross circumstances,
An odd old Comrade's name can fill
One corner of your memory still;
An honour, truly worth my getting;
A joy, that shrinks not in the wetting:
To which, had I the life of Nestor,
I would subscribe my—Ita testor.

Am I then an ill estimator,
Who call your Pig a Prime Orator?
No.—If 'tis Eloquence's part
To give a fillip to the heart,
Try Pigs, and Speech-makers ad libitum,
When, where, and how you please, exhibit 'em,
Yet from earth's surface to it's centre,
You'll never find an eloquenter.

134

So much for rhyme.—Descende, Pegase!—
—What! and forget Dame Hanway's Legacy!—
The Pig indeed spoke not a word on't;
Perhaps, because it never heard on't;
Perhaps, because it would not puff:
—But Jem's authority's enough:
And Jem has stated an account
Of Goods and Monies;—whose amount
Will fill with plate your shop, and his shop;
Your pockets; and I hope your wish up;—
Whereof God give you joy!—Yours, Bishop.

135

TO MR. MERLIN.

WRITTEN IN ONE OF HIS CHAIRS, DURING A FIT OF THE GOUT.

FEBRUARY 4, 1789.

I

You! who in Fortune's rough high road,
Which all are deem'd to whirl in,
For gouty feet, would keep a Seat,
Apply to Master Merlin!

II

Tho' coronets, fringe, and velvet deck
The Chair that holds an Earl in,
At Gout's first touch, he'd change ten such,
For One of Master Merlin!

136

III

The Beau must have a powdering Chair,
To frizz toupee, and curl in:—
Let him be fine, let ease be mine,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

IV

Some hire an Holiday Chaise and one,
To cram man, wife, boy, girl in:—
I neither steed, nor company need,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

V

Talk not of Eastern Caravans,
With silk, gold, spice, and pearl in:—
Life knows no gain, like rest from pain,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

137

VI

You travel at your driver's will,
In Dilly, Hack, or Berlin:—
I choose my ground; back, forward, round,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

VII

The splendid Carriage oft admits
A proud self-center'd churl in:—
I wish mankind the joy I find,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

VIII

Your very Wheels a tax must pay,
If public roads they twirl in:—
He rides toll-free, who rides like me,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

138

IX

Fancy, meanwhile, takes ample scope,
Her boldest sails t' unfurl in;
From crippled limbs, at large she skims,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

X

Toes, ankles, knees, to facts so felt,
Their conscious suffrage hurl in;
And Truth encores, from thousand pores,
O! bravo! Master Merlin!

139

TO MR. AND MRS. SCOTT,

ON THEIR MARRIAGE.

“What Dower has gentle Kate to show?”—
—Good-humour's comfortable glow;
Voice, gesture, looks, that say,
One tried in pious Duty's part,
A Maid with all a Mother's heart,
Becomes a Bride to-day.

Let Him, whose prudent choice prefers
Her, and endowments such as hers,

140

Give bliss, as he is blest;
Devote his own, to aid her powers;
With love relieve her careful hours,
With love endear the rest.

Let Kate with sweet complacence earn,
With grace receive, with joy return,
Each proof of tender zeal;
For every praise, have every plea;
Be, all the fondest Wives can be;
Feel, all the happiest feel.

141

TO TWO AND TWENTY TOWNLEYS,

MET TOGETHER TO CELEBRATE THE SIXTIETH BIRTH-DAY OF MR. KIRKES TOWNLEY.

SIGNED BY MR. MRS. AND MISS BISHOP.

JULY 27, 1776.

Three Bishops, in three Bumpers, with three Cheers,
Wish every Townley all that life endears,
All Taste of Pleasure, and all Power to please;
In Youth all Spirit, and in Age all Ease!
Thus for the general Townley Train,
In general terms the Bishops pray:
But form a more peculiar strain
For one peculiar Friend—and say;

May no Complaint his ear engage,
But what his kindness can assuage!

142

No Strife his peaceful haunts alarm,
But what his Candour can disarm!
May never Grief, or Pain, or Want,
Implore the help he cannot grant;
Nor ever Want, or Grief, or Pain,
Receive the help he grants, in vain!
Where'er He is, may Comfort be!
And every Comfort he shall see
To gentle Worthiness assign'd,
Bring Virtues of his own to mind!
While He, thro' Life's remaining race,
Preserves the present even pace;
As perfect in each future scene,
(Tho' many a Birth-day intervene,)
As when this Sixtieth Birth-day past—
—Good Uncle Kirkes—from first to last!

143

TO THE REVEREND GEORGE STEPNEY TOWNLEY,

ON THE BIRTH OF HIS DAUGHTER MISS MARTHA TOWNLEY.

SEPTEMBER 18, 1779.

What shall the Father hope, the Mother pray,
When their Girls' eyes first open to the day?

That ductile Spirit, simple Truth,
And pregnant Sensibility,
May lead up Infancy to Youth!—
And every prank of playful glee
Still seem to say, “This Babe was born
“A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!”

144

That year by year, new female Grace
To manlier Judgment may be join'd!
Her Genius animate her Face!
Her Manner indicate her Mind!
A Face, a Mind, that show her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That her full Form, and perfect Powers,
The Worthy, and the Wise may strike;
And Love, to bless her married hours,
Conduct and match her to her Like!—
One, who shall know, and boast her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That her capacious Heart may take
Grateful, the share of Good decreed!
And comfortable Candour make
All she enjoys, be Joy indeed!—

145

Joy, whose pure glow, may prove her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That never insult, loss, or pain,
May work an heavier weight of Care,
Than conscious Honour can disdain,
Or provident Discretion bear!
While meek Complacence speaks her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That Age insensibly may creep!
And her last look may see survive
An Offspring of her own, to keep
Her Likeness, and her Name alive!
Then may she die, as she was born,
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

146

TO THE REVEREND MOSES PORTER,

ON THE DAY HIS DAUGHTER WAS BORN.

Give, Porter! on receipt of this,
Your Daughter of to-day a kiss;
And to your Prayers for her, subjoin
A small, but hearty Wish of mine!
—That with sound Sense, and Conscience clear,
She thro' a sinful World may steer;
And, after every peril past,
Be, just what now she is, at last,—
One of the few, in all the throng,
Who have not liv'd a Day too long!

147

TO MR. WOODWARD.

SONNET, IN IMITATION OF MILTON.

Harry! (whose apt and quaintly pregnant skill
O'er prompt obedient features could diffuse
Each tint of wayward Humour; while the Muse
Thro' all her fleet lubricities, at will
Pursued the Changeling; limning portraits still,
Which mimic Art doth animate, and use
For worthiest ends; sith therein Folly views
Her own form; conscious, tho' she laugh her fill;

148

Haply so best confronted!) What to Thee,
The Public Ear hath ow'd, unquestion'd stands;
Whenas thy Powers, aye rising in degree,
Rais'd tiptoe Expectation's high demands;
And to the Scene gave that abundant glee,
Which to applaud long task'd a Nation's hands!

149

ON THE DEATH OF DR. ISAAC SCHOMBERG.

Could drugs of more immediate power,
By skill more opportune apply'd,
Protract, for man, the vital hour,
No Friend of Schomberg's e'er had dy'd!

Could warm Benignity of soul
Arrest th' arm up-rear'd to kill,
Death would have felt the bland controul,
And Schomberg had been living still!

150

CHARACTER OF THE REVEREND JAMES TOWNLEY, FORMERLY HEAD MASTER OF MERCHANT-TAYLORS' SCHOOL.

INTRODUCED IN AN EXERCISE, SPOKEN AT THE FIRST PUBLIC EXAMINATION OF THE SCHOLARS AFTER HIS DECEASE.

------ For one lost Friend
A tear will trickle, and a sigh ascend.—
Never did Friend Love more parental prove;
Never did Father bear more friendly Love;
Largely benevolent; minutely just;
Above Disguise, because above Distrust:
Sure, if he err'd, to err on Candour's side;
And only proud, to shew Contempt of Pride:

151

Frank, but not forward; without Rigor, right;
With Genius modest, and with Truth polite.
Lively, yet liberal, his convivial Joke;
Warm Humour pointed it; Good-nature spoke.
Rich was his Fancy; tho' unlabour'd, neat
His Phrase; and chaste, tho' comic, his Conceit.
His Wit was Satire, by Address disarm'd;
The Manner won, ev'n whom th' attack alarm'd;
Save, when at Vice (to Vice alone a foe)
Full in the face of Day, he aim'd his blow;
Or sped, unseen, th' effectual Shaft; while Fame,
That hail'd the Triumph, knew not whose the Claim.

152

CHARACTER OF THE REVEREND NICHOLAS FAYTING.

[_]

SPOKEN AT MERCHANT-TAYLORS' SCHOOL.

On this same Spot, the Muses first
His infant dawn of Genius nurst:
On this same Spot, they soon confest
His toils to public use addrest;
His care coercive, yet benign,
Endearing stricter discipline;
And blending in the Teacher's part,
The Censor's eye, the Parent's heart.

In Priestly Character, his zeal
Was what Conviction ought to feel:

153

Inflexibly severe, to tread
Where personal Duty's limits led;
And live in act, and be in thought,
A Comment on the Truths he taught.

His social hour's conspicuous merit
Was cheerful, yet corrected, Spirit;
That rais'd in each surrounding breast,
The same Good-humour it exprest.

His Judgment was a ray, that glow'd
To light strong Sense, thro' Reason's road:
Trac'd Worth's true price; and left Deceit
To work at will, it's own defeat.

His Charity had a double drift,
To give—and to conceal the gift;
Anxious to see the Good it dealt,
Not number'd, not describ'd—but felt!

Excellence so rare, from human view,
With Him, you lov'd so long, withdrew:—

154

—Yet why the falling star deplore?—
Heaven gains one Luminary more!
The Light his Life has ceas'd to give,
Will ev'n in his example live:
And Memory's grateful Incense burn,
Diffusing Radiance from his Urn!

155

MEM: SAC: MATT. DISNEY—ARCHIB. BRAKENRIDGE.

Spirits, long loos'd from mortal care,
If haply down your fields of air
A momentary glance ye cast,
And see a lonely lingerer stray
Thro' paths, where oft in prankful play,
With you his younger foot hath past!

Accept the sudden tear, that steals
Along his cheek.—For sure he feels
The genuine impulse of the Muse;
Who leading Memory back to you,
Friends as ye were!—reminds him too,
What Friends himself was doom'd to lose!

GODSTOW, JULY 12, 1775.

156

EPITAPH ON THE REVEREND MR. BLUCK,

FORMERLY CURATE OF ST. ANDREW'S HOLBORN.

While o'er this modest stone Religion weeps,
Beneath a generous cheerful Christian sleeps;
Rests from the Teacher's charge, the Scholar's part;
Labours of Love, and Virtues of the Heart:
Who own'd, observant still of Truth's fair rays,
No other guide, nor wish'd for other praise:
Who Friend to Man, and Foe to Vice alone,
Liv'd for our Bliss; and died to crown his own.

157

EPITAPH ON MRS. HAND,

IN THE PARISH CHURCH OF ST. GILES, CRIPPLEGATE.

For Worth so dear, th' eternal tear might flow;
And Love would sanctify an Husband's Woe:
But Truth the record of that Worth displays,
And takes from Sorrow, what it gives to praise:
Alternate claims his grateful heart divide;
And Memory's Misery is Affection's Pride.

