The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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| EPISTLES From the Country. |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
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EPISTLES From the Country.
To my Lord of Abingdon at his Country House.
Happy the Man that from the Town retires,
And with it quits all vain and loose Desires;
That, born for Peace, the Country's soft Repose
Does early love, and but with Life will lose!
This Man, my Lord, like You his Hours does spend,
Such You began, and such You'll surely end:
Peace You enjoy, and Peace around You give,
Such is Your Life, and such the Shepherds live.
Prudence your Mind, and Plenty fills your Board,
And ev'ry Day does equal Stores afford.
Thus Circulating Pleasures round You move,
All Sports of River, Mountain, Field and Grove;
O Pleasure but to be excell'd above!
And with it quits all vain and loose Desires;
That, born for Peace, the Country's soft Repose
Does early love, and but with Life will lose!
This Man, my Lord, like You his Hours does spend,
Such You began, and such You'll surely end:
Peace You enjoy, and Peace around You give,
Such is Your Life, and such the Shepherds live.
Prudence your Mind, and Plenty fills your Board,
And ev'ry Day does equal Stores afford.
Thus Circulating Pleasures round You move,
All Sports of River, Mountain, Field and Grove;
O Pleasure but to be excell'd above!
How blest am I, unworthily your Care,
Call'd from the Town and plac'd in Safety here,
Free from the Ills that did surround me there:
The Flatte'rers Smiles, and the false Friends Embrace,
(Ah why are Minds not written on the Face!)
From Tradesmen's Cheats, and Blockhead's Doggrel Rhimes,
Which now are grown the Grievance of the Times:
To this we'll add what more our Peace does wrong,
The Harlots Tail—and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue.
The Lawyer, born to be a Friend to none,
False to our Interest, falser to their own;
For if a Future Doom their Errors wait,
Where is that One will pass the Narrow Gate?
The Text that says a Camel may as well
Go thro' a Needle, as the Rich scape Hell,
Was meant of Lawyers:—the ill-gotten Store
That makes one Rich, has made three Nations Poor.
Had I a thousand Sons, e'er one shou'd be
A Member of that vile Societie,
I'd in the Temple hang him up; nay boil
His Quarters, as a Traytors are, in Oil,
To fright all Future Villains from the Soil.
Call'd from the Town and plac'd in Safety here,
Free from the Ills that did surround me there:
126
(Ah why are Minds not written on the Face!)
From Tradesmen's Cheats, and Blockhead's Doggrel Rhimes,
Which now are grown the Grievance of the Times:
To this we'll add what more our Peace does wrong,
The Harlots Tail—and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue.
The Lawyer, born to be a Friend to none,
False to our Interest, falser to their own;
For if a Future Doom their Errors wait,
Where is that One will pass the Narrow Gate?
The Text that says a Camel may as well
Go thro' a Needle, as the Rich scape Hell,
Was meant of Lawyers:—the ill-gotten Store
That makes one Rich, has made three Nations Poor.
Had I a thousand Sons, e'er one shou'd be
A Member of that vile Societie,
I'd in the Temple hang him up; nay boil
His Quarters, as a Traytors are, in Oil,
To fright all Future Villains from the Soil.
Freed from all this, and pleas'd she now is there
Where the fresh Seasons breath their vital Air,
The Muse (that has in Town been long confin'd,)
And doom'd to Business where she least inclin'd,)
Does now again her wonted Spright resume,
And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume;
Ranging the Country round for Subject where
T'employ her utmost Skill, and kindliest Care,
Some noble Theme! that she may tow'ring rise,
And bear the Joyful Accents to the Skies.
So the glad Lark after a stormy Night,
(The Cloudless Morning smiling on her Flight)
Prun'd for the airy Journey, tries her Wings;
Then with unlessning Vigour upward springs,
To Heav'n her Note she sends, or thence her Note she brings!
Where the fresh Seasons breath their vital Air,
The Muse (that has in Town been long confin'd,)
And doom'd to Business where she least inclin'd,)
Does now again her wonted Spright resume,
And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume;
Ranging the Country round for Subject where
T'employ her utmost Skill, and kindliest Care,
Some noble Theme! that she may tow'ring rise,
And bear the Joyful Accents to the Skies.
So the glad Lark after a stormy Night,
(The Cloudless Morning smiling on her Flight)
127
Then with unlessning Vigour upward springs,
To Heav'n her Note she sends, or thence her Note she brings!
But long she need not look, her Game's in view;
Her best, her noblest, dearest Theme is YOU!
Not Souldiers when they plunge into the Fight,
Wish more for Conquest, or the Blind for Sight;
Not Morning Brides long more for Night to prove
The mutual Sweets of undissembl'd Love;
Nor the Ambitious more Delight in Fame,
Than she in Rural Cells to sound your Name.
To bless your Choice that here set up your Rest
Where Innocence and Honesty's profest.
No Courtier's Promise here our Hope beguiles,
No Villain's Art, or Woman's subt'ler Wiles,
All Falshood, tho' she weep, or frown, or smiles.
Securely here the Natives pass their Days,
Securely here you meet unenvy'd Praise.
Let Statesmen on their Country's Ruin rise,
And Priests be only Atheists in Disguise;
Let costly Whores sit at the Helm of State,
Pull down our Patriots, and make Panders Great;
Let flutt'ring Coxcombs lewdly wast their Days
In nauseous Converse, or more nauseous Plays;
Let, like Contagion, Vice the City seize,
Run thro' all Sexes, Ages, and Degrees,
And the Physician side with the Disease.
In vain it yet your Vertue wou'd attack,
You do but frown and drive the Siren back:
The General Post, untainted y'ave withstood,
And think it truly Noble to be truly Good.
Her best, her noblest, dearest Theme is YOU!
Not Souldiers when they plunge into the Fight,
Wish more for Conquest, or the Blind for Sight;
Not Morning Brides long more for Night to prove
The mutual Sweets of undissembl'd Love;
Nor the Ambitious more Delight in Fame,
Than she in Rural Cells to sound your Name.
To bless your Choice that here set up your Rest
Where Innocence and Honesty's profest.
No Courtier's Promise here our Hope beguiles,
No Villain's Art, or Woman's subt'ler Wiles,
All Falshood, tho' she weep, or frown, or smiles.
Securely here the Natives pass their Days,
Securely here you meet unenvy'd Praise.
Let Statesmen on their Country's Ruin rise,
And Priests be only Atheists in Disguise;
Let costly Whores sit at the Helm of State,
Pull down our Patriots, and make Panders Great;
Let flutt'ring Coxcombs lewdly wast their Days
In nauseous Converse, or more nauseous Plays;
Let, like Contagion, Vice the City seize,
Run thro' all Sexes, Ages, and Degrees,
And the Physician side with the Disease.
In vain it yet your Vertue wou'd attack,
You do but frown and drive the Siren back:
The General Post, untainted y'ave withstood,
And think it truly Noble to be truly Good.
Proud of their Titles, Equipage and Cloaths,
Some Men ne'er mention God but in their Oaths:
Religion they believe beneath their Race,
And only Poor Plebeians fit for Grace:
Their Wickedness is all their Proof for Wit,
And that of Honesty to keep in Debt.
O Stain to Quality! O Age accurst!
When the best-born are in their Practice worst.
Yet such (tho' only Vertue shou'd be Great)
Are trusted at the Helm, and steer the State.
How strangely do these Legislators run
From their own Acts? Make Laws, but practise none,
Neither of those in Scripture, nor their Own.
Edicts to keep the Sabbath more severe
Are issu'd out, when nothing's less their Care;
So much forgetting, commonly, the Day,
They've miss'd the Church and driven to the Play:
There lies there Main Devotion:—And yet wise
They must be thought; but all their Learning Lies
In Votes, Gazettes, and reading Ladies Eyes:
Where if they meet with Vertue, (which is rare)
They but admire that they may next ensnare.
So Schismaticks on Scripture shew their Art,
And Texts not for 'em wickedly pervert.
Some Men ne'er mention God but in their Oaths:
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And only Poor Plebeians fit for Grace:
Their Wickedness is all their Proof for Wit,
And that of Honesty to keep in Debt.
O Stain to Quality! O Age accurst!
When the best-born are in their Practice worst.
Yet such (tho' only Vertue shou'd be Great)
Are trusted at the Helm, and steer the State.
How strangely do these Legislators run
From their own Acts? Make Laws, but practise none,
Neither of those in Scripture, nor their Own.
Edicts to keep the Sabbath more severe
Are issu'd out, when nothing's less their Care;
So much forgetting, commonly, the Day,
They've miss'd the Church and driven to the Play:
There lies there Main Devotion:—And yet wise
They must be thought; but all their Learning Lies
In Votes, Gazettes, and reading Ladies Eyes:
Where if they meet with Vertue, (which is rare)
They but admire that they may next ensnare.
So Schismaticks on Scripture shew their Art,
And Texts not for 'em wickedly pervert.
But you, my Lord, more wisely place aright
In Nobler Authors your sublime Delight;
Authors that don't the less attract the Eye,
Because their Themes are Truth and Pietie.
The Writers in their Notions more abstruse,
You, in their Way, to like Advantage use:
These with sure Judgment and a reaching Eye
You search, and into hidden Causes pry,
Look Nature thro' make all their Roughness plain;
And find what Men well Learn'd have sought in vain.
In Nobler Authors your sublime Delight;
Authors that don't the less attract the Eye,
Because their Themes are Truth and Pietie.
The Writers in their Notions more abstruse,
You, in their Way, to like Advantage use:
These with sure Judgment and a reaching Eye
You search, and into hidden Causes pry,
Look Nature thro' make all their Roughness plain;
And find what Men well Learn'd have sought in vain.
Ah! wou'd the Atheist seriously incline,
Like YOU, to ponder things that are Divine;
Observe how GOD's high Wisdom does disperse
His quick'ning Influe'nce thro' the Universe;
How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance,
Create the Seasons in their Various Dance,
And shew their Essence not the Work of Chance;
But that th'Almighty made, and is the Soul
That actuates and maintains the Mighty Whole.
Wou'd he but faithfully on this reflect,
With just Confusion he'd his Crimes reject;
And, when unprejudic'd, by Reason see
In the least Spire of Grass the Deity.
But such you rather pity than deride,
Seduc'd by Luxu'ry, and confirm'd by Pride.
To call 'em Fools they think a gross Abuse;
And if they've Sense, they can have no Excuse
For putting such a Gift to such an Use.
Then Beasts why are we Nobler, but to know
And Contemplate the Pow'r that made us so?
Tho', Living, these let bold Expressions fly,
Droll on a Future State, and Heav'n defy,
They're sordid Cowards when they come to Die;
When for that Endless Station they embark,
Which Hobbs wou'd call a Leap into the Dark:
The Dark, indeed! his Portion must be Night,
That shuts his Eyes against so clear a Light,
And laughs at Scripture that wou'd guide him Right.
Like YOU, to ponder things that are Divine;
129
His quick'ning Influe'nce thro' the Universe;
How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance,
Create the Seasons in their Various Dance,
And shew their Essence not the Work of Chance;
But that th'Almighty made, and is the Soul
That actuates and maintains the Mighty Whole.
Wou'd he but faithfully on this reflect,
With just Confusion he'd his Crimes reject;
And, when unprejudic'd, by Reason see
In the least Spire of Grass the Deity.
But such you rather pity than deride,
Seduc'd by Luxu'ry, and confirm'd by Pride.
To call 'em Fools they think a gross Abuse;
And if they've Sense, they can have no Excuse
For putting such a Gift to such an Use.
Then Beasts why are we Nobler, but to know
And Contemplate the Pow'r that made us so?
Tho', Living, these let bold Expressions fly,
Droll on a Future State, and Heav'n defy,
They're sordid Cowards when they come to Die;
When for that Endless Station they embark,
Which Hobbs wou'd call a Leap into the Dark:
The Dark, indeed! his Portion must be Night,
That shuts his Eyes against so clear a Light,
And laughs at Scripture that wou'd guide him Right.
Happy the Man that to be Vertu'ous strives,
And is prepar'd when the black Hour arrives:
Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew,
That in wild Shapes the guilty Wretch pursue:
His smooth pac'd Hours unmurm'ring glide away,
His Troubles vanish, and his Comforts stay.
Of all the Good with which Mankind is blest,
That of a Conscience free from Guile is best.
Thus all your Words, and all your Actions, show
The Fountains Purity from whence they flow.
For who the Top of Honour wou'd attain,
Must ne'er do nothing mean, or lewd, or vain:
How e'er that Term by Fops is understood,
'Twas Vertue first that did distinguish Blood.
What signifies it tho' one boast he brings
His Pedigree from Conquerours and Kings;
If by ill Actions he debase his Birth,
And grow the Publick Scorn, or Publick Mirth?
In vain his high Descent and Ancient Stem,
There is more Honour in a Dog than Him;
Who taught by Instinct, and to Instinct true,
The proper End he's made for does pursue:
While Coxcombs ridicule Shape, Face and Mind,
And will be that for which they're not design'd.
Cowards in Scarf and Scarlet will appear,
The Foul pursue the Favour of the Fair;
Fools, that shou'd most be silent, most will prate,
And your brib'd Member thinks he props the State:
If to another Age like this we live,
Our Property will all resolve into Prerogative.
'Tis he alone has an Intrepid Soul
Whom Malice can't corrupt, or Fear controul;
That makes the British Glory still his Care,
It's Ornament in Peace, and Thunderbolt in War;
That sternly to the Beard opposes Pride,
And in all Strifes assists the Rightful Side:
Flatte'ry he scorns, so never falsly smiles,
No Scripture ridicules, or Church reviles:
In Posts of Trust all By-Regards he hates,
Nor from the Publick Misery drains Estates:
Merit he does encourage all he can,
His Age continues what his Youth began;
This only is the Honourable Man.
And is prepar'd when the black Hour arrives:
Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew,
That in wild Shapes the guilty Wretch pursue:
His smooth pac'd Hours unmurm'ring glide away,
His Troubles vanish, and his Comforts stay.