158

INSCRIPTION,

DESIGNED FOR A BATH, AT THE ROOKERY NEAR WOTTON IN SURRY,

WRITTEN AT THE DESIRE OF A FRIEND.

Thou, Virgin Halth! who turn'st with scorn away
From Luxury's lure, and Riot's rude assault,
To crown the genuine joy of Labour's day,
Or feast with Temperance in the moss-grown vault,

Wilt oft henceforth, if right of thee we deem,
When Hope shall here her azure pinions lave,
Ascend propitious with the bubbling stream,
And love to greet her in so pure a wave.

159

EPIGRAMS.

161

EPIGRAM I.

[A Vicar in a certain vale]

HOC AGE.

A Vicar in a certain vale,
His farmers thus addrest;
“As much, good friends, as you love ale,
“So much do I love rest:

“One humming cag, behind the stairs,
“This cellar key secures;
“Bate me but half to-morrow's prayers,
“And half that cag is yours.”

Doctrine so feelingly propos'd,
His eager audience snapt;
The morrow came; the church stood clos'd;
The humming cag was tapt.

162

Bumper by bumper, jug by jug,
A gradual vacuum made;
Till hollow round the mid-way plug,
Alarming echoes play'd.

“Doctor!” exclaim'd a child of fun,
“O! heed what we implore!
“And since so far so well you've done,
“E'en do a little more!

“Snug as we are, thus hand to fist,
“What pity 'twere to wag!—
“Rest the whole day, if so you list,
“And give us all the cag!”

163

EPIGRAM II.

[A Dutchman's breeches, in full taste]

PLUS, MINUS.

A Dutchman's breeches, in full taste,
Two contrasted extremes divide;
Buttons, like platters, at the waist,
And studs, like peas, along the side.

Each size presents, in emblem true,
A genuine Dutchman's constant trim;
The large—marks what he'd get by you—
The little,—what you'll get by him!

EPIGRAM III.

[If by “Plus, minus,” I express]

PLUS, MINUS.

If by “Plus, minus,” I express
This paradox, that more is less,
No rule of grammar I transgress,

164

Nor dogmatize at random—
The veriest horn-book scholar knows,
That half round O an hundred shows,
While whole round O for nothing goes;
—Quod erat demonstrandum.

EPIGRAM IV.

[Who knows the end of vile corruption's reign?]

PLUS, MINUS.

Who knows the end of vile corruption's reign?
Marry, Sirs, that do I—nothing so plain:
Ev'n then, when bankrupt bribery finds on trying,
The more too much to buy,—the few, not worth the buying.

EPIGRAM V.

[Physic, of old, her entry made]

PLUS, MINUS.

Physic, of old, her entry made,
Beneath th' immense full-bottom's shade,

165

While the gilt cane with solemn pride,
To each sagacious nose apply'd,
Seem'd but a necessary prop,
To bear the weight of wig at top.

But now on medical heads one views
Bags, bobs, curls, scratches, clubs, and queues!
Thus thro' extremes point-blank, things fall:
None were too great; none are too small.

Tho' fashion changes perukes so,
Has physic's self been alter'd?—No.—
Her sons pursue the course they're pat in;
Still write apothecaries Latin;
Still finger fees, with due address;
Still kill, or cure us,—more or less.

166

[In Rome of old her Titus bore]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

In Rome of old her Titus bore
The noblest, gentlest mind;
Lord of the world; and what was more,
The friend of human-kind;

Supreme in virtue, as in rank,
'Twas his exalted plan,
To reckon every day a blank,
That had not blest it's man.

How great! how Godlike! to survey
The suppliants round a throne;
And giving each an happy day,
Make glorious all his own.

169

EPIGRAM XI.

[Three things, three new-laid taxes crave]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

Three things, three new-laid taxes crave;
As three peculiar days ensue;
The font, the altar, and the grave;
For baptism, marriage, burial due.

“So far, so good,” might all men say,—
But here the grievance will be found;
For these on three set days we pay;
For all things else, the whole year round!

EPIGRAM XII.

[At the board of our Barons, in Britain's best days]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

At the board of our Barons, in Britain's best days,
When the Baron of Beef bore the bell,
Their countrymen's love was the test of their praise,
And their conquests, all countries could tell.

170

Such once were the days, which alas! are no more!—
But why should they not be renew'd?
Our Barons of Beef are no worse than before:
Were the Barons of Britain as good.

EPIGRAM XIII.

[A needy curate has, (the jokers say,)]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

A needy curate has, (the jokers say,)
No chance to rise, before the judgment day.
That's a late day; but better late than never;
And late as that day is,—'twill last for ever!

EPIGRAM XIV.

[To Childermas day some object]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

To Childermas day some object,
Some Friday deem a bad day;—
But Will, by no such motions check'd,
Lets no day be a sad day:

171

More cheerful still, as more in debt,
He makes each day, a May-day;
Nor would he ever fear, or fret,
But for that queer day,—Pay-day!

EPIGRAM XV.

[Celia's mouth opens with her eyes]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

Celia's mouth opens with her eyes;
And out a curtain-lecture flies:—
Then, breakfast puts her in a flutter;
She quarrels with her bread and butter:—
Dinner gives theme for new vexation;
And every theme, a new oration:—
While supper serves but to declare,
How female tongues improve by wear.

Each dame, ('tis nothing but fair play,)
Should take her turn, and have her day,

172

But Celia wrangles, right or wrong,
At every turn, and all day long;—
Pip, Pop!—Snip, Snap!—Pell-mell!—Ding-dong!

EPIGRAM XVI.

[April the first stands mark'd by custom's rules]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

April the first stands mark'd by custom's rules,
A day for being, and for making fools:—
But, pray, what custom, or what rule supplies
A day for making, or for being—wise?

EPIGRAM XVII.

[When Euclio a snug fuddle chose]

STAT SUA CUIQUE DIES.

When Euclio a snug fuddle chose,
For want of better conversation,
His man was call'd (the story goes)
To share a tête à tête potation.

173

By the mere force of grave hob-nob,
Bumpers flew faster still, and faster;
“Master, my sarvice!”—“Thank ye, Bob!”—
“Here's to ye, Robert!”—“Thank ye, Master!”

Such business, follow'd up so close,
Soon brought them to the end o'th' tether;
They pass'd their day; they took their dose;
Star'd, stutter'd, stagger'd, snor'd together.

Thus bout, at home, succeeded bout;
For there was no restraint before 'em;
But when occasion call'd them out,
Twas proper to preserve decorum:

And therefore they agreed to make
A bonâ fide stipulation,
Strict turn and turn, abroad, to take;
One drunk, one sober, in rotation.

174

The first day was the Master's right;
And each perform'd the part decreed him;
The Squire was reeling ripe by night,
And Robert cool enough to lead him.

Soon after Robert's day came round,
When to a neighbouring peer's they sally'd;
Whose tap so free, whose ale so sound,
With Robert's taste exactly tally'd:—

But in the pith of all his pride,
A summons from his Master caught him,
Who took him cunningly aside,
And thus in soothing style besought him:

“Robert, I've had my day, I know;
“And this, I know, to thee is due for't;
“But wouldst thou now thy claim forego,
“Hereafter I'll allow thee two for't”.—

175

“'Tis hard,” quoth Robert, “to deny,
“And from my soul I pity you, sir;
“But what you ask, is more than I,
“'Tis more than fate itself can do, sir.

“Tho' mild as mother's milk, it be,
“His lordship's stingo's wond'rous heady:—
“The day is three parts spent, you see,
“And I am three parts gone already!”

For subjects of exalted praise,
In Glory's arduous track,
To records of old British Days,
We look with wonder back:

To Virtues, whose effect sublime
Shall freedom's annals fill,
Hope, thro' the long abyss of time,
Bids us look forward still:

But when for living Worth men ask,
Where, where shall it be found?—
Oh! that's indeed an easy task;
'Tis only to look round!

180

EPIGRAM XXIV.

[No plate had John and Joan to hoard]

QUOD PETIS, HIC EST.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,
Plain folk, in humble plight;
One only tankard crown'd their board;
And that was fill'd each night;—

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd
In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby Angel's face.

John swallow'd first a moderate sup;
But Joan was not like John;
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She swill'd, till all was gone.

181

John often urg'd her to drink fair;
But she ne'er chang'd a jot;
She lov'd to see the Angel there,
And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,
Another card he play'd;
And where the Angel stood so plain,
He got a Devil portray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd;
And ever, when she seiz'd her ale,
She clear'd it at a draught.—

John star'd, with wonder petrify'd;
His hair stood on his pate;
And “why dost guzzle now,” he cry'd,
“At this enormous rate?”—

182

“Oh! John,” she said, “am I to blame?
“I can't in conscience stop:
“For sure 'twould be a burning shame,
“To leave the Devil a Drop!”

EPIGRAM XXV.

[In quest of Asiatic stores]

NE—QUÆRE PEREGRINUM.

In quest of Asiatic stores,
Pagodas, and rupees,
Oft Britain's sons, from Britain's shores,
Have travers'd eastern seas.

So should her Sons, perhaps you'll say,
Commerce and power pursue.—
But Daughters in the present day,
Are sent adventurers too!

183

Consign'd the market's chance to stand;
And wedded, if they wed,
To sicken in a sun-burnt land,
And share a casual bed!

Ye virgin train! for shame! for fear!
From trade so vile withhold!—
The husband's wealth is bought too dear,
For which the wife is sold.

EPIGRAM XXVI.

[Three strangers blaze amidst a bonfire's revel]

QUÆRE PEREGRINUM.

Three strangers blaze amidst a bonfire's revel;
The Pope, and the Pretender, and the Devil.—
Three strangers hate our faith, and faith's defender;
The Devil, and the Pope, and the Pretender.—
Three strangers, will be strangers long, we hope;
The Devil, and the Pretender, and the Pope.—

184

Thus in three rhymes, three strangers dance the hay:
—And he that chooses to dance after 'em, may.

EPIGRAM XXVII.

[Virtues, and fashions, jointly share]

QUÆRE PEREGRINUM.

Virtues, and fashions, jointly share
All England's pride, all England's care;
From foreign fops, and coxcomb courts,
Fashions, by wholesale, she imports;
But let it, to her praise, be known,
Old England's Virtues, are her own!

EPIGRAM XXVIII.

[John Bull, whene'er the magot bites]

QUÆRE PEREGRINUM.

[One Native of a distant coast]

QUÆRE PEREGRINAM.

One Native of a distant coast,
Her Sex's, and her Country's boast,
Th' applauding World had seen:
Her Britain's Genius knew design'd,
The friend, and favourite of Mankind;
And claim'd her for a Queen!

Whate'er distinctions we may raise,
'Twixt foreign and domestic praise,
In this we all concur:
Wherever born, 'tis Worth alone,
Makes Her so fit for such a Throne,
And such a Throne for Her.

189

EPIGRAM XXXV.

[When Tom call'd in, one day, on Ned]

FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI.

When Tom call'd in, one day, on Ned,
His wife was plaistering dearee's head;
Who sigh'd; but dar'd not shake it!—
'Tis well Tom's pace is something slower;
For had he come an hour before,
He'd seen the vixen break it!

EPIGRAM XXXVI.

[If with good-will you'd have a favour come]

FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI.

If with good-will you'd have a favour come,
Ask it when dinner's dishing up, say some:
Hunger, sharp set, and eager for attacking,
Will grant you any thing, to send you packing.

190

Others on different principles proceed;—
Ask just when dinner's over, is their creed:
While lips are smacking, and while bumpers flow,
'Tis an hard mouth indeed, that can say No.

Which hour, and which advice of course, is best,
Whoever loves contesting, may contest:
On either side, this general rule stands fast:
—Good eating makes good humour, first or last.

EPIGRAM XXXVII.

[While Joe moves all too quick, or all too slow]

FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI.

While Joe moves all too quick, or all too slow,
No hour of joy can be the hour of Joe:
But Nic (sly rogue!) is ne'er too slow, nor quick;
The nick of time, is still the time of Nic!

191

EPIGRAM XXXVIII.

[Would Fate on me two luckier hours bestow]

FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI.

Would Fate on me two luckier hours bestow,
I'd give 'em to my friend, and to my foe:—
One to embrace the partner of my heart;
And so to meet, as never more to part:—
And one, from him who hates me to retreat;
And so to part,—as never more to meet.

EPIGRAM XXXIX.

[When Harry's shrill beldame thinks proper to stray]

FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI.

When Harry's shrill beldame thinks proper to stray,
“Come hang out the broom, Hal,” his neighbours all say,
“And throw every care on the shelf”—
'Tis a fortunate hour, which full dearly he earns;
For 'tis twenty to one, but when Madam returns,
He'll be ready to hang out himself!

192

EPIGRAM XL.

[In myriad swarms, each summer sun]

FATI VALET HORA BENIGNI.

In myriad swarms, each summer sun
An insect nation shows;
Whose being, since he rose, begun;
And e'er he sets will close.

Brief is their date, confin'd their pow'rs,
The fluttering of a day;—
Yet life's worth living, ev'n for hours,
When all those hours—are play.

EPIGRAM XLI.

[You may talk of your houses of Commons and Lords]

BREVIS ESSE LABORO.

You may talk of your houses of Commons and Lords,
Of the strength of their lungs, and the length of their words;
But in spite of their Cons, and in spite of their Pros,
They that speak to the point, are the Ayes and the Noes!

193

EPIGRAM XLII.

[Would you rise in the state, you the state must oppose]

BREVIS ESSE LABORO.

Would you rise in the state, you the state must oppose,
At measures must fret, and at ministers foam;
As they double their offers, redouble your blows;
Turn your back on all terms, till it suits you to close;
And you'll certainly find, if you follow your nose,
That the farthest way round, is the shortest way home.

EPIGRAM XLIII.

[In a suit of three years, for three pinches of snuff]

BREVIS ESSE LABORO.

In a suit of three years, for three pinches of snuff,
Here's a brief of three yards—I hope that's brief enough!

EPIGRAM XLIV.

By never-ceasing rashness led,
The fly pursues his way,
Bolts on the snare his heedless head,
A self-devoted prey.

Nature upholds her general reign
By everlasting rules:
Her spiders would be knaves in vain,
Unless her flies were fools.

199

EPIGRAM LIV.

[When a bard, o'er his pipe, a dull ditty composes]

QUALIS AB INCEPTO.

When a bard, o'er his pipe, a dull ditty composes,
And critics, unmerciful, turn up their noses,
With anonymous praises the papers he stuffs;
And the offspring of whiffs, is the parent of puffs.

“Then,” quoth the stranger, “vain is all endeavour;
“Sans voice to call, sans vigour to pursue;
“And since your hat, of course, is gone for ever,
“I'll e'en make bold to take your wig—Adieu!”

EPIGRAM LVIII.

[Lodg'd in pure hands, the very ore refines]

Κρυσεα χαλκειων.

Lodg'd in pure hands, the very ore refines;
What merit earns, with honour we can hold;
An honest penny, a base pound outshines;
The gold of Fraud is brass—the brass of Virtue, gold!

202

[When once, Voltaire, with jealous rage]

Κρυσεα χαλκειων.

When once, Voltaire, with jealous rage,
Attack'd our Shakespeare's glorious page,

204

To give abuse a gloss,
In French translation's awkward mould,
He first debas'd the genuine Gold,
Then judg'd it by his dross.

Vain impotence of critic spite!
Shakespeare's old sterling, solid, bright,
All tastes and times will suit:—
While the pert Frenchman's baser mass,
If rank'd at all, will rank with brass;—
And worthless brass, to boot.

207

[Heed not the tales the smuggling crew repeat!]

Κρυσεα χαλκειων.

Heed not the tales the smuggling crew repeat!
They'll surely cheat you, who teach you to cheat:
He deals, to lose, who takes base means to save:
'Tis a fool's purchase, when it makes a knave!

EPIGRAM LXXI.

[A Rum Doctor affirms, by a method cocksure]

Κρυσεα χαλκειων.

A Rum Doctor affirms, by a method cocksure,
That in spite of your joints, all your gout he can cure:

210

But let him, who regards either person or purse,
Be aware how he hazards the making bad, worse:
Ev'n brass for your gold, with a quack you don't share;
His is all in his forehead—and that he can't spare.

EPIGRAM LXXII.

[Your venerable Chaplain once]

[_]

SPOKEN AT MERCHANT-TAYLORS' SCHOOL.

Κρυσεα χαλκειων.

Your venerable Chaplain once,
(Tho' now with age he bend,)
Train'd here the scholar, lash'd the dunce,
A Master, and a Friend.

To profit by his well-known care,
His child a Butcher brought;
And all the needful to prepare,
A dictionary bought.

211

Before a week it's course had run,
The Butcher came again—
“Take back your book, give back my son,”
He cried, with might and main:—

“Larning!—'tis money thrown away,
“Such Larning to procure:
“The book don't show, the boy can't say,
“What's Latin for a skewer!”

EPIGRAM LXXIII.

[“Praise premature is idle breath]

[_]

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH OF BUSSY RABUTIN.

Κρυσεα χαλκειων.

“Praise premature is idle breath;
“No fame is just, till after death!”
So Clodio is for ever crying:
“Excuse me, Clodio, then,” say I;
“I rate not your applause so high,
“To think of earning it—by dying!”

212

EPIGRAM LXXIV.

[Par pari, has two senses, both in use]

PAR PARI.

Par pari, has two senses, both in use;
And both in different circumstances pat:
'Tis like to like—when blockheads club abuse;
When wits give satire edge—'tis tit for tat!

EPIGRAM LXXV.

[Tho' proportion so often in nature takes place]

PAR PARI.

Tho' proportion so often in nature takes place,
There's a general exception in one common case;
'Tis a feature of instinct, no power can efface:

For the greatest of objects when action we try,
And the greatest of subjects, where speech we apply,
Is the smallest of letters—viz.—I, by't self, I.

213

[Observe the barrister expand]

PAR PARI.

Observe the barrister expand
A copious length, and breadth of band;

215

Who when a college smart of yore,
A snip scarce statutable wore;
And yet 'tis nothing hard to trace
Proportion's rule in either case:
The band in academic station,
Was little—like his application;
But now, encreas'd by due degrees,
'Tis large, and ample—as his sees!

EPIGRAM LXXX.

[Dame Fortune, in her frolic sallies]

PAR PARI.

Dame Fortune, in her frolic sallies,
Cuts men to fit,—like bakers' tallies:
For her own work, makes her own tools;
Forms fools for knaves—and knaves for fools.

216

EPIGRAM LXXXI.

[For every living thing on shore]

PAR PARI.

For every living thing on shore,
Our naturalists agree,
The acute observer may explore
Some counter-part at sea.

One proof this rule's not strictly true,
Our British Tars will stand;
Who ne'er by sea their Equals knew,
Nor yet their like—by land.

EPIGRAM LXXXII.

[Old Gulo, one day, gravely shaking his head]

PAR PARI.

Old Gulo, one day, gravely shaking his head,
To his comrades a lecture of temperance read:

217

“In all eating, and drinking, proportion pursue,—
“That's my method,” said he—and indeed he said true:
For wherever good wine, and good ven'son he found,
He would drink ye three bottles—and eat ye three pound.

EPIGRAM LXXXIII.

[When you see a fine Lady trot jiggiting by]

PAR PARI.

When you see a fine Lady trot jiggiting by,
With a niddledy-noddledy plume, a yard high,
O, say, if ye can, ye philosophers, whether
Is her feather like her?—or is she like her feather?

EPIGRAM LXXXIV.

[In an old Rabbi's book, this story's given—]

PAR PARI.

In an old Rabbi's book, this story's given—
When Eve and Adam first were man and wife,
Ten vessels full of Speech came down from Heav'n,
Nine out of which the woman kept for life.

218

In active pow'rs of head, and hand and heart,
Adam, no doubt, surpass'd his consort far;
Yet Eve had wherewithal to play her part;—
Nine words in ten, set all upon a par!

EPIGRAM LXXXV.

[When Doctors, twenty years ago]

PAR PARI.

When Doctors, twenty years ago,
Wore wigs of venerable flow,
A bodkin sword's diminutive stump
Stuck right across each physic rump,
Whose short dimensions seem'd to say,
“Our object is to save, not slay.”
An emblem apt enough, I trow.—
But wicked wits pretend to show,
For swords so small, an apter still—
—“We've other ways than one—to kill!”

219

EPIGRAM LXXXVI.

[No Fame of Thrones, that whileome were]

PAR PARI.

No Fame of Thrones, that whileome were,
No Thrones that now are seen,
Show such an Exemplary Pair,
As Britain's King and Queen.

From Worth so long, so well display'd,
Allegiance argues thus;
As they were for each other made,
So both were made for us.

EPIGRAM LXXXVII.

[“Madam!—My Dear!—I bid!—I beg!—]

PAR PARI.

“Madam!—My Dear!—I bid!—I beg!—
“Don't!—Don't be dogged—Prythee, Peg!”—
“Why look ye, Lovee!”—Peg reply'd;
“Like meat, like sauce!—Like spouse, like bride!”

220

“If a tartar you'll be, you a tartar shall catch!—
“Coax and kiss! here's your wife! Huff and cuff! here's your match!”

EPIGRAM LXXXVIII.

When Sloth puts urgent business by,
“To-morrow's a new day,” she'll cry.
And all her morrows prove it true,—
They're never us'd—and therefore new!

EPIGRAM XCII.

[The snake, tradition's tale avers]

IN NOVA FERT ANIMUS.

The snake, tradition's tale avers,
Casts once a year his speckled skin;
Yet no improvement change infers;
'Tis still the self-same snake, within!

Too like the supple courtier's trim,
Who turns and twists, occasion's slave:—
'Tis change of sides, not change of him!
New knavery—but the same old knave!

223

[That Celia's sick to death, whene'er]

[_]

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

IN NOVA FERT ANIMUS.

That Celia's sick to death, whene'er
My fond attachment I declare,

226

I must believe, because she said it.—
But that her Ladyship would die,
Were fifty fools as fond as I,
Is more than I have faith to credit.
She'll live on to be su'd, while she's lovers to sue;
If not for more reasons, at least for these two;—
Out of spite to the old, and in hopes of the new.

EPIGRAM XCIX.