Of all the Good with which Mankind is blest,
That of a Conscience free from Guile is best.
130
The Fountains Purity from whence they flow.
For who the Top of Honour wou'd attain,
Must ne'er do nothing mean, or lewd, or vain:
How e'er that Term by Fops is understood,
'Twas Vertue first that did distinguish Blood.
What signifies it tho' one boast he brings
His Pedigree from Conquerours and Kings;
If by ill Actions he debase his Birth,
And grow the Publick Scorn, or Publick Mirth?
In vain his high Descent and Ancient Stem,
There is more Honour in a Dog than Him;
Who taught by Instinct, and to Instinct true,
The proper End he's made for does pursue:
While Coxcombs ridicule Shape, Face and Mind,
And will be that for which they're not design'd.
Cowards in Scarf and Scarlet will appear,
The Foul pursue the Favour of the Fair;
Fools, that shou'd most be silent, most will prate,
And your brib'd Member thinks he props the State:
If to another Age like this we live,
Our Property will all resolve into Prerogative.
'Tis he alone has an Intrepid Soul
Whom Malice can't corrupt, or Fear controul;
That makes the British Glory still his Care,
It's Ornament in Peace, and Thunderbolt in War;
That sternly to the Beard opposes Pride,
And in all Strifes assists the Rightful Side:
Flatte'ry he scorns, so never falsly smiles,
No Scripture ridicules, or Church reviles:
In Posts of Trust all By-Regards he hates,
Nor from the Publick Misery drains Estates:
Merit he does encourage all he can,
His Age continues what his Youth began;
This only is the Honourable Man.
131
In this old English Path you bravely show
How far a true Heroick Soul may go:
And then (a Blessing we but seldom find)
Your high Extractions mated to your Mind,
The brighter both when with each other join'd:
There's none so Great but he may Greater grow,
If with his Noble Birth he's Vertuous too:
Honour does then with double Glory shine,
Enobl'd, and Enobling of the Line:
Such Men are rais'd above the World's distrust,
They will not, dare not, cannot be unjust,
Nor basely side with Arbitrary Lust.
Thus, Justice we in all your Actions see,
Without which there were no Humanity:
The Christian Name preposterously he bears,
That uses his own Fellow Creatures worse that Brutes do theirs.
How far a true Heroick Soul may go:
And then (a Blessing we but seldom find)
Your high Extractions mated to your Mind,
The brighter both when with each other join'd:
There's none so Great but he may Greater grow,
If with his Noble Birth he's Vertuous too:
Honour does then with double Glory shine,
Enobl'd, and Enobling of the Line:
Such Men are rais'd above the World's distrust,
They will not, dare not, cannot be unjust,
Nor basely side with Arbitrary Lust.
Thus, Justice we in all your Actions see,
Without which there were no Humanity:
The Christian Name preposterously he bears,
That uses his own Fellow Creatures worse that Brutes do theirs.
But who can here omit (what ought to be
Admir'd and Prais'd by all) your Charity?
On those that love the Poor what Joys attend!
But chiefly this—he makes his GOD his Friend.
Who with this Vertue ever was a Slave?
Or who e'er wanted the Relief he gave?
Let those (ye Pow'rs!) be poor themselves that take
No Care of those in Want, but rather Poorer make;
Let not one Soul be softn'd with their Cries,
That they may feel the Mise'ry they despise.
And, to be plain, what Mercy can they e'er
Expect from Heav'n that not one Debtor spare?
That leave not on their naked Limbs a Thread,
And from the Labou'rer force his daily Bread?
Has the Rich Man a Greater GOD than they?
Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay?
Or will he have more Favour on the Judgment Day?
'Twas Charity redeem'd us from the Sin
Which our first Parents Fall had plung'd us in;
And, with the dearest Love that e'er was shown,
To raise us thither, sent a SAVIOUR down;
Who all that they had Lost, Regain'd:—and can
We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man?
Admir'd and Prais'd by all) your Charity?
On those that love the Poor what Joys attend!
But chiefly this—he makes his GOD his Friend.
Who with this Vertue ever was a Slave?
Or who e'er wanted the Relief he gave?
Let those (ye Pow'rs!) be poor themselves that take
No Care of those in Want, but rather Poorer make;
Let not one Soul be softn'd with their Cries,
That they may feel the Mise'ry they despise.
And, to be plain, what Mercy can they e'er
Expect from Heav'n that not one Debtor spare?
That leave not on their naked Limbs a Thread,
And from the Labou'rer force his daily Bread?
Has the Rich Man a Greater GOD than they?
Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay?
Or will he have more Favour on the Judgment Day?
132
Which our first Parents Fall had plung'd us in;
And, with the dearest Love that e'er was shown,
To raise us thither, sent a SAVIOUR down;
Who all that they had Lost, Regain'd:—and can
We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man?
But such as these who can despise, like YOU,
And by the ill Example better grow;
That Greatness can't corrupt, or Courts entice,
Those Antick Schools of fashionable Vice;
That in his Heart prefers his Country Seat,
And relishes the Sweets of his Retreat;
Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give,
So lives, nay more, and so designs to live;
Whose piercing Eye the Flatterer can't escape,
Found and despis'd in his most soft'ning Shape;
That Counter-weighs against an Ages Crimes,
And is a good Man in the worst of Times;
'Tis there the mighty Nine their Voice shou'd raise,
And to the Vaults of Heav'n resound his Praise;
A long with Abingdon's the Name shou'd roll,
And, driving, Echo on from Pole to Pole.
And by the ill Example better grow;
That Greatness can't corrupt, or Courts entice,
Those Antick Schools of fashionable Vice;
That in his Heart prefers his Country Seat,
And relishes the Sweets of his Retreat;
Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give,
So lives, nay more, and so designs to live;
Whose piercing Eye the Flatterer can't escape,
Found and despis'd in his most soft'ning Shape;
That Counter-weighs against an Ages Crimes,
And is a good Man in the worst of Times;
'Tis there the mighty Nine their Voice shou'd raise,
And to the Vaults of Heav'n resound his Praise;
A long with Abingdon's the Name shou'd roll,
And, driving, Echo on from Pole to Pole.
Pardon, my Lord, that I have here so long
Done both your Vertue and your Patience wrong:
On this I have intrench'd, but blame my Fau't;
Nor have describ'd the other as I ought:
Yet since you condescend t'indulge the Muse,
What you encourage you'll, perhaps, excuse:
Kindly you still on her Endeavours smile,
And with a bounte'ous Hand reward her Toil.
O had I Strength to Balance my Desire,
Or wou'd the God Heroick Thoughts inspire,
To your high Worth a Lasting Fame I'd give—
Nor shall it Die if what I write does Live.
Done both your Vertue and your Patience wrong:
On this I have intrench'd, but blame my Fau't;
Nor have describ'd the other as I ought:
Yet since you condescend t'indulge the Muse,
What you encourage you'll, perhaps, excuse:
Kindly you still on her Endeavours smile,
And with a bounte'ous Hand reward her Toil.
O had I Strength to Balance my Desire,
Or wou'd the God Heroick Thoughts inspire,
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Nor shall it Die if what I write does Live.
To Mr. Knight from the Country.
O
Knight! 'tis certain this Auspicious Soil
Almost anticipates the Labou'rers Toil;
The Spring, retiring, keeps it still in Sight,
At distant Smiles, and never leaves it quite.
Here Peace and Joy with Mutual Heart agree,
And Plenty's reconcil'd to Piety.
The happy Natives in firm Health appear
'Till they have weather'd out twice forty Year,
Yet Live and Die without a Thought of Care.
While I remain in such a Clime as this,
And take full Draughts of healthy Country Bliss,
I cannot but with Indignation frown
At what is your Delight;—the vitious Town.
The Town! which next to Heav'n you magnify;
But I wou'd gladly know your Reasons why.
What more can you say in that Life's Defence
Than Shepherds of their State of Innocence?
Where free from Envy, Vanity and Strife,
They make the best of an uncertain Life.
Ambition's deadly Rock they wisely shun,
Where most aspiring Spirits are undone.
To hoard up heaps of Wealth they little mind;
'Tis Peace and Truth they seek, and those they find.
Let Fools to please their Taste confound their Store,
If Nature is suffic'd, they ask no more.
Their Mistresses are brown, of Sabine hue,
But then, to make Amends, they're always true.
Here when the Rural Nymph does chance to Wed,
She comes unsully'd to the Nuptial Bed:
But a new Comet sooner will appear,
Than Hymen find a spotless Virgin there.
Almost anticipates the Labou'rers Toil;
The Spring, retiring, keeps it still in Sight,
At distant Smiles, and never leaves it quite.
Here Peace and Joy with Mutual Heart agree,
And Plenty's reconcil'd to Piety.
The happy Natives in firm Health appear
'Till they have weather'd out twice forty Year,
Yet Live and Die without a Thought of Care.
While I remain in such a Clime as this,
And take full Draughts of healthy Country Bliss,
I cannot but with Indignation frown
At what is your Delight;—the vitious Town.
The Town! which next to Heav'n you magnify;
But I wou'd gladly know your Reasons why.
What more can you say in that Life's Defence
Than Shepherds of their State of Innocence?
Where free from Envy, Vanity and Strife,
They make the best of an uncertain Life.
Ambition's deadly Rock they wisely shun,
Where most aspiring Spirits are undone.
To hoard up heaps of Wealth they little mind;
'Tis Peace and Truth they seek, and those they find.
Let Fools to please their Taste confound their Store,
If Nature is suffic'd, they ask no more.
Their Mistresses are brown, of Sabine hue,
But then, to make Amends, they're always true.
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She comes unsully'd to the Nuptial Bed:
But a new Comet sooner will appear,
Than Hymen find a spotless Virgin there.
Thro' your lewd Streets salt Drabs in Legions go;
The Strand has ev'ry Night its Ebb and Flow.
When upon Lady Tray and Ringwood wait,
She but nine Days promiscu'ously will Mate;
And when with Young they Venus still refuse;
These hotter Females ev'ry Season use,
And with big Bellies ply the Streets and Stews.
The Strand has ev'ry Night its Ebb and Flow.
When upon Lady Tray and Ringwood wait,
She but nine Days promiscu'ously will Mate;
And when with Young they Venus still refuse;
These hotter Females ev'ry Season use,
And with big Bellies ply the Streets and Stews.
To the loose City a like Fate arrives,
But there the Trade lies most among the Wives.
The Husbands they get Money by their Wares,
The Wives are forc'd to give to put off Theirs.
Demure their Look, and in their Mien precise,
So under Cloak and Band the Atheist lies,
And the worst Punk is she in Saints Disguise:
All Possible Defences she destroys,
And, like White-Powder, kills without a Noise.
With thousand Oaths her Spouse his Riches gets,
He boldly wins and she as boldly Setts.
When e'er he wags she does her Circle run,
From Park to Plays, to Treats when Play is done,
The Gallant ready when the Husband's gone.
Thus ill got Cash a bitter Curse bestows,
With Perju'ry comes and in Adultery goes.
But there the Trade lies most among the Wives.
The Husbands they get Money by their Wares,
The Wives are forc'd to give to put off Theirs.
Demure their Look, and in their Mien precise,
So under Cloak and Band the Atheist lies,
And the worst Punk is she in Saints Disguise:
All Possible Defences she destroys,
And, like White-Powder, kills without a Noise.
With thousand Oaths her Spouse his Riches gets,
He boldly wins and she as boldly Setts.
When e'er he wags she does her Circle run,
From Park to Plays, to Treats when Play is done,
The Gallant ready when the Husband's gone.
Thus ill got Cash a bitter Curse bestows,
With Perju'ry comes and in Adultery goes.
Well but, you'll say, most Men such Drabs detest
Nor are all Women wicked,—'tis confess'd.
But who is always Wise? there is a Time
When strictest Worth may stumble on a Crime.
A thousand Arts they have t'enflame Desire,
And fan the Blood to a contagious Fire.
'Tis best then to be absent from the Snare,
And we can only boast of Safety here:
With us that Sex from all Trepan is free;
O lasting Charm of Artless Constancie!
Nor are all Women wicked,—'tis confess'd.
But who is always Wise? there is a Time
When strictest Worth may stumble on a Crime.
A thousand Arts they have t'enflame Desire,
And fan the Blood to a contagious Fire.
135
And we can only boast of Safety here:
With us that Sex from all Trepan is free;
O lasting Charm of Artless Constancie!
In getting Bastards half your Town's employ'd,
And 'tis as certain that they're next destroy'd:
No Privy's free; where they in Ordure lie,
Yet sweeter than their Mothers Infamy.
If such a Criminal's convicted here,
It is a Theme of Horror for a Year:
The sad Offender does receive her Due,
Or flying hence, acts treble Guilt with You.
As to her Centre Lust does thither tend,
That Sourse of Vice which but with Time will end.
As Ireland pois'nous Insects will not bear,
So all our Filth is drain'd and empty'd there.
And 'tis as certain that they're next destroy'd:
No Privy's free; where they in Ordure lie,
Yet sweeter than their Mothers Infamy.
If such a Criminal's convicted here,
It is a Theme of Horror for a Year:
The sad Offender does receive her Due,
Or flying hence, acts treble Guilt with You.
As to her Centre Lust does thither tend,
That Sourse of Vice which but with Time will end.
As Ireland pois'nous Insects will not bear,
So all our Filth is drain'd and empty'd there.
Divide your Men, one part in Three are Slaves,
The next and greatest Cuckolds, Fools and Knaves,
The third a Rout of Mimicks, Rakes and Braves;
The last of which, tho' they roar huff and damn,
Search 'em, they're tame at Bottom as a Lamb.
As who swears most is least believ'd of all,
So big Words shew the Courage to be small.
Wou'd these three num'rous Herds but leave their Folds,
We may affirm You wou'd not meet three Souls,
Three honest ones, from Charing-Cross to Paul's.
The next and greatest Cuckolds, Fools and Knaves,
The third a Rout of Mimicks, Rakes and Braves;
The last of which, tho' they roar huff and damn,
Search 'em, they're tame at Bottom as a Lamb.
As who swears most is least believ'd of all,
So big Words shew the Courage to be small.
Wou'd these three num'rous Herds but leave their Folds,
We may affirm You wou'd not meet three Souls,
Three honest ones, from Charing-Cross to Paul's.
It may be urg'd the Country is not free
From many spreading Vices, sad to see,
Particularly that of Knavery.
But where's the Hand void of all evil Deeds?
Or Spot of Land not liable to Weeds?
Now here to root 'em out we daily strive,
At London care is took to make 'em thrive;
They flourish there, grow Popular and Great,
That Soil is never without Knaves of State.
That this is so we boldly may Express,
Our late Divisions testify no less,
When Loyalty was thought a Senseless thing,
And he the Patriot that defam'd his King.
From many spreading Vices, sad to see,
Particularly that of Knavery.
But where's the Hand void of all evil Deeds?
Or Spot of Land not liable to Weeds?
Now here to root 'em out we daily strive,
At London care is took to make 'em thrive;
136
That Soil is never without Knaves of State.
That this is so we boldly may Express,
Our late Divisions testify no less,
When Loyalty was thought a Senseless thing,
And he the Patriot that defam'd his King.
Your Lawyers are Incorp'orate with these;
A Race that, tho' they've Vice upon the Lees,
Yet drain it on, and damn their Souls for Fees:
Deliberately on Villany they fall,
Side on all Sides, and yet are false to all.
Instead of Forma Pauperis, all the Poor
They peel quite bare, and make 'em suffer more
Then twenty long keen Winters did before.
He that deprives us with a Stab of Breath,
Is kind to him that lingers us to Death.
A Dearth to Plenty waits on Lawyer's Bills,
Just like the Dearth of Health on Emperick's Pills.
Curse 'em ye Pow'rs!—yet only curse 'em thus;
Be but that Plague to them they are to us.
A Race that, tho' they've Vice upon the Lees,
Yet drain it on, and damn their Souls for Fees:
Deliberately on Villany they fall,
Side on all Sides, and yet are false to all.
Instead of Forma Pauperis, all the Poor
They peel quite bare, and make 'em suffer more
Then twenty long keen Winters did before.
He that deprives us with a Stab of Breath,
Is kind to him that lingers us to Death.
A Dearth to Plenty waits on Lawyer's Bills,
Just like the Dearth of Health on Emperick's Pills.
Curse 'em ye Pow'rs!—yet only curse 'em thus;
Be but that Plague to them they are to us.
Tho' all this be deplorable and sad,
The Grievance is in other things as bad.
What Shoals of Fops at Plays at Park and Court!
Meer Butterflies, by Nature made in Sport;
Or else for hast unfinish'd left, to show
How much a Fashion warm from France can do:
Running in Debt to all he all beguiles,
And is but drest out of his Tradesmens Spoils:
Had ev'ry one his Feather back, you'd find
His Body then as naked as his Mind.
Yet these are they that such Delight impart,
They glide unfelt into a Female-Heart;
To get whose Love much Talk and little Wit
Are Charms that never fail'd a Coxcomb yet.
O Foolish Sex! and struck upon the Shelves!
That can like nothing but what's like themselves.
The Grievance is in other things as bad.
What Shoals of Fops at Plays at Park and Court!
Meer Butterflies, by Nature made in Sport;
Or else for hast unfinish'd left, to show
How much a Fashion warm from France can do:
Running in Debt to all he all beguiles,
And is but drest out of his Tradesmens Spoils:
Had ev'ry one his Feather back, you'd find
His Body then as naked as his Mind.
Yet these are they that such Delight impart,
They glide unfelt into a Female-Heart;
To get whose Love much Talk and little Wit
Are Charms that never fail'd a Coxcomb yet.
137
That can like nothing but what's like themselves.
Nor is this all that makes the Town our Hate;
The very Drink it Self's Sophisticate:
For your French Wines (and yet the Trash does please)
Are grown as dang'rous as the French Disease;
Stumm'd, mixt, Adulte'rate, and for nothing good
But to corrupt the pure and wholsome Blood.
Not that (my Friend) I hate the noble Juice
If it be Right, and free from all Abuse:
A Cheerful Glass makes Fancy walk as high
(The Muse's Friend!) as 'twou'd without it fly.
But as the Age goes now good Wine's as scarce
As Truth in Friendship, or as Wit in Farce.
The very Drink it Self's Sophisticate:
For your French Wines (and yet the Trash does please)
Are grown as dang'rous as the French Disease;
Stumm'd, mixt, Adulte'rate, and for nothing good
But to corrupt the pure and wholsome Blood.
Not that (my Friend) I hate the noble Juice
If it be Right, and free from all Abuse:
A Cheerful Glass makes Fancy walk as high
(The Muse's Friend!) as 'twou'd without it fly.
But as the Age goes now good Wine's as scarce
As Truth in Friendship, or as Wit in Farce.
Free from all this, and what e'er else we find
That shocks the Peace and Quiet of the Mind,
Supine, the Happy Rural Natives lie.
In the soft Arms of kind Obscurity.
Nor Death nor Poverty are by 'em fear'd,
Against those worst of Ills they're still prepar'd,
For a Good Conscience is the boldest Guard;
And that they ever have; as wronging none,
And living on that Little of their Own:
And very Little is an Ample Store,
To him that wisely does desire no more.
That shocks the Peace and Quiet of the Mind,
Supine, the Happy Rural Natives lie.
In the soft Arms of kind Obscurity.
Nor Death nor Poverty are by 'em fear'd,
Against those worst of Ills they're still prepar'd,
For a Good Conscience is the boldest Guard;
And that they ever have; as wronging none,
And living on that Little of their Own:
And very Little is an Ample Store,
To him that wisely does desire no more.
More Instances might easily be shown
To prove the Country Life excell'd by none!
But I shall mention, at this Time, but One;
One fit to Crown the rest; and that shall be
Good house-keeping and Hospitalitie.
The Gentry there can Dine upon a Dish,
Two or three Eggs, or some small Scraps of Fish:
You think they're Frugal; but 'tis all a Cheat,
And this in short's the Truth of the Deceit:
They spend so much on Drabs, they are not able
To live up to their Birth and keep a Table.
Hence You may guess how they relieve the Poor;
Two or three Bones, and not a Morsel more,
Which Footmen and the Dogs had pick't before:
Footmen, I say, for in this Courtly Age,
Tho' they want Bread they'll have an Equipage.
But here 'tis seen, to their Immortal Fame,
That Charity is not an Empty Name:
There from your Doors you drive the famish'd Soul,
And here the Needy never miss their Dole:
No Man can Starve, if to the Bounty shown
He adds some little Labour of his own.
Consider but these Truths Impartially,
And I don't doubt but you will soon comply
To think as lightly of the Town as I.
To prove the Country Life excell'd by none!
But I shall mention, at this Time, but One;
One fit to Crown the rest; and that shall be
Good house-keeping and Hospitalitie.
The Gentry there can Dine upon a Dish,
Two or three Eggs, or some small Scraps of Fish:
138
And this in short's the Truth of the Deceit:
They spend so much on Drabs, they are not able
To live up to their Birth and keep a Table.
Hence You may guess how they relieve the Poor;
Two or three Bones, and not a Morsel more,
Which Footmen and the Dogs had pick't before:
Footmen, I say, for in this Courtly Age,
Tho' they want Bread they'll have an Equipage.
But here 'tis seen, to their Immortal Fame,
That Charity is not an Empty Name:
There from your Doors you drive the famish'd Soul,
And here the Needy never miss their Dole:
No Man can Starve, if to the Bounty shown
He adds some little Labour of his own.
Consider but these Truths Impartially,
And I don't doubt but you will soon comply
To think as lightly of the Town as I.
To Mr. R. Trowe from the Country.
You that have always Greatness in your Eye,
May well forget so mean a Wretch as I.
I once, indeed, led a free Life like thine,
And, Care removing, thought that Life Divine:
But wiser now by my Misfortunes made,
I leave the Glare and run into a Shade:
And, like a Snail, within my Shell enclos'd,
Fear not those Storms to which the Town's expos'd.
Of Peace secure, the Swain at once is free
From Publick Fraud and Private Enmity.
With open Coffers, and my Doors unbarr'd
I'm safe, when ev'en the Wealthy are not spar'd;
'Tis Poverty that keeps the strongest Guard.
May well forget so mean a Wretch as I.
I once, indeed, led a free Life like thine,
And, Care removing, thought that Life Divine:
But wiser now by my Misfortunes made,
I leave the Glare and run into a Shade:
And, like a Snail, within my Shell enclos'd,
Fear not those Storms to which the Town's expos'd.
Of Peace secure, the Swain at once is free
From Publick Fraud and Private Enmity.
With open Coffers, and my Doors unbarr'd
I'm safe, when ev'en the Wealthy are not spar'd;
'Tis Poverty that keeps the strongest Guard.
139
But tho' I thus obscurely pass my Days,
I see enough for Wonder and for Praise.
Th'Almighty in his Glorious Works is here
At all Times no less visible than there,
And as soon reach'd with Piety and Prayer.
Nor does Content (with you ne'er known to stay,
But make a Courtier's Visit and away)
Leave us at all, like a tame Bird she feeds
Out of our Hands, and with us builds and breeds:
Plenty mean while thro' all the Plain resounds
As Faction does in Palaces and Towns;
That Soil where not alone Rebellion Springs,
But is rewarded for defaming Kings.
Here free from cringing to the Man of Pow'r,
I Eat and Drink and Sleep just at my Hour:
When Nature calls I Breakfast and I Dine,
And not because the Clock strikes Twelve and Nine:
And am as pleas'd with my own Frugal Board,
As if I sat at Table with a Lord,
And saw his gilded Laqueys round me wait,
Who live like Dogs, but on the Scraps of Meat:
As pleas'd as if, with an attentive Ear,
I was compell'd his vain Discourse to hear,
And mannerly to all he Chatters, cry
True my good Lord—when ev'ry Word's a Lye.
I see enough for Wonder and for Praise.
Th'Almighty in his Glorious Works is here
At all Times no less visible than there,
And as soon reach'd with Piety and Prayer.
Nor does Content (with you ne'er known to stay,
But make a Courtier's Visit and away)
Leave us at all, like a tame Bird she feeds
Out of our Hands, and with us builds and breeds:
Plenty mean while thro' all the Plain resounds
As Faction does in Palaces and Towns;
That Soil where not alone Rebellion Springs,
But is rewarded for defaming Kings.
Here free from cringing to the Man of Pow'r,
I Eat and Drink and Sleep just at my Hour:
When Nature calls I Breakfast and I Dine,
And not because the Clock strikes Twelve and Nine:
And am as pleas'd with my own Frugal Board,
As if I sat at Table with a Lord,
And saw his gilded Laqueys round me wait,
Who live like Dogs, but on the Scraps of Meat:
As pleas'd as if, with an attentive Ear,
I was compell'd his vain Discourse to hear,
And mannerly to all he Chatters, cry
True my good Lord—when ev'ry Word's a Lye.
But prithee, Friend, how does it come to pass
That thus Mankind shou'd deifie an Ass?
That they shou'd patient hold, and list'ning sit,
And put such Larded Dulness up for Wit:
Why shou'd the Fools of Title and Estate,
With Horns and Horse-shoes grav'd upon their Plate,
(To shew their great Progenitors were some
Took from the Forge, or rais'd by Cuckoldom)
Have all the Talk? While it must Breeding be
With Treason and Prophaneness to agree,
And praise their Politicks, tho' meant to bring
Confusion on their Country and their King.
Let Sycophants and Slaves their Elbows ply,
(The Earwigs that still hang on Qualitie)
Run at their Nod, and crouch beneath their Spurn,
And Drink and Fight and Pimp each in his turn;
But why shou'd Men of Birth and Wit, by Ways
So low and vile, their Dignity debase,
And poorly bend to Fops they shou'd reject?
For Merit 'tis we shou'd alone Respect.
You'll say, perhaps, they're Flatte'rers made by Need,
And let a Coxcomb prate so they can feed.
Specious, 'tis true, but mean; and is but just
Like Setting Dogs submitting for a Crust.
Who wou'd not rather Spencer be that starv'd
Than Jeff---s? (who has long that Fate deserv'd)
This Poor but Just, a Grace e'en out of Vogue;
And tother Rich, but ten times more than Rogue.
Is it not better boldly to declare
To the loose haughty and degen'rate Heir,
That all the Plumes that glitter round his Head
Are borrow'd from the Vertues of the Dead,
His Honours only (tho he looks so fierce)
But Streamers torn off from his Fathers Herse;
That, had he been by Diligence to get
His Mannors, and his Titles by his Wit,
He wou'd have wanted or have begg'd his Bread,
And been the Tail of Folly, not the Head.
In vain they of their high Extraction boast,
When we so clearly see the Strain is crost:
To Honour the Reproach and the Disgrace;
And slip't in by the Mothers being base,
They're not so much as Bastards of the Race.
That thus Mankind shou'd deifie an Ass?
That they shou'd patient hold, and list'ning sit,
And put such Larded Dulness up for Wit:
Why shou'd the Fools of Title and Estate,
With Horns and Horse-shoes grav'd upon their Plate,
(To shew their great Progenitors were some
Took from the Forge, or rais'd by Cuckoldom)
Have all the Talk? While it must Breeding be
With Treason and Prophaneness to agree,
140
Confusion on their Country and their King.
Let Sycophants and Slaves their Elbows ply,
(The Earwigs that still hang on Qualitie)
Run at their Nod, and crouch beneath their Spurn,
And Drink and Fight and Pimp each in his turn;
But why shou'd Men of Birth and Wit, by Ways
So low and vile, their Dignity debase,
And poorly bend to Fops they shou'd reject?
For Merit 'tis we shou'd alone Respect.
You'll say, perhaps, they're Flatte'rers made by Need,
And let a Coxcomb prate so they can feed.
Specious, 'tis true, but mean; and is but just
Like Setting Dogs submitting for a Crust.