[Tom Whiffle changes every day]

IN NOVA FERT ANIMUS.

Tom Whiffle changes every day;
But that's but half the curse;
He changes evermore one way;—
To wit—from bad to worse!

EPIGRAM C.

[We blame too justly modern times]

IN NOVA FERT ANIMUS.

We blame too justly modern times;
Their follies, fopperies, vices, crimes;—

227

Yet candour must allow,
They cherish patriot spirit still,
Proof of good sense, good taste, good will,
That does them honour, now!

Look round on Sunday Schools—and own
That English Genius there hath shone,
In style august, tho' new:
Our fathers felt for general weal;
We—chang'd, but not degenerate, feel
For general Virtue too!

In Anna's reign, from general view,
Th' enormous flaxens fled:
And lo! perukes of milk-white hue,
Succeeded in their stead.

230

These, too, incurr'd by lapse of years,
Difuse, tho' not disgrace:
New clerical brows requir'd new gears;
And grizzles took their place.

Yet still the wig's full form retain'd
The feather'd foretop's peak:
Yet still the solemn bush remain'd,
To flank the rosy cheek.—

But now!—forgive the conscious muse,
That feels her verse too bold:—
What fashions modern Reverends use,
You need not here be told.—

Tho' new their taste, while they adopt
Their good forefathers' ways,
The frizz'd, the curl'd, the bald, the cropt,
Have all their claim to praise.

231

EPIGRAM CV.

[O! Yes! if wags or critics dare]

SPLENDEAT USU.

O! Yes! if wags or critics dare
This subject's truth attack;
Let them to some dark hole repair—
And rub a black cat's back!

[When all, a people for a King can feel]

SPLENDEAT USU.

When all, a people for a King can feel,
Burst into voice; an unison of zeal;

239

The Queen so long rever'd, and lov'd so well,
Heard the glad theme the general shout employ;
And midst the thunders of affectionate joy,
Dropt a warm tear, that sparkled as it fell.

But oft, if right the Muse the future read,
Will similar praise, to similar feelings lead,
While Virtues like her own, her name endear;
Th' effect is but proportion'd to the cause;
Her tear will still do honour to applause,
And new applauses still call forth her tear.

EPIGRAM CXVII.

[Full up the solar blaze of light]

SPLENDEAT USU.

Full up the solar blaze of light,
Th' imperial Eagle wings his flight;

240

Nor shrinks before the ray:—
Life, beauty, and increase below,
Wait patient the descending glow;
He meets it in its way:—
And on the very Source, whence lustre flows,
Tries the bold Eye, whose lustre it bestows.

EPIGRAM CXVIII.

[When reformation, men advise]

CORRIGE SODES.

When reformation, men advise,
Let every one mend one, each cries:—
And 'tis well said, if 'twere well done:
But proof, too obvious, daily shows,
That all th' amendment we propose,
Is meant for every one—but one!

241

EPIGRAM CXIX.

[When in old Rome, the bridegroom, and the bride]

CORRIGE SODES.

When in old Rome, the bridegroom, and the bride,
At Juno's shrine their nuptial offering made,
The victim's gall was sever'd from it's side,
And gravely hid behind the altar's shade.

A pagan rite, tho' christian men abjure,
'Tis fair to improve upon a pagan rite;
To make your matrimonial comfort sure,
Keep your own gall forever out of sight!

EPIGRAM CXX.

[Clodius, asham'd, as well he might]

CORRIGE SODES.

Clodius, asham'd, as well he might,
Of worthless life, and vicious taste,
Turns misanthrope at last for spite;
And hates the nature, he disgrac'd.

242

The rank o'erflowings of the mind,
In venomous streams on paper fall;
Out comes a satire on mankind;
And all are fools, and wretches all.

Yet let his trash unnotic'd lie;
We prove his doctrine, if we heed it;
'Twere double folly, should we buy,
And double misery, should we read it!

Thus boldly on your dunghill crowing,
You'll make affirming pass for knowing;
Affected doubt, appear detection;
And contradiction, seem correction.

EPIGRAM CXXIV.

[When Jove and the Giants, in desperate fray]

CORRIGE SODES.

When Jove and the Giants, in desperate fray
On Olympus, were boxing it round;
Silenus's ass chanc'd to set up a bray,
And the rebels turn'd tail at the sound.

245

Ye, who laugh at the ass, make it henceforth a rule,
To abate of your waggery, a crumb;
For fool as he is, he can frighten a fool—
And who knows, when your own turn may come?

EPIGRAM CXXV.

[The Russian husbands, as we're told]

CORRIGE SODES.

The Russian husbands, as we're told,
Their wives to due correction hold,
Whene'er they act, or judge ill:—
“Love me and love my dog,” we cry;
But their rough discipline seems to imply,
“Love me, and love my cudgel.”

EPIGRAM CXXVI.

[Our travellers, who in Switzerland]

CORRIGE SODES.

Our travellers, who in Switzerland,
Thro' Basil's streets have past,
Assure us each church dial's hand,
Points just an hour too fast.

246

Tho' told this error, all day long,
By every soul that views it,
'Tis Basil's fashion to be wrong;
All know it; and all choose it.

The fault, which thus amendment mocks,
Lies far below the steeple;
Whoever would set right the clocks,
Must first correct the people!

When two fond souls for Gretna Green engage,
From wise restraint, by rash elopement freed,
Love sits postillion; and at every stage,
Inspires new passion, while he adds new speed.

253

Thus they go forth—but how will they return?
Ev'n on the road, perhaps, ordain'd to prove
A truth, which folly, first or last, must learn,
“That sore Repentance drives as fast as Love!”

EPIGRAM CXXXVIII.

[A Public spirited peer, we're told]

VIRES ACQUIRIT EUNDO.

A Public spirited peer, we're told,
Mechanic powers has found, and try'd;
By which a ship her course may hold,
Without the help of wind or tide.

Two wise observers, Tom and Will,
Found means th' experiment to see;
And turn'd and twisted all their skill,
To settle how the thing could be.

254

“It can't stand still, because it goes,”
Exclaim'd at last sagacious Will;
“True,” answered Tom, “and I suppose,
“It goes—because it can't stand still!”

EPIGRAM CXXXIX.

[Tho' far from Britain, Britain's worthiest pride]

VIRES ACQUIRIT EUNDO.

Tho' far from Britain, Britain's worthiest pride,
The World's great Patriot, generous Howard, dy'd,
Let not our sorrow blame his wish to roam:
With such an heart, as such a life display'd,
An heart, which all Mankind one Family made,
To travel—was but to enlarge his Home!

EPIGRAM CXL.

[From any Convent, a Lay-brother take]

VIRES ACQUIRIT EUNDO.

From any Convent, a Lay-brother take;
Shave close his poll, and thus a Friar he'll make:

255

On that bare poll an hat of scarlet place,
And a Lord Cardinal stares you in the face:
Let his red hat for three gilt crowns give scope,
And then, behold! his Holiness—the Pope!
From these three crowns, what farther progress lies?
None for the present—Princes are too wise.
Time was, when that same three-crown'd Father's pride,
Held in hard vassalage all crown'd heads beside:
But Sovereigns now observe a different trim;
Wear for themselves their crowns—and not for him!
In modern politics would he prove his skill;
His best way to keep on—is to stand still!

EPIGRAM CXLI.

[“The more you give, the more you may,” some cry—]

VIRES ACQUIRIT EUNDO.

“The more you give, the more you may,” some cry—
“The more you may, the more you ought,” say I.

256

[In China, when an husband's praise]

VIRES ACQUIRIT EUNDO.

In China, when an husband's praise
The beauties of his wife displays,

258

Among her charms, he never fails
To rank her growing length of nails.
'Twould give our married men some fear,
Had beauty such a standard here!
For sure (I speak it with concern)
Things might, sometimes, take such a turn,
That as a lady's talons grew,
Her passions might get stronger too!
Tongues without nails (excuse me if I'm wrong)
Are always long enough—if not too long.

EPIGRAM CXLVI.

[Falsehood and Truth, in rival race]

VIRES ACQUIRIT EUNDO.

Falsehood and Truth, in rival race,
Eternal contrast prove;
Falsehood speeds on with rapid pace;
Truth scarce appears to move:

259

Falsehood finds numbers in her course,
Who prompt assistance lend;
Ill-nature loves to aid her force;
And Folly stands her friend:

Guilt, Envy, Cunning, all make shift
To help her on her way;
And Fortune gives her many a lift;
No matter for foul play:

Yet, after all her efforts tried,
And all her circuit run,
When Time the victory shall decide,
She'll end—where Truth begun!

260

EPIGRAM CXLVII.

[“Justice!” a Woman to an Emperor cry'd]

MUTATIS MUTANDIS.

“Justice!” a Woman to an Emperor cry'd;
“Justice against an husband's scorn I crave;
“Who, tho' from morn to night I frown and chide,
“Nor minds, nor mends, for all th' advice I gave.”
“Your tale,” replied the Emperor, “truth may be;
“But pray, good Woman, what is that to me?”

“That,” quoth the spiteful Vixen, “is not all:
“Suppose Yourself the subject of our strife:
“If right, my Lord, my strong suspicions fall,
“He cares no more for You, than for his Wife.”
“That,” said the Emperor, “may perhaps be true;
“But pray, good Woman, what is that to you?”

261

[Tho' George, with respect to the wrong and the right]

MUTATIS MUTANDIS.

Tho' George, with respect to the wrong and the right,
Is of twenty opinions, 'twixt morning and night;
If you call him a turn-coat, you injure the man;
He's the pink of consistency, on his own plan:
While to stick to the strongest is ever his trim,
'Tis not he changes side—'tis the side changes him!

EPIGRAM CLII.

MUTATIS MUTANDIS.

Once in a barn, the strolling wardrobe's list
Had but one ruffle left, for Hamlet's wrist:—

267

Necessity, which has no law, they say,
Could with one ruffle, but one arm display:
“What's to be done?”—the Hero said, and sigh'd—
“Shift hands each scene,” a brother buskin cry'd:
“Now in the pocket keep the left from sight,
“While o'er your breast you spread the ruffled right:
“Now in your robe the naked right repose,
“While down your left the dingy cambrick flows:
“Thus, tho' half-skill'd, as well as half-array'd,
“You'll make one change—which Garrick never made.”

EPIGRAM CLVII.

[Tim Crab's admonitions run all in one tone,—]

MUTATIS MUTANDIS.

Tim Crab's admonitions run all in one tone,—
Do this, fool!—say that, fool!—let that, fool, alone!—
Prithee, Tim, change your style, if you wish to cajole;
I can bear with the censure, but hate the controul:

268

Call me fool among fools, and I'll never say nay—
But let me, dear Crab, be a fool—my own way!

EPIGRAM CLVIII.

[To cure the gout, one quack, forsooth]

MUTATIS MUTANDIS.

To cure the gout, one quack, forsooth,
Advises us to draw a tooth.
By similar ratiocination,
Methinks, a counter-operation
So rare a system would adorn—
—To cure the tooth-ach, cut a corn!

EPIGRAM CLIX.

[When prentic'd fops, in tasty fit]

MUTATIS MUTANDIS.