Who wou'd not rather Spencer be that starv'd
Than Jeff---s? (who has long that Fate deserv'd)
This Poor but Just, a Grace e'en out of Vogue;
And tother Rich, but ten times more than Rogue.
Is it not better boldly to declare
To the loose haughty and degen'rate Heir,
That all the Plumes that glitter round his Head
Are borrow'd from the Vertues of the Dead,
His Honours only (tho he looks so fierce)
But Streamers torn off from his Fathers Herse;
That, had he been by Diligence to get
His Mannors, and his Titles by his Wit,
He wou'd have wanted or have begg'd his Bread,
And been the Tail of Folly, not the Head.
In vain they of their high Extraction boast,
When we so clearly see the Strain is crost:
To Honour the Reproach and the Disgrace;
And slip't in by the Mothers being base,
They're not so much as Bastards of the Race.
But here I see you hit your Nose, and cry
Hush!—you forget you talk to Quality;
Rouze not a sleeping Lion; don't you hear
Their Scandalum Magnatum in your Ear?
I do, indeed;—and but that Privilege
Must take off something of the Satyr's Edge
I'd strip 'em bare, and open to your view
So vile, so loose, so profligate a Crew
Of Coward, Coxcomb, Fop, and Whore and Hag,
You'd run from Honour as you'd fly the Plague,
Or a new Rabble that as much affrights,
The num'rous Skipping Fry of Modern Knights;
Produc'd here by whole Cart-Loads in our Isle
As Heat does Monsters from the Slime of Nile.
Hush!—you forget you talk to Quality;
141
Their Scandalum Magnatum in your Ear?
I do, indeed;—and but that Privilege
Must take off something of the Satyr's Edge
I'd strip 'em bare, and open to your view
So vile, so loose, so profligate a Crew
Of Coward, Coxcomb, Fop, and Whore and Hag,
You'd run from Honour as you'd fly the Plague,
Or a new Rabble that as much affrights,
The num'rous Skipping Fry of Modern Knights;
Produc'd here by whole Cart-Loads in our Isle
As Heat does Monsters from the Slime of Nile.
'Tis not as when our Maiden Soveraign sway'd;
Yet who was better lov'd, and more obey'd?
Profusion in Promotion she restrain'd,
And Honour was not given then but Gain'd:
Pimping had then to Worship no Pretence;
Tho' it has been the surest Method since
Villains to Titles and Estates to rear,
To sit at Helm and have the Soveraign Ear.
Yet who was better lov'd, and more obey'd?
Profusion in Promotion she restrain'd,
And Honour was not given then but Gain'd:
Pimping had then to Worship no Pretence;
Tho' it has been the surest Method since
Villains to Titles and Estates to rear,
To sit at Helm and have the Soveraign Ear.
Again I'm wand'ring:—least I wander more
I'll here, for thy Relief and mine, give o'er:
This only adding; that tho' I must be
Forgotten, yet my Memory's full of Thee,
Of Thee! whose Name shall live in Verse approv'd,
While Wit does last, and Honesty's belov'd.
I'll here, for thy Relief and mine, give o'er:
This only adding; that tho' I must be
Forgotten, yet my Memory's full of Thee,
Of Thee! whose Name shall live in Verse approv'd,
While Wit does last, and Honesty's belov'd.
142
To the Reverend Mr. Francis Henery Cary, from the Country.
Tho' all Afflictions that ill Fate can send
Against our Peace of Mind their Batt'ery bend,
We have a Refuge if we have a Freind:
Permit me then, if I may dare presume
To think your Breast retains for me a Room;
Who not deserve that Freindship I implore,
But will Endeavour to deserve it more:
Permit me yet to hope your Pitying Ear,
While by my Past I paint my Present Care.
Complaining oft brings the sad Soul Relief,
And is a kind of Sabbath to our Grief.
Against our Peace of Mind their Batt'ery bend,
We have a Refuge if we have a Freind:
Permit me then, if I may dare presume
To think your Breast retains for me a Room;
Who not deserve that Freindship I implore,
But will Endeavour to deserve it more:
Permit me yet to hope your Pitying Ear,
While by my Past I paint my Present Care.
Complaining oft brings the sad Soul Relief,
And is a kind of Sabbath to our Grief.
Young, and not knowing yet my Friendless State,
My Parents dy'd by a too early Fate.
A Mother from me torn as soon as born,
A Father e'er I knew his Loss to mourn.
Industrious, Pious, Frugal still they were;
But 'tis not Prudence, Vertue, Wit, or Care
That always gets a Portion for the Heir.
Mony is still an Antidote to Woe,
For that's a Friend who ever is a Foe.
Nay, which was yet a more unhappy Lot,
The Little I had Learnt was soon forgot:
Not carrying higher; the Foundation liad,
For want of Building, sap'd, and soon decay'd:
So oft in Spring the Hope of Autumn's lost
With early Blites, or nipt with lagging Frost.
But Nature doubly can her Loss repair
In the kind Product of the following Year;
But Learning blasted once no more will bear.
My Youthful Years, alas! will soon be gone,
And Winter (tho' 'tis distant) hastens on:
The Northern Blasts of Age will quickly blow,
My Head, alas! will soon be crown'd with Snow,
Ev'n now it is too late for such a Plant to grow;
Which ought to be well cultivated young,
For Knowledge rooted deep does flourish long;
But when it runs to Cavil and Dispute,
Short is its Date, and Leaves are all its Fruit.
Our SAVIOUR, in the Fig-Trees Doom, does shew
A Curse will fall on Barren Knowledge too.
My Parents dy'd by a too early Fate.
A Mother from me torn as soon as born,
A Father e'er I knew his Loss to mourn.
Industrious, Pious, Frugal still they were;
But 'tis not Prudence, Vertue, Wit, or Care
That always gets a Portion for the Heir.
Mony is still an Antidote to Woe,
For that's a Friend who ever is a Foe.
Nay, which was yet a more unhappy Lot,
The Little I had Learnt was soon forgot:
Not carrying higher; the Foundation liad,
For want of Building, sap'd, and soon decay'd:
So oft in Spring the Hope of Autumn's lost
With early Blites, or nipt with lagging Frost.
But Nature doubly can her Loss repair
In the kind Product of the following Year;
But Learning blasted once no more will bear.
143
And Winter (tho' 'tis distant) hastens on:
The Northern Blasts of Age will quickly blow,
My Head, alas! will soon be crown'd with Snow,
Ev'n now it is too late for such a Plant to grow;
Which ought to be well cultivated young,
For Knowledge rooted deep does flourish long;
But when it runs to Cavil and Dispute,
Short is its Date, and Leaves are all its Fruit.
Our SAVIOUR, in the Fig-Trees Doom, does shew
A Curse will fall on Barren Knowledge too.
Prevented thus, all that my Age might boast
From Youth, had it been better taught, is lost:
Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born,
Which is by YOU with so much Honour worn
As does redeem it from the Atheist's Scorn.
At least some Gainful Study I had made
My Choice, nor been to various Ills betray'd.
Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee,
So Man from Man in his Adversity.
When plung'd in Water, if they see we swim
Some Pitying Hand may pull us to the Brim;
But sunk, tho' all have Skill, not one will Dive,
The Hapless Wretch comes up no more alive:
So when once Low, so tedious are Supplies,
There's scarce a Possibility to rise.
From Youth, had it been better taught, is lost:
Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born,
Which is by YOU with so much Honour worn
As does redeem it from the Atheist's Scorn.
At least some Gainful Study I had made
My Choice, nor been to various Ills betray'd.
Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee,
So Man from Man in his Adversity.
When plung'd in Water, if they see we swim
Some Pitying Hand may pull us to the Brim;
But sunk, tho' all have Skill, not one will Dive,
The Hapless Wretch comes up no more alive:
So when once Low, so tedious are Supplies,
There's scarce a Possibility to rise.
Thus, failing here, to Servitude I ran,
And was a Slave long e'er I reach'd to Man:
A Slave to some whose Curse was being Free,
So lewdly they employ'd their Liberty.
In no one Age Dependance was till now
Us'd so unworthily, or sunk so low.
In vain the Servant takes the utmost Care
To please his Master, waiting, always bare,
Expos'd to Summer Suns and Winter's piercing Air.
He only Contumelious Language gives,
And most to him that patiently receives:
Reproaches, Curses, Scoffs are on him thrown,
And all th'Excuse is—That the Brute's his own;
Tho' wiser Baalam us'd not his so bad;
Wiser than such, tho' duller than his Pad.
Nor is this Usage only at White-Hall
The Servant's Fate—the Vice extends to all,
Up from the Bumkin Gentry to the Earl,
As if, like Dogs, they were but made to snarl.
The Ladies, too, who with their Consorts vye
In all Degrees of Immorality;
(In former Times but Practically so,
But now sheer Atheists in their Notions too;)
These, by their Birth misled, if e'er by Chance
They on a Servant throw a careless Glance,
'Tis with the utmost Pride, like Fiends, ascance
This score they down their Progeny instill,
So Natural 'tis to use Inferiors ill.
As if the Hireling were of Courser Clay,
Brown Earthen Ware, and of right China they:
China indeed, kept only for a Show;
T'others for Use—and GOD wou'd have us so.
But let this Thought upon their Conscience strike,
In the great POTTER's Hand w'are all alike:
In Birth and Wealth, and Power in vain their Trust,
Alike they Die, alike they rot in Dust.
Justice does here not poize the Balance ev'n;
Riches and Honour, tho' the Gifts of Heav'n,
Seem not with equal Distribution giv'n:
When Pow'r does frown, or Insolence prevail,
How light is Vertue in th'unequal Scale!
Another State will make the Myst'ry clear;
Tho' spited, spurn'd, and persecuted here,
The Slave may of the Tyrant have th'Advantage there.
And was a Slave long e'er I reach'd to Man:
A Slave to some whose Curse was being Free,
So lewdly they employ'd their Liberty.
In no one Age Dependance was till now
Us'd so unworthily, or sunk so low.
144
To please his Master, waiting, always bare,
Expos'd to Summer Suns and Winter's piercing Air.
He only Contumelious Language gives,
And most to him that patiently receives:
Reproaches, Curses, Scoffs are on him thrown,
And all th'Excuse is—That the Brute's his own;
Tho' wiser Baalam us'd not his so bad;
Wiser than such, tho' duller than his Pad.
Nor is this Usage only at White-Hall
The Servant's Fate—the Vice extends to all,
Up from the Bumkin Gentry to the Earl,
As if, like Dogs, they were but made to snarl.
The Ladies, too, who with their Consorts vye
In all Degrees of Immorality;
(In former Times but Practically so,
But now sheer Atheists in their Notions too;)
These, by their Birth misled, if e'er by Chance
They on a Servant throw a careless Glance,
'Tis with the utmost Pride, like Fiends, ascance
This score they down their Progeny instill,
So Natural 'tis to use Inferiors ill.
As if the Hireling were of Courser Clay,
Brown Earthen Ware, and of right China they:
China indeed, kept only for a Show;
T'others for Use—and GOD wou'd have us so.
But let this Thought upon their Conscience strike,
In the great POTTER's Hand w'are all alike:
In Birth and Wealth, and Power in vain their Trust,
Alike they Die, alike they rot in Dust.
Justice does here not poize the Balance ev'n;
Riches and Honour, tho' the Gifts of Heav'n,
Seem not with equal Distribution giv'n:
When Pow'r does frown, or Insolence prevail,
How light is Vertue in th'unequal Scale!
145
Tho' spited, spurn'd, and persecuted here,
The Slave may of the Tyrant have th'Advantage there.
On this rough Sea I thrice three Years was tost,
Much Wrong I suffer'd, and much Time was lost:
To other Peoples Wills I only liv'd;
O squander'd Time! and ne'er to be retriev'd!
Yet some cou'd their whole Lives thus wisely spend,
And think not on the Miserable End;
When stript of all, no longer fit to serve,
Old and Diseas'd, they are turn'd off to starve;
A Curse their past Intemperance does deserve:
'Tis then they see no Human State is worse
Than Lordly Vices with a Peasant's Purse.
But the main Coxcomb that my Nature loaths
Is he that struts in old, cast, tawd'ry Cloaths,
And makes up above half his Talk in Oaths.
Set out in all his borrow'd Plumes, alas!
He's but a thred-bare, sawcy, selfish Ass;
To Bitch and Beau a necessary Imp;
For who is a Valet and not a Pimp?
Or if a Country Lord he serves, you hear
Nothing but Rockwood ringing in your Ear;
While with a drawling Tone, and sottish Face,
The Story's always longer than the Chase.
Speak Truth and Sense he knows not what y'are at,
But Dog and Horse are his Eternal Chat.
Bred to the Discipline of Whip and Bell;
The Servile Rakehell French in this Excell,
And we, as Servile, Mimick 'em too well.
Much Wrong I suffer'd, and much Time was lost:
To other Peoples Wills I only liv'd;
O squander'd Time! and ne'er to be retriev'd!
Yet some cou'd their whole Lives thus wisely spend,
And think not on the Miserable End;
When stript of all, no longer fit to serve,
Old and Diseas'd, they are turn'd off to starve;
A Curse their past Intemperance does deserve:
'Tis then they see no Human State is worse
Than Lordly Vices with a Peasant's Purse.
But the main Coxcomb that my Nature loaths
Is he that struts in old, cast, tawd'ry Cloaths,
And makes up above half his Talk in Oaths.
Set out in all his borrow'd Plumes, alas!
He's but a thred-bare, sawcy, selfish Ass;
To Bitch and Beau a necessary Imp;
For who is a Valet and not a Pimp?
Or if a Country Lord he serves, you hear
Nothing but Rockwood ringing in your Ear;
While with a drawling Tone, and sottish Face,
The Story's always longer than the Chase.
Speak Truth and Sense he knows not what y'are at,
But Dog and Horse are his Eternal Chat.
Bred to the Discipline of Whip and Bell;
The Servile Rakehell French in this Excell,
And we, as Servile, Mimick 'em too well.