When prentic'd fops, in tasty fit,
Their counters and their aprons quit,
And stealing from the shops, they shut,
Half-booted lobby-loungers strut,

269

With treble cape, and strait toupée,
And nine short inches of wanghee,
Howe'er the change absurd and strange is,
'Tis natural:—for so Nature changes;
Forms all at once the Lion's cubs;
But makes her Butterflies—of Grubs!

So this grave sage thought proper to decide:
Now, hear th' estimate on the other side.

“Thro' life, what station can the wise refuse?
“In public are ambition's nobler views;
“Repose endears retirement; rustic toils
“Give rest to nature's bounties; nature's spoils
“Crown traffic's efforts; on a foreign shore
“Pity unbars each hospitable door;

272

“Poor you're unenvied; in a wife you see
“A dearer friend; unmarried you live free;
“With children feel a father's glow; without
“See unsolicitous time's last sands run out;
“In youth you spring robust, and revel gay;
“In age enjoy the reverence juniors pay:
“'Tis therefore happiest sure on wisdom's plan,
“To be—and being to exist—a Man!”

Wide as the difference of the statements seems,
One little change would reconcile th' extremes;
In surly scorn's, and flattering fancy's spite,
For Life, read Virtuous Life—and all is right.
A Life of Virtue would in every state,
Have turn'd the balance for whatever fate;
Would scope, amidst the best and worst below,
For active, or for patient merit show;
And on that ground no choice can ever miss;
For all that leads to Merit, leads to Bliss!

273

EPIGRAM CLXIII.

[In many an inn along the road]

PLUS ULTRA.

In many an inn along the road,
If haply there you make abode,
A little bowl you'll ken,
Where, circled in a pencill'd band,
An arch artificer's waggish hand
Has wrote—“One more, and then”—

Mysterious phrase! whose treacherous sense,
From more to more, for ages hence,
Its noxious course would run;
Let him, who takes the draught, take heed:
The bowl a bottom has—agreed—
But that same “Then” has none.

274

EPIGRAM CLXIV.

[By a legal decision, 'twas lately agreed]

PLUS ULTRA.

By a legal decision, 'twas lately agreed,
If a rat eats a seal, it has cancel'd the deed.
“That's an hard thing on me,” might a miser complain;
“'Twill make bond, bill, and mortgage as costly again—
“'Tis expensive indeed to stand clear of mishap,
“If besides a strong box, one must buy a rat-trap!”

EPIGRAM CLXV.

[Sunday, which, by divine behest]

PLUS ULTRA.

Sunday, which, by divine behest,
Was first pronounc'd a day of rest,
By fashion's mandate now becomes
A day of hurricanes, routs, and drums.

275

Can profligacy farther go?
It can—if not in guilt—in woe:—
Woe, from that very guilt accruing;
Disgrace—remorse—despair—and ruin.

EPIGRAM CLXVI.

[Diagoras, an Athenian wight]

PLUS ULTRA.

Diagoras, an Athenian wight,
A wooden Hercules made;
To which at morn, and eke at night,
He constant orisons paid.

Twelve Labours by his Deity wrought,
In solemn hymns he prais'd;
And from such warm devotion thought
A powerful patron rais'd.

276

Year after year, this course he drove;
Still pray'd; still poorer grew;
At last the timber son of Jove
Amidst the flames he threw.

“My daily theme,” quoth he, “erewhile,
“Thy labours twelve have been;
“Now help the fire my pot to boil;—
“And that will make thirteen!”

EPIGRAM CLXVII.

[While Johnson the Lives of our Poets compos'd]

PLUS ULTRA.

While Johnson the Lives of our Poets compos'd,
He scarce thought how his own would be hack'd, when it clos'd.
We've had life upon life, without end or cessation,
A perfect biographical superfetation:
Male, female, friend, foe, have had hands in the mess;
And the paper announces still more in the press.—

277

Not a cat, tho' for cats Fate spins ninefold the thread,
Has so many lives, living—as Johnson has, dead.

EPIGRAM CLXVIII.

[Virtue's a fund of unexhausted store]

PLUS ULTRA.

Virtue's a fund of unexhausted store:
For there, the very wish of more—is more!

EPIGRAM CLXIX.

[Our glorious Queen Bess, 'tis in story recorded]

PLUS ULTRA.

Our glorious Queen Bess, 'tis in story recorded,
At some season more solemn of festival sport,
With the law's highest honours Lord Hatton rewarded,
For dancing so gracefully nimble at Court.

For integrity, candour, sense, learning, and spirit,
Of each sage, on each bench, we may justly talk big;
But the Queen had, we find, one more standard of merit;
'Twas superior address—in performing a jig!

278

EPIGRAM CLXX.

280

Till just as the mixture was rais'd to the pot,
“Hold your hands! Hold your hands!” scream'd astonish'd John Trot
“Don't you see you want one thing, like fools as you are?”
—“Vone ting, Sar! Vat ting, Sar!”—“A Pudding Cloth,—Sar!

EPIGRAM CLXXIII.

[A Woman, satirists have averr'd]

PLUS ULTRA.

A Woman, satirists have averr'd,
Will have in all things the last word:
But poets, in satiric rhymes,
Are apt to run a-head sometimes:—
Were half the bards, that ever wrote,
Chapter and verse oblig'd to quote,
Not one perhaps of all the set,
E'er heard a woman's last word yet!

281

EPIGRAM CLXXIV.

[Sick of his first imperious bride]

PLUS ULTRA.

Sick of his first imperious bride,
Poor Corydon to Death apply'd:
Death came: and Corydon soon was seen
The jolliest widower on the green.
Again the booby tried his lot;
And thus a bitterer bargain got:
Again Death heard his piteous call;
And freed him from the second thrall.
Spite of experience, still absurd,
He bow'd the neck to wife the third;
Who beats the former out of sight;
Drives twice as hard; curbs twice as tight.
Were this same tyrant in her hearse,
He might go farther, and fare worse:

282

Whom then shall Corydon implore?—
Whom?—but his old friend, Death, once more:
That as of yore, in kindly trim,
It took his spouses, and left him,
(If choice to beggars fate allows,)
'Twould now take him; and leave his spouse!

EPIGRAM CLXXV.

[To bounce more boldly and look bigger]

NE PLUS ULTRA.

To bounce more boldly and look bigger,
Tho' rhetoric muster every figure,
Tho' party blow up all her flame,
Tho' zeal with all her lungs declaim,
Two little words may pop in pat,
To lay this dreadful battery flat;

283

Words of soft sound, tho' somewhat hard digestion;—
The orator's ne plus ultra—Previous Question!

EPIGRAM CLXXVI.

[The world can nothing sure, we're told]

NE PLUS ULTRA.

The world can nothing sure, we're told,
Save death and taxes show:
Of death, no doubt, the fact will hold—
Of taxes, not quite so:

Two chances fortune's wheel contains,
Taxation's course to stay;—
When nothing to be tax'd remains;
Or nothing's left—to pay.

284

EPIGRAM CLXXVII.

[“Death!—]

PLUS ULTRA.

“Death!—
“What art thou, O thou great Mysterious Terror?
“The way to thee we know; diseases, famine,
“Fire, sword, and all thy ever-open gates,
“Which day and night stand ready to receive us.—
“But what's beyond them?—who shall draw that veil?
“Yet Death's not there!”
Hughes's Siege of Damascus, Act 3.

Beyond? and who shall draw that veil?—The Man
Whom Christian Spirit hath ennobled, can;
He from th' abyss beyond, the veil shall tear;
For 'tis His Triumph, that Death is not there!
That there, is all sublime Devotion's scope;
All Rest from Sorrow; all expanse of Hope;
There Perfect Souls, the path he treads, who trod;
There Immortality! there Heaven! there God!

285

EPIGRAM CLXXVIII.

[In formâ pauperis, if a plaintiff plead]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

In formâ pauperis, if a plaintiff plead,
Counsel, 'tis said, must give their aid, unfee'd.
“How then should counsel live?” perhaps you'll ask:—
O! never fear it—that's an easy task:—
Tho' paupers ready-made, Law gratis takes,
'Tis amply reimburs'd, by paupers which it makes!

EPIGRAM CLXXIX.

[Your satirical witlings, of metaphor fond]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

Your satirical witlings, of metaphor fond,
Say, in England, the priest ties the conjugal bond.
But our fugitive pairs, who for Scotland elope,
Seem resolv'd to improve on that whimsical trope;
When a blacksmith stands parson, for want of a better,—
We may justly affirm, that he rivets the Fetter!

286

EPIGRAM CLXXX.

[Montaigne once took it in his head]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

Montaigne once took it in his head,
In trim sedately cool,
To think the Cat, with which he play'd,
Must deem him, but a fool.

If this was wisdom, wit, or whim,
I dare not now decide:—
But surely from his Cat and Him,
We learn to check our pride:—

Since Nature, to keep up the breed,
That holds us in disdain,
By Thousands bids her Cats succeed,
Yet made but one Montaigne!

287

EPIGRAM CLXXXI.

[“Whoe'er cheats me, in purchase, or in price,”]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

“Whoe'er cheats me, in purchase, or in price,”
Exclaims old Euclio, “ne'er shall cheat me twice.”—
The man, it seems, has made his life, his book;
And his own rule, from his own practice took:
For Euclio, to convince us he's no dunce,
Makes it a point—to cheat enough at once!

EPIGRAM CLXXXII.

[Say, can there be a viand nam'd]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

Say, can there be a viand nam'd,
Which doctors have not prais'd and blam'd?
About our wine, how vast a pother!
Drink it, says one; dread it, says t'other.
Warm regimen some, some cool propose;
Live high, say these; live low, say those.

288

In short, in nothing they agree,
Save only pocketing the fee!—
That part of medical practice still,
Stuff, starve, dose, diet us, as they will,
(Whatever systems they asperse all,)
Is uniform,—and universal!

EPIGRAM CLXXXIII.

[Old women, in old times were seen]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

Old women, in old times were seen,
As grave records avow;
What then, perhaps, had witches been,
Are absolute charmers now.

Against the rude assault of age,
Our modern antient fair
On terms infallible engage,
And twofold armour wear.

289

Ye spiteful years, your furrows trace!
Ye native tints, grow faint!
A coat of paint will hide the face,—
A veil will hide the paint!

EPIGRAM CLXXXIV.

[A Rustic once, unless tradition fib]

QUOCUNQUE MODE REM.

A Rustic once, unless tradition fib,
Applied this remedy to a broken rib:
A quart of buttermilk down his throat he threw;
Then tighter by a hole his belt he drew:—
Again he swallow'd, and again, the dose;
And, toties quoties, buckled up more close:
Expell'd withinside, and repell'd without,
The bone soon found it's proper medium out;
In that due medium either way secur'd,
Stood fix'd; united; heal'd;—and Hodge was cur'd!

290

If kitchen physic, we with justice prize,
That this was kitchen physic none denies:
Of recipes if the simplest is the best,
That this was simple too, must be confest—
—A belt, and buttermilk?—Probatum est!

We laugh, with reason, at their foolish choice;
Yet tho' 'tis Folly's act—'tis Nature's voice!—
Nature, the sense of an immortal part
Has fix'd so firmly in the human heart,
That, prone as 'tis to avow some future hope,
A Cowl, or a Cow's Tail, can give it scope!

EPIGRAM CLXXXVIII.