At last my better Fortune set me Free
To tast the nobler Fruit of Liberty:
But then (which was but just a kinder Fate)
That Liberty was all my whole Estate.
Tho' higher Converse, Nobler Mirth I met,
And ev'ry Cheerful Glass inspiring Wit,
MONEY, the Spring of all, was wanting yet.
Upon that Hinge all human Actions move,
'Tis Peace, 'tis War, 'tis Women, Wine and Love;
And were it only those it yet wou'd do;
But ah! that want is want of Learning too.
How many deathless Monuments of Wit
Are wanting, that wou'd certainly be writ
Were some poor Youths but train'd to their Deserts,
Their Learning equal to their Natu'ral Parts:
Had DORSET not struck up the Spark to Flame,
Prior had never been a deathless Name.
To tast the nobler Fruit of Liberty:
But then (which was but just a kinder Fate)
That Liberty was all my whole Estate.
146
And ev'ry Cheerful Glass inspiring Wit,
MONEY, the Spring of all, was wanting yet.
Upon that Hinge all human Actions move,
'Tis Peace, 'tis War, 'tis Women, Wine and Love;
And were it only those it yet wou'd do;
But ah! that want is want of Learning too.
How many deathless Monuments of Wit
Are wanting, that wou'd certainly be writ
Were some poor Youths but train'd to their Deserts,
Their Learning equal to their Natu'ral Parts:
Had DORSET not struck up the Spark to Flame,
Prior had never been a deathless Name.
Among these Evils Poesie, not least,
Took full Possession of my careless Breast,
And did my Talk, my Thoughts and very Dreams infest;
And as it serv'd old Homer heretofore,
(My Fate like Homer's on no other Score)
Lent me its helping Hand to keep me Poor:
Not but thus far I may my Fortune prize;
I saw the World, and did the World despise,
Its Vices, Folies and its Vanities.
Took full Possession of my careless Breast,
And did my Talk, my Thoughts and very Dreams infest;
And as it serv'd old Homer heretofore,
(My Fate like Homer's on no other Score)
Lent me its helping Hand to keep me Poor:
Not but thus far I may my Fortune prize;
I saw the World, and did the World despise,
Its Vices, Folies and its Vanities.
What a preposte'rous! what a vast Resort
Of either Sex to Park, to Plays, and Court!
Cou'd the Concern of Heav'n our Ladies bring
Thro' so much Dust to Church as to the Ring?
Tho' if their loose Behaviour their you mark,
Th'adjusting, bowing, ogling of the Spark,
Their Liberties can scarce be more at Park.
Then, when some Farce or Ope'ra comes abroad,
(For Plays that mean Instruction they explode)
The crowded Playhouse groans beneath the Load.
Our Poets now steer not by Ancient Rules,
Their Task's not writing just, but pleasing Fools:
In Spite of Horace, Rapin, Rhimer's Laws,
A strain'd unnatural Passion gets Applause:
The Actor, foaming, scarce his Sense retains,
His Froth the Emblem of the Poet's Brains.
Of either Sex to Park, to Plays, and Court!
Cou'd the Concern of Heav'n our Ladies bring
Thro' so much Dust to Church as to the Ring?
Tho' if their loose Behaviour their you mark,
Th'adjusting, bowing, ogling of the Spark,
Their Liberties can scarce be more at Park.
Then, when some Farce or Ope'ra comes abroad,
(For Plays that mean Instruction they explode)
The crowded Playhouse groans beneath the Load.
Our Poets now steer not by Ancient Rules,
Their Task's not writing just, but pleasing Fools:
147
A strain'd unnatural Passion gets Applause:
The Actor, foaming, scarce his Sense retains,
His Froth the Emblem of the Poet's Brains.
The Court we need not mention, ne'er to mend,
When Vice there ceases Time it self must end,
All Promises of Friendship here are lost,
And only Pow'rful Inte'rest rules the Rost.
Flutter and Nice, tho' bubbl'd ev'ry where,
Have yet the Knack to bite the Biter here.
But if some Royal Mistress lead the Dance,
Of bad Extraction here, or worse from France,
Preferment's his that gives the highest Rate,
Tho' the Invete'rate Foe of Church and State.
When Vice there ceases Time it self must end,
All Promises of Friendship here are lost,
And only Pow'rful Inte'rest rules the Rost.
Flutter and Nice, tho' bubbl'd ev'ry where,
Have yet the Knack to bite the Biter here.
But if some Royal Mistress lead the Dance,
Of bad Extraction here, or worse from France,
Preferment's his that gives the highest Rate,
Tho' the Invete'rate Foe of Church and State.
But above all who can the Lawyer bear?
More fatal than a Pestilential Air:
For tho' that does without Distinction seize
Upon all Ages, Orders and Degrees;
Tho' Truth and kneeling Beauty 'twill not spare,
But Saints from Altars, Son from Sire does tear,
It leaves the Land yet to the Legal Heir.
These Greedier Harpies place their whole Delight
In totally confounding Wrong with Right:
The Ruin of whole Families contrive,
And down the Stream of Time th'Injustice drive,
While, by a Cruel and avoidless Fate,
The Unborn Heir is robb'd of his Estate.
How Peace and Truth wou'd on our Issue smile
But for this Curse entail'd upon the Isle!
So strangely is the Pest encreas'd of late,
Our England now may dread th'Egyptian Fate:
Shou'd a poor Country-Man in Term-time stand
One Hour to see 'em shove along the Strand,
He'd swear the Locust had o'er run the Land.
How blest a Fate wou'd groaning Albion find
Cou'd we but have a like Impartial Wind
To sweep 'em hence, e'er Honesty's bereft
Of Bread and Water—all the Fare they've left.
More fatal than a Pestilential Air:
For tho' that does without Distinction seize
Upon all Ages, Orders and Degrees;
Tho' Truth and kneeling Beauty 'twill not spare,
But Saints from Altars, Son from Sire does tear,
It leaves the Land yet to the Legal Heir.
These Greedier Harpies place their whole Delight
In totally confounding Wrong with Right:
The Ruin of whole Families contrive,
And down the Stream of Time th'Injustice drive,
While, by a Cruel and avoidless Fate,
The Unborn Heir is robb'd of his Estate.
How Peace and Truth wou'd on our Issue smile
But for this Curse entail'd upon the Isle!
So strangely is the Pest encreas'd of late,
Our England now may dread th'Egyptian Fate:
Shou'd a poor Country-Man in Term-time stand
One Hour to see 'em shove along the Strand,
He'd swear the Locust had o'er run the Land.
148
Cou'd we but have a like Impartial Wind
To sweep 'em hence, e'er Honesty's bereft
Of Bread and Water—all the Fare they've left.
Thus with strict Eyes I ev'ry Vice survey'd,
And open to the Common Laughter laid:
Tho' plac'd my self but in an humble Sphere,
Yet cou'd I mark Abuses, see, and hear:
Nor did an Ass appear thro' all the Town,
Of Eminence to be in publick shown,
But strait th'impartial Satyr made him known.
The Hero that wou'd start to see a Sword,
The Ass that trusted to a Courtier's Word,
The Courtier that did Pimp to be a Lord;
The Playhouse Strumpet's Murders and Amours,
With all the Lesser Imitating Whores;
On all alike she fixt her stedfast Hate,
Nor spar'd an Atheist tho' he steer'd the State.
And open to the Common Laughter laid:
Tho' plac'd my self but in an humble Sphere,
Yet cou'd I mark Abuses, see, and hear:
Nor did an Ass appear thro' all the Town,
Of Eminence to be in publick shown,
But strait th'impartial Satyr made him known.
The Hero that wou'd start to see a Sword,
The Ass that trusted to a Courtier's Word,
The Courtier that did Pimp to be a Lord;
The Playhouse Strumpet's Murders and Amours,
With all the Lesser Imitating Whores;
On all alike she fixt her stedfast Hate,
Nor spar'd an Atheist tho' he steer'd the State.
But ah! at last I found in vain I writ,
In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit,
No Reformation follow'd; ev'ry Ill
The more decry'd, the more it flourish'd still.
But little Honour they to Vertue give
That say, like Palm, 'twill under Pressure thrive;
Vice does the same; the more we wou'd Repell
Its Poison, like a Toad, the more 'twill swell.
Nothing on Earth's so loathsome, or so Ill,
But Labours to preserve its Being still:
In vain the vile are lasht, and foolish hist,
All things that are their Contraries resist.
Striving to mend I thus provok'd the Age;
Which strait fell on me, furious to engage,
With utmost Scorn and with retorted Rage.
This made me from my Soul abhor the Place
So gone in Error, and so lost to Grace;
And oft petition'd Fate for a Remove
To Country Shades—the Life the Muses love.
In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit,
No Reformation follow'd; ev'ry Ill
The more decry'd, the more it flourish'd still.
But little Honour they to Vertue give
That say, like Palm, 'twill under Pressure thrive;
Vice does the same; the more we wou'd Repell
Its Poison, like a Toad, the more 'twill swell.
Nothing on Earth's so loathsome, or so Ill,
But Labours to preserve its Being still:
In vain the vile are lasht, and foolish hist,
All things that are their Contraries resist.
Striving to mend I thus provok'd the Age;
Which strait fell on me, furious to engage,
With utmost Scorn and with retorted Rage.
149
So gone in Error, and so lost to Grace;
And oft petition'd Fate for a Remove
To Country Shades—the Life the Muses love.
O Heav'n! (I still wou'd cry) incline thine Ear
To a long harrast Wretch's humble Pray'r
Riches I do nor beg, not length of Days,
Which on the Vitals of the Judgment preys;
Let me not languish till my Sense decays:
But long e'er second Childhood does come on
End Life's prepost'rous Journey and begone.
This only grant that (Master of my self)
I first may tast the Country's Ease and Health,
Nor longer in this hated Town abide;
Where Faction, Bigottry, Prophaneness, Pride,
Adult'ry, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found,
And whirl a lewd fantastick endless Round.
In some far distant Village let me live,
A little Income let thy Bounty give,
A little yet enough and not to spare;
For as the Cash encreases, so the Care.
A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall,
Will serve to hold my Drink which shou'd not be too small;
Nor yet so strong as shou'd the Senses steep
In an unwholesome and a Death-like Sleep,
When waking, the loose Epicure (in pains)
Finds Tumults in his Head, and Fire shoot thro' his Veins.
There wou'd I Sport with what the Season yields;
The Woods, the Mountains, Rivers, Dales and Fields,
Cool Shades, and sunny Banks, and Murm'ring Streams,
These with my Maker's Praise, shou'd be my daily Themes.
There Men in their own native Shapes are dress'd,
Nor make, like Apes Humanity a Jest,
As Courtiers do (which Gen'ral Scorn incurrs,)
To day in Silks, to morrow wrapt in Furs.
To France for Fashions, and to France for Air
They go as if they both were Mortal here:
And thence return'd the Bully struts and huffs,
Up to the Shoulders sheath'd, Arms, Gloves and Cuffs,
In Hair Portmanteau Trunks instead of Muffs.
Cool Searge for Summer is the Shepherd's wear,
And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's Air.
Their Hearts ne'er harbour an intended Ill;
So much their Vertue's stronger than their Will.
Stretch'd at their Ease on the green Turf they lie,
And see, secure, the bolted Vengeance fly
That stops th'Ambitious in their full Carreer,
And fills the anxious Hearts of Kings with Care;
While sated with the Glories of a Crown,
They're pain'd with Ease, and rack'd on Beds of Down.
An humble Carriage and an honest Soul
A friendly Gammon and a cheerful Bowl
Y'are sure to meet; their very Hearts they wear
Upon their Faces, as it's Seat were there.
If angry, (as there's none from Passion free)
They'll not dissemble that you may not see,
But soon will let you know it sooner will agree.
Thrice happy! who the Country's Peace does know!
O Innocence! O Sight of Heav'n below!
O Blissful State! And O ye immortal Pow'rs!
Here let me pass my few remaining Hours,
Redeem the Time I've lost, e'er the wide Grave devours.
To a long harrast Wretch's humble Pray'r
Riches I do nor beg, not length of Days,
Which on the Vitals of the Judgment preys;
Let me not languish till my Sense decays:
But long e'er second Childhood does come on
End Life's prepost'rous Journey and begone.
This only grant that (Master of my self)
I first may tast the Country's Ease and Health,
Nor longer in this hated Town abide;
Where Faction, Bigottry, Prophaneness, Pride,
Adult'ry, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found,
And whirl a lewd fantastick endless Round.
In some far distant Village let me live,
A little Income let thy Bounty give,
A little yet enough and not to spare;
For as the Cash encreases, so the Care.
A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall,
Will serve to hold my Drink which shou'd not be too small;
Nor yet so strong as shou'd the Senses steep
In an unwholesome and a Death-like Sleep,
When waking, the loose Epicure (in pains)
Finds Tumults in his Head, and Fire shoot thro' his Veins.
There wou'd I Sport with what the Season yields;
The Woods, the Mountains, Rivers, Dales and Fields,
Cool Shades, and sunny Banks, and Murm'ring Streams,
These with my Maker's Praise, shou'd be my daily Themes.
There Men in their own native Shapes are dress'd,
Nor make, like Apes Humanity a Jest,
150
To day in Silks, to morrow wrapt in Furs.
To France for Fashions, and to France for Air
They go as if they both were Mortal here:
And thence return'd the Bully struts and huffs,
Up to the Shoulders sheath'd, Arms, Gloves and Cuffs,
In Hair Portmanteau Trunks instead of Muffs.
Cool Searge for Summer is the Shepherd's wear,
And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's Air.
Their Hearts ne'er harbour an intended Ill;
So much their Vertue's stronger than their Will.
Stretch'd at their Ease on the green Turf they lie,
And see, secure, the bolted Vengeance fly
That stops th'Ambitious in their full Carreer,
And fills the anxious Hearts of Kings with Care;
While sated with the Glories of a Crown,
They're pain'd with Ease, and rack'd on Beds of Down.
An humble Carriage and an honest Soul
A friendly Gammon and a cheerful Bowl
Y'are sure to meet; their very Hearts they wear
Upon their Faces, as it's Seat were there.
If angry, (as there's none from Passion free)
They'll not dissemble that you may not see,
But soon will let you know it sooner will agree.
Thrice happy! who the Country's Peace does know!
O Innocence! O Sight of Heav'n below!
O Blissful State! And O ye immortal Pow'rs!
Here let me pass my few remaining Hours,
Redeem the Time I've lost, e'er the wide Grave devours.
Not without Tears thus wou'd I oft complain,
Thus wou'd I pray—nor did I pray in vain.
Kind Heav'n at last my Patron's Mind inspir'd
To raise me undeserv'd, and undesir'd:
Nor shall the Grateful Muse forget his Name,
Till Vertue cease to be the Theme of Fame.
You know his Worth, too copious to be penn'd,
The best of Masters, and the fastest Friend!
But Little he of Fame and Honour hears,
If Abingdon has yet not reach'd his Ears;
A Name that thro' the Land does loud rebound,
And shouting Crowds Attendant on the Sound.
His Bounty here has fixt my wand'ring thought,
And without asking gave the thing I sought;
Far from the City, far from Noise and Strife,
An Easy, Frugal, Temperate, Studious Life.
Thus wou'd I pray—nor did I pray in vain.
Kind Heav'n at last my Patron's Mind inspir'd
To raise me undeserv'd, and undesir'd:
151
Till Vertue cease to be the Theme of Fame.
You know his Worth, too copious to be penn'd,
The best of Masters, and the fastest Friend!
But Little he of Fame and Honour hears,
If Abingdon has yet not reach'd his Ears;
A Name that thro' the Land does loud rebound,
And shouting Crowds Attendant on the Sound.
His Bounty here has fixt my wand'ring thought,
And without asking gave the thing I sought;
Far from the City, far from Noise and Strife,
An Easy, Frugal, Temperate, Studious Life.
Now, Sir, You may conclude I thought to find
A Peaceful State adapted to my Mind:
The Country like Arcadia I believ'd!
Ah thus too long I thought! and was too soon deceiv'd!
A Peaceful State adapted to my Mind:
The Country like Arcadia I believ'd!
Ah thus too long I thought! and was too soon deceiv'd!
In vain we toil and labour to be blest,
And with a Swarm of Thoughts our Minds molest,
We grasp but Air when e'er we reach at Rest:
The Slipp'ry Wanton sometimes comes in sight,
But in a Moment mounts and takes her Endless Flight:
And in ascending cries there is no Peace
In City, Country, Waining or Encrease,
Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease.
And with a Swarm of Thoughts our Minds molest,
We grasp but Air when e'er we reach at Rest:
The Slipp'ry Wanton sometimes comes in sight,
But in a Moment mounts and takes her Endless Flight:
And in ascending cries there is no Peace
In City, Country, Waining or Encrease,
Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease.
By sad Experience now I find the Swain
Is worse than Jew, and more a Slave to Gain:
His Dullness all but Politick Disguise,
To trick the Coxcombs that believe they're wise:
Tho' not so smooth and Florid as the Cit
He's ev'ry Inch of him a Rogue as Great.
Our Sodom may have Ten the Town to save;
But here 'tis nothing else but Fool and Knave.
Go where you please, with whom you please converse,
'Tis worse than Wit or Malice can reherse.
The Town, 'tis true, has most Examples shown
Of Vice, because the Seeds are thicker sown;
But let Regard to Quantity be had,
Drop Man for Man and they are here as bad.
Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame;
Before they know the Person, or the Name,
They shall expose and Gibbet up his Fame.
Since a Good Name's so precious, of all Wrongs
The worst is suffe'ring from Malicious Tongues;
A Proof all Mischief ends not with our Breath,
For an Ill Tongue can wound us after Death.
Is worse than Jew, and more a Slave to Gain:
His Dullness all but Politick Disguise,
To trick the Coxcombs that believe they're wise:
Tho' not so smooth and Florid as the Cit
He's ev'ry Inch of him a Rogue as Great.
Our Sodom may have Ten the Town to save;
But here 'tis nothing else but Fool and Knave.
152
'Tis worse than Wit or Malice can reherse.
The Town, 'tis true, has most Examples shown
Of Vice, because the Seeds are thicker sown;
But let Regard to Quantity be had,
Drop Man for Man and they are here as bad.
Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame;
Before they know the Person, or the Name,
They shall expose and Gibbet up his Fame.
Since a Good Name's so precious, of all Wrongs
The worst is suffe'ring from Malicious Tongues;
A Proof all Mischief ends not with our Breath,
For an Ill Tongue can wound us after Death.
Now what Relief? Yes, I Relief may get,
If I cou'd trace th'Examples YOU have set.
Cou'd I like YOU, be Master of my Will,
And wholly stifle ev'ry Thought of Ill;
Be ever studious of the Publick Good,
As ev'ry worthy Free-born Britton shou'd;
Stand fast when Lawless Pow'r and Lust prevail,
And, but for such as YOU, wou'd turn the Scale:
Cou'd I, were I as able in my Store,
With the same Libe'ral Hand relieve the Poor;
Suppress all vain Inordinate Desires,
And clip the Wings of Love's Fantastick Fires;
To Vice be in its softest Form Severe,
And make the vertu'ous Man as much my Care;
Thus cou'd I let my Hours but glide away,
I need not value what the Envious say;
Dauntless I'd stand their Rage and take the Field;
Such Worth were an Impenetrable Shield.
In Town or Country thus y'are still the same;
Nor Envy grins, nor Prejudice does blame,
While unmolested you drive on to Fame.
But Ah! while thus you Teach and thus you Live,
And Practise ev'ry Precept that you give,
I groan beneath my Vices and my Will,
And, blaming others, yet continue Ill.
You swiftly follow in the shining Chase
Of Truth, first at the Goal in ev'ry Race;
Lagging behind my Weakness I deplore,
And wonder how you keep so far before.
If I cou'd trace th'Examples YOU have set.
Cou'd I like YOU, be Master of my Will,
And wholly stifle ev'ry Thought of Ill;
Be ever studious of the Publick Good,
As ev'ry worthy Free-born Britton shou'd;
Stand fast when Lawless Pow'r and Lust prevail,
And, but for such as YOU, wou'd turn the Scale:
Cou'd I, were I as able in my Store,
With the same Libe'ral Hand relieve the Poor;
Suppress all vain Inordinate Desires,
And clip the Wings of Love's Fantastick Fires;
To Vice be in its softest Form Severe,
And make the vertu'ous Man as much my Care;
Thus cou'd I let my Hours but glide away,
I need not value what the Envious say;
Dauntless I'd stand their Rage and take the Field;
Such Worth were an Impenetrable Shield.
In Town or Country thus y'are still the same;
Nor Envy grins, nor Prejudice does blame,
While unmolested you drive on to Fame.
153
And Practise ev'ry Precept that you give,
I groan beneath my Vices and my Will,
And, blaming others, yet continue Ill.
You swiftly follow in the shining Chase
Of Truth, first at the Goal in ev'ry Race;
Lagging behind my Weakness I deplore,
And wonder how you keep so far before.
To Mr. Lowin, from the Country.
Horace does tell us, in this Human State
There's not a Man contented with his Fate:
Like Crassus Rich, he something else requires,
Like Cæsar Glorious, yet he still aspires,
And there's no fixing of his wild Desires.
But as to General Rules there still will be
Exceptions, so in this Great Truth we see
The bold Assertion does not reach to Thee:
Thy Station to thy Temper is so true,
You neither seek, or Hope, or Wish a New.
There's not a Man contented with his Fate:
Like Crassus Rich, he something else requires,
Like Cæsar Glorious, yet he still aspires,
And there's no fixing of his wild Desires.
But as to General Rules there still will be
Exceptions, so in this Great Truth we see
The bold Assertion does not reach to Thee:
Thy Station to thy Temper is so true,
You neither seek, or Hope, or Wish a New.
Attendance Cowley thinks a barbarous Fate,
And vilest we can wish the Man we hate:
Had he (O Friend!) been Intimate with Thee,
Tho' more than Life he valu'd Libertie,
He wou'd have own'd himself not half so Free.
He inly griev'd to see the loose and vain
The only Favorites of Fortune's Train.
'Tis said by some 'twas but his Muse repin'd,
But what's the Muse in Poets but the Mind?
'Tis true, he begs not an abundant Store,
But yet he cou'd not relish being Poor.
When a loose prosp'rous Knave or Fool I see
Grown proud by Wealth, I bless my Povertie;
For Riches might have made me worse than He.
Doubtless the Man does ill his Peace regard
That thinks his Merit meets not due Reward:
The World to him does but a Wild appear,
And he thinks only Brutes Inhabit there;
And all because a Coxcomb better lives,
Or with a vast Estate too Little gives.
Poorness of Spirit! 'tis the Noblest Mind
That will be least beholden to his Kind;
Or if he must, to Gratitude be true,
And own the Gift, not claim it as his Due.
'Tis true the Wealthy shou'd supply the Poor,
And only for that Reason they have more;
But what Man can command another's Store?
The Wretch then that does boast of Libertie
And yet Repines is more confin'd than Thee
For the Contented Man is only free.
And vilest we can wish the Man we hate:
Had he (O Friend!) been Intimate with Thee,
Tho' more than Life he valu'd Libertie,
He wou'd have own'd himself not half so Free.
He inly griev'd to see the loose and vain
The only Favorites of Fortune's Train.
'Tis said by some 'twas but his Muse repin'd,
But what's the Muse in Poets but the Mind?
'Tis true, he begs not an abundant Store,
But yet he cou'd not relish being Poor.
154
Grown proud by Wealth, I bless my Povertie;
For Riches might have made me worse than He.
Doubtless the Man does ill his Peace regard
That thinks his Merit meets not due Reward:
The World to him does but a Wild appear,
And he thinks only Brutes Inhabit there;
And all because a Coxcomb better lives,
Or with a vast Estate too Little gives.
Poorness of Spirit! 'tis the Noblest Mind
That will be least beholden to his Kind;
Or if he must, to Gratitude be true,
And own the Gift, not claim it as his Due.
'Tis true the Wealthy shou'd supply the Poor,
And only for that Reason they have more;
But what Man can command another's Store?
The Wretch then that does boast of Libertie
And yet Repines is more confin'd than Thee
For the Contented Man is only free.
What can the Freedom of this Life afford
Not thine in thy Dependance on thy Lord?
Whether 'tis Plenty, Converse, Wine and Ease,
And, which I name not, softer Joys than these.
Or if it must the Term of Slav'ery have,
What wou'd the Man that's free give to be such a Slave?
When DORSET's nam'd we all wou'd Servants be,
Few Masters then but wou'd Exchange with Thee.
DORSET! whom Envy does not dare to blame,
His Love Preferment; and his Praise is Fame.
O happy Station! at a Meal more Wit
You hear than is in Modern Laureats writ:
Lightsome as Mirth! and soft as young Desire!
It charms like Beauty! and it warms like Fire!
So bright!—in vain I wou'd describe the rest,
For 'twere not Wit if 'tis by me exprest.
DORSET! whose Name's as deep in Fame enroll'd
As Great Mæcenas by the Bards of Old,
But HIM we only as a Patron view;
THIS does reward us and instruct us too:
But for those Poets THAT had ne'er been known,
HE in their Works Immortal, THIS, Immortal in his OWN.
And as his Verse does all the Bards out do,
So does his Charity the Gownmen's too:
They give in Dribs; he, op'ning wide his Store,
With a full Hand astonishes the Poor.
Then, when w'are blest with his Society,
With how much Ease he lays his Greatness by!
The Peer is lost; he changes Face and Mien,
And only Friendship fills the Nobler Scene!
Not thine in thy Dependance on thy Lord?
Whether 'tis Plenty, Converse, Wine and Ease,
And, which I name not, softer Joys than these.
Or if it must the Term of Slav'ery have,
What wou'd the Man that's free give to be such a Slave?
When DORSET's nam'd we all wou'd Servants be,
Few Masters then but wou'd Exchange with Thee.
DORSET! whom Envy does not dare to blame,
His Love Preferment; and his Praise is Fame.
O happy Station! at a Meal more Wit
You hear than is in Modern Laureats writ:
Lightsome as Mirth! and soft as young Desire!
It charms like Beauty! and it warms like Fire!
So bright!—in vain I wou'd describe the rest,
For 'twere not Wit if 'tis by me exprest.
155
As Great Mæcenas by the Bards of Old,
But HIM we only as a Patron view;
THIS does reward us and instruct us too:
But for those Poets THAT had ne'er been known,
HE in their Works Immortal, THIS, Immortal in his OWN.
And as his Verse does all the Bards out do,
So does his Charity the Gownmen's too:
They give in Dribs; he, op'ning wide his Store,
With a full Hand astonishes the Poor.
Then, when w'are blest with his Society,
With how much Ease he lays his Greatness by!
The Peer is lost; he changes Face and Mien,
And only Friendship fills the Nobler Scene!
Happy art Thou that, to this Worthy near,
His Action's see'st and his Discourse dost hear;
From thence You must above the Level rise,
And by Necessity be Brave and Wise.
I, curst by Fate, to disappointments doom'd,
Proposte'rously have all my Life consum'd:
I've nothing got, and worse, I nothing know!
And all the Helps I have Receiv'd I owe.
My Friends have for me many Favours done,
I ne'er was able to return 'em One,
Unless 'twere in this vain Poetick Way;
'Twas less to lose the Debt than take the Pay.
Then Truth and Wit and Friendship here are scarce,
The Natives of a Make, and Mold so base,
They're one Remove worse than the Brutal Race.
Yet I repine not, but the Storm abide;
With Patience stem the rough unpitying Tyde,
And Live—where Nothing else cou'd live beside!
Yet tho' I grieve not, yet, believe me Friend,
I shou'd be very glad my Case wou'd mend:
I'm not so Wedded here, but I cou'd part
From Knaves and Fools without a breaking Heart:
Or if among 'em 'tis my Fate to stay,
My Life shall yet wear easily away;
At least I'll daily beg of Heav'n it may.