[If you e'er go to Oxford, 'tis odds but you meet]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

If you e'er go to Oxford, 'tis odds but you meet
A boar to make brawn, led in state thro' the street;
With whose fidgets the hog-driver still must comply;
If he likes to lie down, must stand patiently by;
When he rises, must help him to rise from repose;
And turn which way he turns, and go which way he goes.—

293

—We've been told by philosophers, time out of mind,
Of the dignity, freedom, and powers of mankind;
But we add little grace to the picture they've drawn,
When we humour a pig—for the sake of his brawn!

EPIGRAM CLXXXIX.

[A Scribbler thought fit, t'other day, to devise]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

A Scribbler thought fit, t'other day, to devise
About Baron Monkhausen, a volume of lies:
Such a rhapsody never was made.
And this was his only design, he averr'd,
To shame for the future, by tales so absurd,
All the dealers in Rhodomontade.

'Twas a comical scheme, if the man was sincere;
But were he or not, 'tis abundantly clear,

294

He forgot the perverseness of pride:
Not one in a score, who his pamphlet shall buy,
Will be half so asham'd of persisting to lie;
As jealous of being out-lied!

EPIGRAM CXC.

297

Two half boots at least;—for it seems, that's the style:—
Tho' 'twould puzzle all algebra's students the while,
To adjust the true odds, on comparison fair,
Between one pair of halves, and one half of a pair!—

EPIGRAM CXCIII.

[Amongst the many strange conceits]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

Amongst the many strange conceits,
Which advertisers brag on,
They puff, on every post one meets,
Some broad-wheel'd Flying Waggon?

Wits long on Fancy's wings have flown;
Mercury had feather'd heels;—
But 'tis our age's boast alone,
To fly—upon broad Wheels!

298

EPIGRAM CXCIV.

[A Veteran gambler in a tempest caught]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

A Veteran gambler in a tempest caught,
Once in his life, a church's shelter sought;
Where many an hint, pathetically grave,
On life's precarious lot, the preacher gave.
The sermon ended, and the storm all spent,
Home trudg'd old Cog-die, reasoning as he went;
“Strict truth,” quoth he, “this reverend sage declar'd;
“I feel conviction—and will be prepar'd—
“Nor e'er henceforth, since life thus steals away,
“Give credit for a bet, beyond a day!”

EPIGRAM CXCV.

[A Specimen brief of foreign wit to show]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

A Specimen brief of foreign wit to show,
As far as my translating skill will go,
Tho' I can't sing—I'll say—a French Rondeau.

299

‘With two black eyes—that might a saint inflame,
‘The jilt Nannette caught Strephon by surprise;
‘But when the youth, enamour'd of the dame,
‘Requested love for love, and sighs for sighs,
‘She frown'd, squall'd, cuff'd,—and sent him whence he came,
‘With two black eyes!’

EPIGRAM CXCVI.

[A Quack in Greece, in hopes to mend the breed]

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

A Quack in Greece, in hopes to mend the breed,
Resolv'd his Son, at least, should learn to read:
So hir'd the best grammarian of the age,
To teach the youngster Homer's lofty page.
The terms all settled, all the needful done,
The book was bought, and thus the boy begun;—
‘The wrath of Peleus' Son, the direful spring
‘Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing!

300

‘That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign
‘The souls of mighty Chiefs untimely slain!’

“Untimely slain!”—the pupil stopt and cried—
“Is then this pains and pay, for that applied?
“Homer, farewell! What need thro' verse to roam?
“We've plenty of untimely slain, at home!
“Away with this vexatious “A, B, C!”—
—“My father's practice is enough for me!”

EPIGRAM CXCVII.

[The critics of a former day]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

The critics of a former day
Fell by the ears pell-mell;
Debating if with C, or K,
We Cicero's name should spell.

301

How far the doubt is clear'd up yet,
I'll not pretend to say;
But this intelligence I get,
From so absurd a fray:

While all with profit and delight,
Admire, remember, quote,
Fame will speak Cicero's Merits right,
Howe'er his name be wrote!

EPIGRAM CXCVIII.

[In Egypt once, the great, we're told]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

In Egypt once, the great, we're told,
No claim to public praise could hold,
Till umpires, at their death decreed
To all their merit, all it's meed.

302

Th' Egyptians took, you needs must say,
To make men honest, a wise way;—
Provided still, some means they knew,
To keep those umpires honest too!

EPIGRAM CXCIX.

[The constable of a country town ]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

The constable of a country town
Before a justice brought,
Once on a time, a vagrant clown,
In petty trespass caught:

And long, with many a hum! and ha!
Much circumstance, much doubt,
Enlarg'd on some supposed faux pas,
Could he have made it out.

303

Then to his worship turn'd his speech,
At every period's close;
And ask'd, what punishment could reach
Enormities like those?

“What punishment?” with angry face,
The justice cried amain,
“Make him this moment take my place,
“And hear your tale again!”

EPIGRAM CC.

[Bamboozling the credulous vulgar below]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

Bamboozling the credulous vulgar below,
Astrology's vagabond fry,
To each planet (as round in their orbits they go)
Gives a separate house in the sky:—

304

To make conjurers amends for their care of the sphere,
The justice, in case of detection,
Provides by his warrant an house for them here;
And that is—the house of correction!

EPIGRAM CCI.

[A Fool and Knave, with different views]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

A Fool and Knave, with different views,
For Julia's hand apply:
The Knave, to mend his fortune sues:
The Fool, to please his eye.

Ask you, how Julia will behave?
Depend on't for a rule,
If she's a Fool, she'll wed the Knave—
If she's a Knave, the Fool.

305

EPIGRAM CCII.

[I ask'd grave Corydon, Celia's age:—]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

I ask'd grave Corydon, Celia's age:—
“Look in her face,” replied the sage;
I did so; but no date could fix:—
Which face, I wonder, does he mean?
Her public face bespeaks sixteen;
Her home face tells for sixty-six!

EPIGRAM CCIII.

[Genius, and Valour, proudly loth]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

Genius, and Valour, proudly loth
Place each to each, to yield,
To Pallas, as supreme o'er both,
For her award appeal'd.

306

When Valour urg'd Achilles' boast,
Her Homer Genius show'd:—
When Genius Virgil's praise engross'd,
With Cæsar's Valour glow'd.

Wise as she was, the Goddess chose
So nice a point to wave;—
Yet willing the dispute to close,
This friendly counsel gave:

“Your rival claims,” she said, “forbear;
“Which nothing can decide:
“And let henceforth, your mutual care
“Unite your mutual pride:

“Let Heroes know th' immortal Name
“The gift of Verse alone;
“And from the Hero's well-sung Fame,
“The Poet date his own!”

307

EPIGRAM CCIV.

[A Goose, my good old grandam said]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

A Goose, my good old grandam said,
Ent'ring a barn pops down his head;
I beg'd her once the cause to show;—
She told me, she must wave the task—
For nothing but a goose would ask,
What nothing but a goose could know!

EPIGRAM CCV.

[If I swerve an hair's-breadth from the fashion's high road]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

If I swerve an hair's-breadth from the fashion's high road,
Strait the cry of the coxcombs commences;
“A man,” they exclaim, “who goes out of the mode,
“As well might go out of his senses.”

308

If Sense by the balance of fashion ye weigh,
Pray tell us, ye prigs who adore it,
Did not you, to go into the taste of the day,
Go out of the fashion before it?
All the doubt, if a doubt, is which way to begin—
I went in, to go out;—you went out, to go in.

EPIGRAM CCVI.

[Poor Dick, when chatty, and when dumb]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

Poor Dick, when chatty, and when dumb,
Still holds his wife in equal dread;—
He breaks her heart, if he looks glum;
And if he speaks, she breaks his head!

EPIGRAM CCVII.

[To 'scape litigious folly's headstrong ruin]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

To 'scape litigious folly's headstrong ruin,
Keep two plain maxims evermore in view;
Know what the law is, ere you think of suing;
Know what your lawyer is, before you sue!

309

EPIGRAM CCVIII.

[In Milton's, and in Dryden's time]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

In Milton's, and in Dryden's time,
'Twas doubtful, if blank verse, or rhyme,
Serv'd Poetry's purpose best:
And much good learning and good sense,
In aid of either side's pretence,
Was pro and con addrest.

The question, after all this pains,
Tho' chang'd in form, in force remains,
As puzzling as at first:
'Tis just as hard a thing to say,
If rhyme, or blank verse, in our day,
Serves Poetry's purpose worst!

310

EPIGRAM CCIX.

[In patient mood, while King Alphonsus heard]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

In patient mood, while King Alphonsus heard
A formal orator tedious plans propose,
A fly parading round the Monarch's beard,
Perch'd unmolested on the royal nose.—

Say, ye who balance things in reason's scale,
Does Magnanimity soar a pitch more high,
When Majesty listens to a trifler's tale?—
Or when Humanity scorns to hurt a fly?

EPIGRAM CCX.

[Does Shakespeare juster praise obtain]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

Does Shakespeare juster praise obtain,
In comic or in tragic vein?

311

Nor I, nor you, nor all mankind,
Can answer to this question find.
Nature, tho' oft in frolic fits,
Discoveries elsewhere she permits,
Will still that point unsettled keep,
As long, as men can laugh or weep.

EPIGRAM CCXI.

[The votes all clos'd—the books compar'd]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

The votes all clos'd—the books compar'd,
The numbers on the poll declar'd,
A rabble, reeling less or more,
Who with drink, or who for drink, roar,
By way of two triumphal cars,
(Thro' shouts, and screamings, joys, and jars,)
Bear on two tavern-chairs erect,
The Representatives Elect.

312

Ye Candidates, who thus succeed,
Take, if ye can, sufficient heed!
For tho' th' Election contest's past,
You'll find that peril not the last;
In your supporters' present trim,
Should their feet trip, or their heads swim!

You've carried your own Seats—agreed—
But absolute miracle, indeed,
Alone can save, in such a crew,
The Seats design'd to carry You!

EPIGRAM CCXII.

[A Fool had let some scarcasms fall]

SUB JUDICE LIS EST.

A Fool had let some scarcasms fall,
(When Kings kept Fools of yore,)
For which the Ladies, one and all,
Immediate vengeance swore.

313

With scissars, bodkins, and what not,
The Culprit they surround,
And sternly bade him, on the spot,
Prepare for his death's wound.

Down on his marrow-bones fell the Wight;
Confest th' offence he gave;
And, “O! in this my sorrowful plight,
“One boon,” he cried, “I crave:

“Since to so bright, tho' fierce a band,
“Your slave his fate must owe;
“Reserve at least, the fairest hand,
“To give the parting blow!”

In such a case, they all agree,
'Twere hard, in vain to plead:
But which the fairest hand should be?—
Aye, that's a rub indeed!

314

Sudden, the wrath their bosoms nurst,
To rival jealousy past;
And none of them would strike him first,
That each might strike him last.

And had the term of human life,
Allow'd so long a fray,
The wag had been repriev'd, the strife
Unsettled—to this day.

EPIGRAM CCXIII.

[Eager some doleful tale to quote]

AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM.

Eager some doleful tale to quote,
John Croaker sighs, and shrugs;
Seizes a button of my coat;
And as he talks, he tugs:—

315

Two jobs meanwhile are going on,
By John's long-winded plea;
For sure as e'er I hear friend John,
My Taylor—hears from me!