His Action's see'st and his Discourse dost hear;
From thence You must above the Level rise,
And by Necessity be Brave and Wise.
I, curst by Fate, to disappointments doom'd,
Proposte'rously have all my Life consum'd:
I've nothing got, and worse, I nothing know!
And all the Helps I have Receiv'd I owe.
My Friends have for me many Favours done,
I ne'er was able to return 'em One,
Unless 'twere in this vain Poetick Way;
'Twas less to lose the Debt than take the Pay.
Then Truth and Wit and Friendship here are scarce,
The Natives of a Make, and Mold so base,
They're one Remove worse than the Brutal Race.
Yet I repine not, but the Storm abide;
With Patience stem the rough unpitying Tyde,
And Live—where Nothing else cou'd live beside!
Yet tho' I grieve not, yet, believe me Friend,
I shou'd be very glad my Case wou'd mend:
156
From Knaves and Fools without a breaking Heart:
Or if among 'em 'tis my Fate to stay,
My Life shall yet wear easily away;
At least I'll daily beg of Heav'n it may.
Happy the Man that, free from Want and Strife,
Does smoothly glide along the Stream of Life;
Whose Conscience, free, no Op'iate e'er requires,
And by his Fortune bounds his Wise Desires:
If in the Court thou canst this Garment wear,
Thou wilt not be the meanest Figure there.
Next happy He! that with a Soul resign'd
Can bear the Crosses laid on Humankind;
Who, tho' unfortunate, can honest be,
And Happier Men without Repining See;
If ought on Earth be happier than Contented Povertie.
O Friend! if in my Cell I this can do,
Tho' I may Lodge much worse, I'll Sleep as well as You.
Does smoothly glide along the Stream of Life;
Whose Conscience, free, no Op'iate e'er requires,
And by his Fortune bounds his Wise Desires:
If in the Court thou canst this Garment wear,
Thou wilt not be the meanest Figure there.
Next happy He! that with a Soul resign'd
Can bear the Crosses laid on Humankind;
Who, tho' unfortunate, can honest be,
And Happier Men without Repining See;
If ought on Earth be happier than Contented Povertie.
O Friend! if in my Cell I this can do,
Tho' I may Lodge much worse, I'll Sleep as well as You.
Unto the Servant that is Wise shall he that is Free do Service.
Eccles. 10th. 25th.
The DREAM.
To Sir Charles Duncomb from the Country.
On my hard Fate, as late I pondering lay,
Spent and bow'd down beneath the Toils of Day,
By weary Nature to Repose constrain'd,
I slept at last—and thus in Sleep complain'd.
Spent and bow'd down beneath the Toils of Day,
By weary Nature to Repose constrain'd,
I slept at last—and thus in Sleep complain'd.
Ah Wretch! to this unhappy Clime confin'd;
Lost to my Friends, and cut from Human kind:
A Clime where only Misery does repair,
And Life has no Cessation from its Care.
The rigid Winters here come early on,
With August brought, and scarce with April gone.
In other Places Nature looks but bare,
Some Marks of Spring continue all the Year;
But ev'ry Winter strips her naked here.
The miry Glebe imprisons Man and Beast,
And there must come a Drowth to be releas'd.
No Converse here the tedious Hour's beguile,
But Love and Friendship fly the Barbarous Soil.
Ev'n Honesty its self is banish'd hence,
And Ignorance sets up for Innocence.
The Natives are so truly homely bred,
They're of a Piece with that on which they tread:
Strangers to Vertue and all Lib'ral Arts;
Their Oxen and their Swine have all their Hearts,
Creatures of equal Intellectual Parts.
Among each other endless Feuds they sow,
And Malice lays Manure to make 'em grow.
No Mutual Trust between 'em e'er presides;
And Knavery follows when 'tis Inte'rest guides.
Ava'rice is what they one and all pursue,
Nor is a GOD believ'd while Gain's in View:
For that they earliest rise, and latest toil,
Their Souls, as 'twere, transfus'd into their Soil.
Then when with Mirth they wou'd their Nerves unbend,
What Patience can the Barb'rous Din attend!
What Beast but better wou'd himself Acquit?
Their Truth, Abuse; and Bawdry all their Wit.
Lost to my Friends, and cut from Human kind:
157
And Life has no Cessation from its Care.
The rigid Winters here come early on,
With August brought, and scarce with April gone.
In other Places Nature looks but bare,
Some Marks of Spring continue all the Year;
But ev'ry Winter strips her naked here.
The miry Glebe imprisons Man and Beast,
And there must come a Drowth to be releas'd.
No Converse here the tedious Hour's beguile,
But Love and Friendship fly the Barbarous Soil.
Ev'n Honesty its self is banish'd hence,
And Ignorance sets up for Innocence.
The Natives are so truly homely bred,
They're of a Piece with that on which they tread:
Strangers to Vertue and all Lib'ral Arts;
Their Oxen and their Swine have all their Hearts,
Creatures of equal Intellectual Parts.
Among each other endless Feuds they sow,
And Malice lays Manure to make 'em grow.
No Mutual Trust between 'em e'er presides;
And Knavery follows when 'tis Inte'rest guides.
Ava'rice is what they one and all pursue,
Nor is a GOD believ'd while Gain's in View:
For that they earliest rise, and latest toil,
Their Souls, as 'twere, transfus'd into their Soil.
Then when with Mirth they wou'd their Nerves unbend,
What Patience can the Barb'rous Din attend!
What Beast but better wou'd himself Acquit?
Their Truth, Abuse; and Bawdry all their Wit.
How vain are all the Tales the Ancients told,
Of a Self-teeming Glebe, and of an Age of Gold?
Of flow'ry Shades where Peace supinely reigns?
Of fau'tless Nymphs, and of the faithful Swains,
That liv'd so happy on th'Arcadian Plains?
'Tis all Idea—but by Fancy wrought,
The Idle Rovings of a wand'ring Thought.
Shepherds in ev'ry Age, and ev'ry Place;
Were ever just as now, a Clumsey, Brutal Race.
Ev'n Cowley, who a Rural Life had long
Ador'd, and made it Deathless in his Song;
When to the Fields he for the Blessing came,
Found all their boasted Innocence a Name:
And Chertsea stands (to contradict his Rhimes)
Blam'd in his Prose to all succeeding Times.
Of a Self-teeming Glebe, and of an Age of Gold?
Of flow'ry Shades where Peace supinely reigns?
Of fau'tless Nymphs, and of the faithful Swains,
That liv'd so happy on th'Arcadian Plains?
158
The Idle Rovings of a wand'ring Thought.
Shepherds in ev'ry Age, and ev'ry Place;
Were ever just as now, a Clumsey, Brutal Race.
Ev'n Cowley, who a Rural Life had long
Ador'd, and made it Deathless in his Song;
When to the Fields he for the Blessing came,
Found all their boasted Innocence a Name:
And Chertsea stands (to contradict his Rhimes)
Blam'd in his Prose to all succeeding Times.
What Path can here derided Vertue take?
What Musick can the sighing Muses make?
Without Converse they lose their Force and Fire,
And Reason back does to its Spring retire.
The long Remove from Prudence, Wit and Arts,
Sets us beneath our very Natu'ral Parts.
If w'are not rising we go down the Hill,
For Knowledge knows no Mean of standing still.
The brightn'd Armour glitters to the Sun,
But only using keeps the Polish on.
What Musick can the sighing Muses make?
Without Converse they lose their Force and Fire,
And Reason back does to its Spring retire.
The long Remove from Prudence, Wit and Arts,
Sets us beneath our very Natu'ral Parts.
If w'are not rising we go down the Hill,
For Knowledge knows no Mean of standing still.
The brightn'd Armour glitters to the Sun,
But only using keeps the Polish on.
Thus doom'd to Dulness, here I bury'd lie;
O low, obscure, inglorious Destiny!
Thus twice five Years I scarce can say I've liv'd;
Or yet improv'd what's ne'er to be Retriev'd!
My Youth has vainly, idly took its Flight,
Unknown to Profit, Learning, and Delight:
Depriv'd of London, then too little priz'd,
Before I knew the Blessing I despis'd.
For Towns, like Tallies, Man for Man does fit,
And Wit does keenliest whet it self on Wit.
Ah Noble City!—but too late I mourn
My Fortune—banish'd never to return!
Never (which yet I deeplier must deplore)
Never to see the Gene'rous DUNCOMB more!
DUNCOMB! whose Bounty thro' the Nation flows,
Like Nile, diffusing Plenty as it goes.
DUNCOMB! the Joy of ev'ry Orphan's Tongue!
A Theme for ev'ry Future Laureat's Song!
Once were these Shades with his dear Presence blest,
When Me, ev'n Me, he singl'd from the rest;
And kindly smiling on my Rural Lays,
Crown'd 'em at once both with Reward and Praise.
But Ah the happy Hours too swiftly run!
Just like a blissful Vision seen and gone!
But (O ye Pow'rs!) where e'er he goes be kind,
And match his Blessings to his Gen'rous Mind.
While Envious Fortune here my Hand employs
In barren Labour, and Eternal Noise;
Let all his Mornings rise, and Ev'nings set in Joys.
Nor let him think I by my VVish intend
A Covetous, or an Ambitious End:
Only a Human Fate my Hope invites,
And Innocence, in which my Soul delights.
None better cou'd than I contented live
VVith little, or from little more wou'd give:
But 'tis no Life here in a Brutal Den,
Banish'd from Books, from Manners, and from Men.
O low, obscure, inglorious Destiny!
Thus twice five Years I scarce can say I've liv'd;
Or yet improv'd what's ne'er to be Retriev'd!
My Youth has vainly, idly took its Flight,
Unknown to Profit, Learning, and Delight:
Depriv'd of London, then too little priz'd,
Before I knew the Blessing I despis'd.
For Towns, like Tallies, Man for Man does fit,
And Wit does keenliest whet it self on Wit.
Ah Noble City!—but too late I mourn
My Fortune—banish'd never to return!
Never (which yet I deeplier must deplore)
Never to see the Gene'rous DUNCOMB more!
159
Like Nile, diffusing Plenty as it goes.
DUNCOMB! the Joy of ev'ry Orphan's Tongue!
A Theme for ev'ry Future Laureat's Song!
Once were these Shades with his dear Presence blest,
When Me, ev'n Me, he singl'd from the rest;
And kindly smiling on my Rural Lays,
Crown'd 'em at once both with Reward and Praise.
But Ah the happy Hours too swiftly run!
Just like a blissful Vision seen and gone!
But (O ye Pow'rs!) where e'er he goes be kind,
And match his Blessings to his Gen'rous Mind.
While Envious Fortune here my Hand employs
In barren Labour, and Eternal Noise;
Let all his Mornings rise, and Ev'nings set in Joys.
Nor let him think I by my VVish intend
A Covetous, or an Ambitious End:
Only a Human Fate my Hope invites,
And Innocence, in which my Soul delights.
None better cou'd than I contented live
VVith little, or from little more wou'd give:
But 'tis no Life here in a Brutal Den,
Banish'd from Books, from Manners, and from Men.
'Twas here, methought, a Glorious Form appear'd,
Yet awful as a Goddess long rever'd:
Her Monumental Tow'r the Skies out-brav'd,
And on her Front was fair AUGUSTA grav'd.
And why (said she) dost thou thus sighing ly?
Why all Despondence and Relief so nigh?
He that does set so many CAPTIVES free,
He will, he must, he shall Remember Thee.
Yet awful as a Goddess long rever'd:
Her Monumental Tow'r the Skies out-brav'd,
And on her Front was fair AUGUSTA grav'd.
And why (said she) dost thou thus sighing ly?
Why all Despondence and Relief so nigh?
He that does set so many CAPTIVES free,
He will, he must, he shall Remember Thee.
Musing, I rose; and bowing thus reply'd.
Ah Madam! not alone on Captives try'd,
His Pow'er extends where ever Winds can steer,
Nor will he once thy Heav'nly Beauty spare.
He shall?—alas! You might have spar'd your Breath,
I know the Wretched all are eas'd in Death.
Ah Madam! not alone on Captives try'd,
160
Nor will he once thy Heav'nly Beauty spare.
He shall?—alas! You might have spar'd your Breath,
I know the Wretched all are eas'd in Death.
Now by my Pow'r (said the Illustrious Dame)
(And may my Pow'r for ever be the same)
Y'ave liv'd so long shut up in Rural Night,
Your other Senses leave you with your Sight.
Know'st thou not Me?—what Country is there found,
What Region where my Name is not renown'd?
Let Vulgar Names and Things submit to Fate,
I can already boast a more than Mortal Date:
This Privilege the British Glory gives,
I'm only then to die when Nothing lives,
Quite from the Rising to the Setting Sun,
As vast a Round as his, my Fame has run.
Let it be either Traffick, Peace, or War,
What City sends her Naval Tow'rs so far?
Who o'er the Ocean so triumphant rides?
What Shores are water'd with such Wealthy Tydes?
Beneath my Feet my Thames for ever flows,
And for my Profit never takes repose;
But shifting Tydes to Sea, and thence to Land,
Does our own Stores and all the World's command:
While on her Billows to my Hand she brings
The noblest, richest, and remotest Things.
Tho' round my Walls you scarce perceive a Vine,
Yet half the Vintage of the Year is mine,
And ev'ry Lombard Shop an Indian Mine.
What other Town does there so nobly stand
For Soil, for Health, for Pleasure and Command?
What City does beside so Lordly rise,
And sit so near a Neighbour to the Skies?
My Turrets to the Clouds the Prospect fill,
Like lofty Pines on some aspiring Hill.
Who less fears War? and when a War does cease,
Who Richlier does adorn the Arts of Peace?
What Shoals of People pour thro' ev'ry Street!
In passing on, what Myriads must you meet!
How gay! how richly clad where e'er you come!
What gallant Youths and Beauties in their Bloom!
Not brighter Shines by Night the Milky Way,
Than in my Streets the Charming Sex by Day.