EPIGRAM CCXIV.

Sir Hudibras, with a single spur,
Provok'd to active trot his steed;
Conscious that if one side should stir,
The other must of course proceed.
Thus reason'd once the doughty knight:
And in that case he reason'd right.

But had the scheme on man been try'd,
His logic would have prov'd untrue;
Whoe'er the state's great horse would guide,
Must use both spurs—and gild 'em too:
Or else, in spite of all his skill,
The restive beast will stand stock still.

318

For, as throughout an horse's skin,
A sensitive, muscular power appears,
So courtiers, out of place and in,
Are all, all-over eyes and ears;
But, tho' you urge them e'er so much,
Feel, only in the part you touch!

Meanwhile his audience part by part,
As part by part he took,
Could tell each text as well by heart,
As he could by the book.

Thus all their regular order kept,
In pulpit and in pew;
And so he preach'd, and so they slept,
The year, and cabbage-net thro'!

EPIGRAM CCXXI.

[When quacks, as quacks may by good luck, to be sure]

AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM.

When quacks, as quacks may by good luck, to be sure,
Blunder out at hap-hazard a desperate cure,
In the prints of the day, with due pomp and parade,
Case, patient, and doctor, are amply display'd:—
All this is quite just—and no mortal can blame it;
If they save a man's life, they've a right to proclaim it:

321

But there's reason to think they might save more lives still,
Did they publish a list of the numbers they kill!

EPIGRAM CCXXII.

When Athens, in the age of Grecian fame,
Scorn'd Neptune's, to prefer Minerva's claim,
The affronted Deity in revenge decreed,
Their City none but Fools thenceforth should breed.
Th' award severe past Destiny's great seal,
Whose final fiat, nothing can repeal.

Such doom, dire vengeance on the Athenians brought—
Now hear what Pallas in their favour wrought!
“The words,” she said, “which Neptune's wrath has spoke,
“I neither can reverse,—nor he revoke;—
“But tho' forever Fools they must remain,
“I'll make your sons, a Philosophic Train.”
So said, so done—and from that moment pair'd,
Philosophy, and Folly, Athens shar'd!—

324

Had this event in these our days occurr'd,
Perhaps you would not think it quite absurd,
If some such simple news-monger as I,
Should ask, how far from Greece might Paris lie?

EPIGRAM CCXXVI.

[In Celia's face see coxcomb Gellio stare]

AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM.

In Celia's face see coxcomb Gellio stare;
As if all beauty, and all grace, shone there!—
And does there any brilliance there reside?
Yes—paste and paint, that scars and wrinkles hide—
And does the coxcomb then, delight to view
A mask, no mortal optics can see thro'?
No!—that impenetrable mask supplies
An object, dearer far to Gellio's eyes;
Gellio's whole thoughts are on himself alone,
Th' excessive polish o'er her feature's thrown,
Acts as a mirror—and reflects his Own!

325

EPIGRAM CCXXVII.

[While Britain's arms, by sea and land]

AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM.

While Britain's arms, by sea and land,
Our tars and soldiers bear,
Their country boasts a generous band,
Which makes their cause, its care.

To sooth the widow'd mother's grief,
And dry the orphan's tears,
A liberal fund of prompt relief,
Subscribing affluence rears.

This England owes to manly zeal,
Nor owes to that alone;
Ladies for their defenders feel,
And Patriot spirit own.

326

History! when thy recording page
Our Heroes brings to view,
Keep for the Heroines of the age
A space to merit due!

To merit, whose alternate fame
Includes the Brave and Fair;—
And proves our Men no praise can claim,
But what our Women share!

EPIGRAM CCXXVIII.

[Tradition's tale, time out of mind]

AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM.

Tradition's tale, time out of mind,
Paints Fortune, Love, and Justice, blind:
And yet in this description's spite,
They'd make amends for loss of sight,
And save mankind a world of pother,
Would they but listen to each other:

327

Think what rich comforts life might blend,
Did Love, when Justice calls, attend;
Did Justice, Fortune's deed approve;
And Fortune hear the claims of Love!

“Not such our present parson's phrase;
“No Greek does he apply;
“But says in English all he says,
“As you might speak, or I.

“And yet for this so simple style,
“He claims each tithe and due;
“Pig, pippins, poultry, all the while,
“And Easter-offerings too!”

“You're skill'd in languages, I guess,”
Th' amaz'd diocesan cry'd;
“I know no language more or less,”
The surly clown reply'd:—

330

“But Greek, I've heard the learned say,
“Surpasses all the rest;
“And since 'tis for the best we pay,
“We ought to have the best!”

EPIGRAM CCXXXIII.
[_]

There is no Epigram CCXXXII.

[When weddings, in news-paper style are set forth]

SUAVITER UT NUNC EST.

When weddings, in news-paper style are set forth,
The men are all persons of eminent worth;
The ladies possess'd of each qualification!
How happy a state would all married folk know,
Could reports, which endowments so easily bestow,
As easily ensure their duration!—
Make the future, in fact, what the present appears!
And the news of the day, be the history of years!

331

EPIGRAM CCXXXIV.

[The Boy, with truly philosophic thumb]

SUAVITER UT NUNC EST.

The Boy, with truly philosophic thumb,
Picks from his slice of pudding every plumb;
Reserving for the last, the sweetest stores;
The Man too oft a dreadful contrast shows;
Health, fortune, happiness, in life's prime o'erthrows,
And makes for age, the ruin he deplores.
They tell us ripening powers, expanding sense,
And reason's reign, with Manhood's date commence:
But sure the Boy, if evidence rests on facts,
More justly judges; and more wisely acts.

332

EPIGRAM CCXXXV.

[Our fashionable belles and beaus]

SAUVITER UT NUNC EST.

Our fashionable belles and beaus,
With all their sight entire,
Stick up a glass before their nose;
And each becomes a Spyer.

Hail times! Hail ton! Hail taste refin'd!
Which makes ev'n failings please!
And finds a joy in being blind—
To every thing one sees!

EPIGRAM CCXXXVI.

[How strange, (said once a philosophic Greek,)]

SAUVITER UT NUNC EST.

How strange, (said once a philosophic Greek,)
How strange absurdities does man display!
He weeps, to know his life may end next week!—
He laughs,—altho' it may not last a day!

333

EPIGRAM CCXXXVII.

[Beneath the sun's meridian ray]

SAUVITER UT NUNC EST.

Beneath the sun's meridian ray,
Along the rivulet's brim,
The playful insects of a day,
In busy myriads skim:

Being, begun with morning's light,
With evening's shade will close;
So brief, so limited, is their flight;
Yet all pure joy it shows.

What better to their little kind,
Could partial Nature give,
Than pastime on their spot to find;
And while life lasts—to live?

334

EPIGRAM CCXXXVIII.

[To save your bones, and yet indulge your wit]

SUAVITER UT NUNC EST.

To save your bones, and yet indulge your wit,
Observe two universal rules!
Laugh at the popular Follies, till you split;
But never quarrel with the Fools!

EPIGRAM CCXXXIX.

[Julia, in every beauty gay]

SUAVITER UT NUNC EST.

Julia, in every beauty gay,
Which nature e'er display'd,
A month at least, before the day,
Sighs for the masquerade.

When now, the happy moment comes,
A beldam's form she takes;
Affects to speak from toothless gums;
With mimic palsy shakes!

335

On principles, how strangely vain,
Life's joys and griefs we measure;
If what to be, would give such pain,
To seem, can give such pleasure!

EPIGRAM CCXL.

Καλα πεφανται.

“The world is all appearance! mere outside!
“A splendid nothing!”—Wisdom long has cry'd.
And what is Wisdom then?—A spider—caught
Ev'n in the very web, herself has wrought!
For if her estimate of the world be wrong,
Wisdom's own word is not worth an old song:—
If right her estimate, 'tis as clearly true,
That Wisdom's self—is but appearance too!

344

EPIGRAM CCL.

Why sleeps, benumb'd, th' accomplish'd mind,
When social good craves virtue's zeal?
Whoe'er can benefit mankind,
Is heaven's trustee, for human weal.

347

To hide true worth from public view,
Is burying diamonds in their mine:—
All is not gold, that shines, 'tis true;
But all that is gold—ought to shine!

EPIGRAM CCLIV.

[The modern philosophy makes a great clatter]

Καλα πεφανται.

The modern philosophy makes a great clatter,
About matter, and motion; and motion, and matter:
In presumption's poor pride, and with reason's short sight,
Helps omnipotence out; and sets providence right:
Yet amidst this extravagant vanity's round,
It's systems so fair, and it's plans so profound,
It's research so minute, it's immense comprehension,
It's detail of discovery, it's pomp of pretension,
All it's “Whys,” and it's “Wherefores,” would little avail,
Were it bound to account—“why a toad has no tail!”

348

EPIGRAM CCLV.

[Old Lesbia, with hardly a tooth in her head]

Καλα πεφανται

Old Lesbia, with hardly a tooth in her head,
And be-wrinkled from forehead to chin,
Is doubtful, poor girl, for the next masquerade,
What disguise, she shall show her shapes in!

Prithee, Lesbia, abate this immoderate care,
For however your choice shall decide,
You have little to fear from the false face you'll wear,
Considering the true face you'll hide!

EPIGRAM CCLVI.

[Once every year, an infant band]

Καλα πεφανται.

Once every year, an infant band,
Whom public charity's fostering hand

349

Hath led to truths divine,
Beneath one roof arrang'd to raise
Devotion's voice to Deity's praise,
In choral unison join.

Say where beside has harmony found
In such a group, so sweet a sound?
Say, where beside does earth unite
With sound so sweet, so rich a sight?

EPIGRAM CCLVII.

[In ten long columns of debate]

Καλα πεφανται.

In ten long columns of debate,
The morning paper shows,
What toilsome zeal for Britain's state,
Our senators disclose!

350

Well as this looks, you must confess,
'Twere better ten to one,
Did three short lines at last express,
What good the rest have done!

EPIGRAM CCLVIII.

[All Turkey's mosques, aloft in air]

Καλα πεφανται.

All Turkey's mosques, aloft in air,
A vast half-moon exalted bear,
With gilded splendor gay:—
So much for outward signs of grace;
What piety may within take place,
Is not for us to say.

But when from things at home we guess,
Plain truth, I fear, must needs confess,

351

What proofs too obvious vouch;
That, if Religion's visible work,
Be all appearance with the Turk,
With us—'tis scarce so much!

EPIGRAM CCLIX.

[Mark, how th' expiring taper's rays]

Καλα πεφανται.

Mark, how th' expiring taper's rays,
Their radiance to protract,
Shoot into momentary blaze;
And perish, in the act!

So, when in mortal agony's thrall,
Departing virtue lies,
Brief bursts of splendor grace its fall!
It sparkles—as it dies!

352

EPIGRAM CCLX.

[An elbow, we're in proverbs told]

SIC ERAT IN FATIS.

An elbow, we're in proverbs told,
More sharp than usual marks a scold,
Of everlasting lungs:
Perhaps you'll be perplex'd to guess
What correspondence, more or less,
Elbows can have with tongues!

To solve the doubt, from popular lore
Permit me, with one proverb more,
Your memories to refresh:
'Tis Fate's decree, you must have known,
That whatsoever's bred in the bone,
Should never out of the flesh!

353

EPIGRAM CCLXI.

[Would you th' extremes of human contrast fix?]

SIC ERAT IN FATIS.

Would you th' extremes of human contrast fix?
Observe Dutch traffic—and Dutch politics.
Nothing's too much to suffer, or to do,
Provided still, it makes one stiver two:
By land, by sea, for friends, for foes they trade;—
Then—cut each other's throat for a cockade:
Trust in French faith for independent sway;
Buy all;—sell all;—and give themselves away!

EPIGRAM CCLXII.

[You show the Gipsey trull your hand]

SIC ERAT IN FATIS.

You show the Gipsey trull your hand;
And bid her read your fate:
And when she line by line has scan'd,
For vast discoveries wait:

354

'Tis not your hand which justifies
The prophecy she'll rehearse:—
Your destiny in her own hand lies,
And that hand—in your purse!

EPIGRAM CCLXIII.

His business by deputy now he transacts;
Teaches Avarice his cunning, and Meanness his spite;
Inculcates incog. what a substitute acts;
And keeps horns, tail, and foot, all the while, out of sight.

363

But through all that appears, in the mischief men do,
When their brutal excess of malevolence we see,
Tho' hoof, horns, and tail, may be hid from our view,)
We can tell by the Work, who the Author must be!

EPIGRAM CCLXXIII.

[In Wales, full many a grave divine]

ALIUSQUE ET IDEM.

In Wales, full many a grave divine,
If truth tradition speak,
In Sunday's pulpit form'd to shine,
Draws ale throughout the week:

Proud Scorn may sneer perhaps; and add
A wrinkle to its brow:
But sober Sense, with candor clad,
Will twofold praise allow:—

364

For while his tap, within due bounds,
At home his neighbours share,
The wisdom he at church expounds,
They see him practice—there!

EPIGRAM CCLXXIV.

[Five Countries from five favorite dishes frame]

ALIUSQUE ET IDEM.

Five Countries from five favorite dishes frame
The popular stage buffoon's professional name:
Half fish himself, the Dutchman, never erring
From native instinct, styles him Pickle Herring:
The German, whose strong palate haut-gouts fit,
Calls him Hans Werst, that is, John-sausage-wit:
The Frenchman, ever prone to badinage,
Thinks of his soup—and shrugs—Eh! voila Jean Potage!
Full of ideas, his sweet food supplies,
Th' Italian, Ecco Macaroni! cries:

365

While English Taste, whose board with dumpling smokes,
Inspir'd by what it loves, applauds Jack Pudding's jokes!
A charming bill of fare, you'll say, to suit
One dish—and that one dish a Fool, to boot!

EPIGRAM CCLXXV.

[John and his wife, we must confess]

ALIUSQUE ET IDEM.

John and his wife, we must confess,
Make the best match on earth:—
The one's worth nothing—more or less—
The other—nothing worth!

Thus much is sure—That Celia's face
No trace of time betrays;
But mends each morn the last morn's grace,
More finish'd from decays:

'Twixt patch, paint, paste, a match for age,
All brilliant to behold,
Save in the parish register's page,
She's not a day more old!

369

EPIGRAM CCLXXIX.

[With much pretence, but little love the while]

ALIUSQUE ET IDEM.

With much pretence, but little love the while,
Fashion oft feign'd to join Economy's party:
Tho' all could see, that, in the Horatian style,
'Twas “Gratia amicitiæ male sartæ.”

But better hopes last winter's omens grac'd:
When Fashion, lest expence should cut too deep,
Snipt each great coat asunder at the waist;
And gave Economy the skirts to keep:

And now on solid ground their union stands:
Should Fashion's pride next Christmas call for new coats,
Economy from the remnants in her hands,
Has stuff of course to make the same coat two coats!

370

EPIGRAM CCLXXX.

[Proud as a peer, poor as a bard]

ALIUSQUE ET IDEM.

Proud as a peer, poor as a bard,
A foot-sore Spaniard late one night,
Knock'd at a tavern door so hard,
It rous'd the family in a fright:—

Up sprung the host from his bed-side;
Open the chamber-window flew:
“Who's there?—What boisterous hand,” he cry'd,
“Makes at my gate this loud ado?”

“Here is,” the stately Spaniard said,
“Don Lopez, Rodriguez, Alonzo,
“Pedrillo, Guzman, Alvarade,
“Iago, Miguel, Alphonso,

371

“Antonio, Diego”—“Hold! hold! hold!”
Exclaim'd the Landlord, “pray! forbear!
“For half the numbers you have told,
“I have not half a bed to spare.”

“Sir!”—quoth the Don, “'tis your mistake,
“If names for men, of course, you count:
“Tho' long th' illustrious list, I make,
“In me still centres all th' amount:

“Worn down with tramping many a mile,
“Don Lopez, Rodriguez, Pedrillo,
“With all the etcæteras of his style,
“Will sleep upon a single pillow!”

EPIGRAM CCLXXXI.

[A Single acorn's cup, experiment shows]

ALIUSQUE ET IDEM.

A Single acorn's cup, experiment shows,
The future oak's whole embrio can enclose:—

372

Immense idea!—That a form so small,
On earth's prolific lap, if right it fall,
Shall burst—shall vegetate—shall protrude a root;
Rise a strong trunk, from particles so minute;
O'er-top the forest; brave the tempest's rage;
Flourish;—expand, while age succeeds to age;
And haply, when to perfect timber grown,
Waft to new worlds, the produce of our own!

While on this thought imagination dwells,
Reverse the scene; and hear what nature tells;
—That this enormous bulk, is but th' extent
Of parts, at first within an acorn pent;—
An acorn! which, should truth the fact reveal,
Was once—the refuse of a poor pig's meal!

373

EPIGRAM CCLXXXII.

[“True-blue,” 'tis said, “will never stain;”—]

ESTO PERPETUA.

“True-blue,” 'tis said, “will never stain;”—
An everlasting die in grain,
Which none enough can prize:
Agreed!—But while experience finds
So many men, so many minds,
One constant doubt must rise:

Since each adapts to his own view,
His own idea of True-blue,
The question shifts it's ground:
The doubt is not, as I opine,
How bright, how long, True-blue may shine:—
But where it may be found!

374

EPIGRAM CCLXXXIII.

[When Bride and Bridegroom ready stand]

ESTO PERPETUA.

When Bride and Bridegroom ready stand,
To knit th' indissoluble band,
The priest is first in duty bound,
To charge each conscious witness round,—
Whate'er impediment he may find,
Why these two hands should not be join'd,
To speak out then the whole he knows;
Or else his lips for ever close.

Methinks the Bride and Bridegroom too,
Might take from such an hint their cue:—
And when slight tiffs their thoughts molest,
Think the same charge to them addrest;
Urging, conjuring either side,
To watch the turn of temper's tide;

375

To speak at once, what truth must say;
Then, meet relenting love half-way;
With mutual frankness, gently just;
Above disguise; above distrust;
Timely remonstrate; timely cease;
And ever after hold their peace.

EPIGRAM CCLXXXIV.

EPIGRAM CCXCI.

[Painters, by custom immemorial take]

ESTO PERPETUA.

Painters, by custom immemorial take
For Envy's hieroglyphic form, the snake;
While for Eternity's type, each pencil draws
A serpent in a ring; whose tail is in his jaws.
The two ideas just, apart, we find,
But how much juster would they be, when join'd?

382

Let Envy's snake, for instance, fiercely fell,
With everlasting rancour's poison swell;
Provided, in eternity's serpent-style,
It feeds, on nothing but itself, the while!

EPIGRAM CCXCII.

[Go to the bee!—and thence bring home]

ESTO PERPETUA.

Go to the bee!—and thence bring home,
(Worth all the treasures of her comb,)
An antidote against rash strife:
She, when her angry flight she wings,
But once, and at her peril stings;—
But gathers honey all her life!

EPIGRAM CCXCIII.

[A Physical sage, who tried to explore]

ESTO PERPETUA.

A Physical sage, who tried to explore
The depths of knowledge heretofore,

383

Made this the burden of his song;—
That “life was short; and art was long.”

That life is short, we know full well;
But who the length of art shall tell?—
Presuming on your kind attention,
Two principal measures on't I'll mention.

In Greece, philosophers were rever'd
For grave prolixity of beard:
In China, erudition's scale
Is ampler growth of finger nail.

How long art is, I dare not guess;—
But this, methinks, you'll all confess,
(If beards and nails are standards for't,)
Art's visible signs—are mighty short!

EPIGRAM CCXCIV.

[Within the papal jurisdiction]

ESTO PERPETUA.

Within the papal jurisdiction,
If common fame asserts no fiction,

384

Rome can indulgences invent
For sinning, at so much per Cent:—
A market price on pardon set;
And calculate guilt—like tare and tret.

Yet this (absurd as it appears)
Is licence, granted but for years:
Still, spite of trade so contraband,
Eternity's reckonings open stand:
Heav'n laughs to scorn such incongruities;
It's Mercy sells no perpetuities:
But, to pure faith and meek endeavour,
Gives freely—what it gives, for ever!

EPIGRAM CCXCV.

[When a pamphlet comes out, in the plain pamphlet style]

ESTO PERPETUA.

When a pamphlet comes out, in the plain pamphlet style,
Your two shillings you pay, if you think it worth while:—
But if once, by mere fashion, or merit, or chance,
Into notice the book, or it's author, advance,

385

To work on all sides, goes the press and the pen;
With answers, and answers to answers again;
With strictures, and queries, and notes, and reflections,
Appendixes, sequels, free thoughts, hints, objections;
And of course, if to judge of the whole you intend,
You must buy without bounds;—and must read without end.

So in Bantam, our travellers tell us, a sheep
In body and bone, due proportion will keep:
While a wheel-barrow's compass will hardly avail,
To support the length, breadth, depth, and weight of it's tail!

EPIGRAM CCXCVI.

[Where gently wand'ring-rills surround]

ESTO PERPETUA.

Where gently wand'ring-rills surround
A desolated pile,
And glide ev'n now, the confluent bound
Of Glastonbury's isle,—

386

To memory lost, by chance descry'd,
The reverend reliques lay
Of Arthur, Glory's favorite pride,
In Britain's earlier day.

No fabulous elves, in fairy knot,
T' announce his grave were seen;
Nature's own hand had mark'd the spot,
In winter's gloom still green.

And where a cross from head to feet,
O'erspread the Hero's earth,
A Christmas Thorn springs up, to greet
Our infant Saviour's birth!

O! may the sweet memorial live,—
Spontaneous proof to raise,
That Truth can annual evidence give
To patriot royalty's praise!—

387

And while Religion, Freedom, Laws,
Are Britain's happy doom,—
Flourish—to sanction their applause,
Around her Arthur's Tomb!

EPIGRAM CCXCVII.

[Genius, too oft, beneath adversity's frown]

ESTO PERPETUA.

Genius, too oft, beneath adversity's frown,
Drudges, laborious; vigorous; yet kept down:
Never advanc'd, tho' never at a stay;
Keeps on; perhaps shines on; but makes no way!
—So fares the mettled steed, in harness bound,
To drag some ponderous engine round and round!
His toil is generous effort;—but 'tis still,
Strength, Perseverance, Progress!—in a Mill!

THE END.