Who sooner can than I such Summs produce
For self Magnificence, or Publick Use?
Who can her Hand for Wealth extend so far?
Or with such ready Loans defray a War?
Loans that to Lewis gave such loud Alarms,
He lik'd the sound worse than the Clank of Arms.
He saw, in War, the Nerves of War increase,
He saw, advis'd, and sought, and su'd for Peace.
Beside (which further does my State commend)
This Wealth no Mercenary Troops defend:
No Works, or Rampiers rise in my Defence,
By LIBERTY secur'd from insolence:
My Safety strongly on that Rock I lay,
And only Annual Choice confers, the Annual Sway.
No least despotick Thought among us rules,
The wish of Villains and the Yoke of Fools.
Thus by a Fate peculiar but to Me,
I make my Sons not only Rich, but FREE.
(And may my Pow'r for ever be the same)
Y'ave liv'd so long shut up in Rural Night,
Your other Senses leave you with your Sight.
Know'st thou not Me?—what Country is there found,
What Region where my Name is not renown'd?
Let Vulgar Names and Things submit to Fate,
I can already boast a more than Mortal Date:
This Privilege the British Glory gives,
I'm only then to die when Nothing lives,
Quite from the Rising to the Setting Sun,
As vast a Round as his, my Fame has run.
Let it be either Traffick, Peace, or War,
What City sends her Naval Tow'rs so far?
Who o'er the Ocean so triumphant rides?
What Shores are water'd with such Wealthy Tydes?
Beneath my Feet my Thames for ever flows,
And for my Profit never takes repose;
But shifting Tydes to Sea, and thence to Land,
Does our own Stores and all the World's command:
While on her Billows to my Hand she brings
The noblest, richest, and remotest Things.
Tho' round my Walls you scarce perceive a Vine,
Yet half the Vintage of the Year is mine,
And ev'ry Lombard Shop an Indian Mine.
What other Town does there so nobly stand
For Soil, for Health, for Pleasure and Command?
What City does beside so Lordly rise,
And sit so near a Neighbour to the Skies?
My Turrets to the Clouds the Prospect fill,
Like lofty Pines on some aspiring Hill.
161
Who Richlier does adorn the Arts of Peace?
What Shoals of People pour thro' ev'ry Street!
In passing on, what Myriads must you meet!
How gay! how richly clad where e'er you come!
What gallant Youths and Beauties in their Bloom!
Not brighter Shines by Night the Milky Way,
Than in my Streets the Charming Sex by Day.
Who sooner can than I such Summs produce
For self Magnificence, or Publick Use?
Who can her Hand for Wealth extend so far?
Or with such ready Loans defray a War?
Loans that to Lewis gave such loud Alarms,
He lik'd the sound worse than the Clank of Arms.
He saw, in War, the Nerves of War increase,
He saw, advis'd, and sought, and su'd for Peace.
Beside (which further does my State commend)
This Wealth no Mercenary Troops defend:
No Works, or Rampiers rise in my Defence,
By LIBERTY secur'd from insolence:
My Safety strongly on that Rock I lay,
And only Annual Choice confers, the Annual Sway.
No least despotick Thought among us rules,
The wish of Villains and the Yoke of Fools.
Thus by a Fate peculiar but to Me,
I make my Sons not only Rich, but FREE.
Thou know'st me now:—Now know I hither came,
Tho' late thou lov'st me, to encrease thy Flame,
And joyn with thee in blessing DUNCOMB's Name:
DUNCOMB! whose Praise I heard you now recite,
And scarce the loftest Notes can do him Right.
Nor shall his Worth be but proclaim'd by you,
At once the Muses and My Darling too.
'Tis He, I mean, that does our CAPTIVES free
From more than an Egyptian Slaverie:
'Tis he that everlasting Honour gains
By nobly striking off my Debtors Chains;
And in that Gene'rous Action has done more
Than all I e'er advanc'd to Wealth before.
Husbands he to their VVives again does give,
He heard their dying Cries, and bid 'em live.
So mighty Paul and Silas when they were
Imprison'd, pray'd, and found the Angel there;
Their Shackles broke, the Doors all open flew—
But DUNCOMB's Angel stops not at so few,
At ev'ry Prison, ev'ry Jayl does call,
And like an Act of Grace, he manumits 'em all.
Tho' late thou lov'st me, to encrease thy Flame,
And joyn with thee in blessing DUNCOMB's Name:
DUNCOMB! whose Praise I heard you now recite,
And scarce the loftest Notes can do him Right.
Nor shall his Worth be but proclaim'd by you,
At once the Muses and My Darling too.
'Tis He, I mean, that does our CAPTIVES free
From more than an Egyptian Slaverie:
162
By nobly striking off my Debtors Chains;
And in that Gene'rous Action has done more
Than all I e'er advanc'd to Wealth before.
Husbands he to their VVives again does give,
He heard their dying Cries, and bid 'em live.
So mighty Paul and Silas when they were
Imprison'd, pray'd, and found the Angel there;
Their Shackles broke, the Doors all open flew—
But DUNCOMB's Angel stops not at so few,
At ev'ry Prison, ev'ry Jayl does call,
And like an Act of Grace, he manumits 'em all.
She paus'd—and here had not the Goddess clos'd
Her Speech, I certainly had interpos'd:
That Noble Name of Honour and Desert
Enlarg'd my Faculties, and fir'd my Heart:
Scarce cou'd I to the Fair my Distance keep,
And Joy almost had burst the Bands of Sleep.
Ah! glorious Dame, I cried, (with a Surprize
That flush't my Cheeks, and light'nd in my Eyes)
That Name you Praise for ever tune your Tongue,
First of your Sons in Panegyrick Song.
But whence? or how is He become your Theme?
That Name so lately injur'd in Extreme.
An Envious Race, I know, his Ruin sought,
Say Goddess, how the Mighty Change was wrought:
Th'Effect must spring from some Stupendous Cause,
Where Fair AUGUSTA gives such vast Applause.
Her Speech, I certainly had interpos'd:
That Noble Name of Honour and Desert
Enlarg'd my Faculties, and fir'd my Heart:
Scarce cou'd I to the Fair my Distance keep,
And Joy almost had burst the Bands of Sleep.
Ah! glorious Dame, I cried, (with a Surprize
That flush't my Cheeks, and light'nd in my Eyes)
That Name you Praise for ever tune your Tongue,
First of your Sons in Panegyrick Song.
But whence? or how is He become your Theme?
That Name so lately injur'd in Extreme.
An Envious Race, I know, his Ruin sought,
Say Goddess, how the Mighty Change was wrought:
Th'Effect must spring from some Stupendous Cause,
Where Fair AUGUSTA gives such vast Applause.
I spoke: When smiling with Superior Grace,
(Both Majesty and Mildness in her Face)
She thus Return'd—As a tempestuous Night
Sets greater Lustre on returning Light,
So Malice, raging without Rule or Form,
Instead of sinking, rais'd him by the Storm.
Easie and Rich, in Innocence secure,
He wou'd not joyn with others to procure
Success to Projects hatch'd against the State,
By basely siding with th'Exchequer Cheat;
But knowing well the Narrow Self Design
The Profit shun'd, and did his Post resign.
Unseasonable Vertue! out of Time
Was DUNCOMB's Fau't, and that his only Crime:
For this the bold Projectors cou'd not bear;
He must be guilty that their selves might share,
With double Joy, the Veng'eance and the Prize;
And scarce Two Thirds their Avarice cou'd suffice.
Whole Patrimonies thus the Courtier sweeps;
The Orphan starves, the wretched Widow weeps,
The Nation Groans, and yet the Senate sleeps.
(Both Majesty and Mildness in her Face)
She thus Return'd—As a tempestuous Night
Sets greater Lustre on returning Light,
So Malice, raging without Rule or Form,
Instead of sinking, rais'd him by the Storm.
163
He wou'd not joyn with others to procure
Success to Projects hatch'd against the State,
By basely siding with th'Exchequer Cheat;
But knowing well the Narrow Self Design
The Profit shun'd, and did his Post resign.
Unseasonable Vertue! out of Time
Was DUNCOMB's Fau't, and that his only Crime:
For this the bold Projectors cou'd not bear;
He must be guilty that their selves might share,
With double Joy, the Veng'eance and the Prize;
And scarce Two Thirds their Avarice cou'd suffice.
Whole Patrimonies thus the Courtier sweeps;
The Orphan starves, the wretched Widow weeps,
The Nation Groans, and yet the Senate sleeps.
Here Human Malice might it self display,
And many dark Designs expose to Day:
Here to the Life the close Rapacious Crew,
In Sanguin Colours, might be set to view:
But I forbear; nor shall their Rage inspire
A Heav'nly Breast with like pernicious Fire.
Let this suffice; expect the Joyful Day
When all the Birds of Night and those of Prey
Shall to the Deserts fly, to make the Vertu'ous Way
It is enough I dissappoint their Aim,
Secure the Guiltless in their Wealth and Fame,
And fix in Honour DUNCOMB's injur'd Name.
Good-Nature, Honour, Honesty and Sense
All took th'Alarm, and arm'd in his Defence:
Such is the Temper of an English Soul,
It yeilds to Softness, but abhors controul.
Tir'd with their Spite, and all their Hope's o'erpast
To ruin Him, they left the Chase at last;
But sullenly; just as the Wolf withdraws,
The Lamb redeem'd from his extended Paws.
By the known Laws he did himself acquit,
Rescu'd by Heav'n from Malice, Power and Wit,
From Bribes, and from the wide devouring Jaw
Of high Oppression, to take Place as Law.
'Twas here, (and I the Influ'ence did impart,)
Touch'd with his Wrongs, and knowing his Desert,
My Sons advanc'd him to the Shrieval Name;
Where now he honours That and gives the Nation Fame.
And many dark Designs expose to Day:
Here to the Life the close Rapacious Crew,
In Sanguin Colours, might be set to view:
But I forbear; nor shall their Rage inspire
A Heav'nly Breast with like pernicious Fire.
Let this suffice; expect the Joyful Day
When all the Birds of Night and those of Prey
Shall to the Deserts fly, to make the Vertu'ous Way
It is enough I dissappoint their Aim,
Secure the Guiltless in their Wealth and Fame,
And fix in Honour DUNCOMB's injur'd Name.
Good-Nature, Honour, Honesty and Sense
All took th'Alarm, and arm'd in his Defence:
Such is the Temper of an English Soul,
It yeilds to Softness, but abhors controul.
Tir'd with their Spite, and all their Hope's o'erpast
To ruin Him, they left the Chase at last;
But sullenly; just as the Wolf withdraws,
The Lamb redeem'd from his extended Paws.
164
Rescu'd by Heav'n from Malice, Power and Wit,
From Bribes, and from the wide devouring Jaw
Of high Oppression, to take Place as Law.
'Twas here, (and I the Influ'ence did impart,)
Touch'd with his Wrongs, and knowing his Desert,
My Sons advanc'd him to the Shrieval Name;
Where now he honours That and gives the Nation Fame.
My Royal Master by this Time was come.
As late with Laurel crown'd with Olive home:
That God-like Prince that did so boldly dare
All the Extremities of Mortal War;
Nor wou'd the shining Chace of Glory cease,
Till he had crown'd his Martial Toils with PEACE.
In ev'ry Field he foremost wou'd appear,
Or succo'uring of that Part, or routing here,
As Mars himself had been in Action there.
Nor did his Heat drive cooler Thoughts away;
His Arm, descending, in the Mid'st wou'd stay,
And Quarter give tho' doubtful of the Day.
But as to such his Mercy did extend,
So he no Danger wav'd to save a Friend.
Thro' Horror Blood and Slaughter he wou'd drive,
Set raging out, and like a Storm arrive:
These dying fall and others Prostrate yield,
And wide Destruction covers all the Field.
His Courage thus!—nor was his Conduct less,
Both try'd—and never try'd without Success.
As late with Laurel crown'd with Olive home:
That God-like Prince that did so boldly dare
All the Extremities of Mortal War;
Nor wou'd the shining Chace of Glory cease,
Till he had crown'd his Martial Toils with PEACE.
In ev'ry Field he foremost wou'd appear,
Or succo'uring of that Part, or routing here,
As Mars himself had been in Action there.
Nor did his Heat drive cooler Thoughts away;
His Arm, descending, in the Mid'st wou'd stay,
And Quarter give tho' doubtful of the Day.
But as to such his Mercy did extend,
So he no Danger wav'd to save a Friend.
Thro' Horror Blood and Slaughter he wou'd drive,
Set raging out, and like a Storm arrive:
These dying fall and others Prostrate yield,
And wide Destruction covers all the Field.
His Courage thus!—nor was his Conduct less,
Both try'd—and never try'd without Success.
But now there does a Milder Scene appear,
To shew him great in Peace, as great in War.
I best can see (a thousand Ways display'd)
How he at once advances Truth and Trade.
The Country too does in the Blessing share;
And it does reach to Thee—to Thee ev'n here,
So far remov'd, and out of Nature's Care.
Plenty and Safety with their Brooding Wings
Extended wide, produce all useful Things;
In Peace the Plowman reaps, of Peace the Poet sings;
Never of all our Martial Kings, from Heav'n
To Britain has there yet a Prince been giv'n
That sooner did in Camps arrive at Fame,
Or past more Dangers to a Deathless Name.
In Him the Two most distant Glories meet,
All that on Earth is Good, with all that's Great.
To shew him great in Peace, as great in War.
I best can see (a thousand Ways display'd)
How he at once advances Truth and Trade.
165
And it does reach to Thee—to Thee ev'n here,
So far remov'd, and out of Nature's Care.
Plenty and Safety with their Brooding Wings
Extended wide, produce all useful Things;
In Peace the Plowman reaps, of Peace the Poet sings;
Never of all our Martial Kings, from Heav'n
To Britain has there yet a Prince been giv'n
That sooner did in Camps arrive at Fame,
Or past more Dangers to a Deathless Name.
In Him the Two most distant Glories meet,
All that on Earth is Good, with all that's Great.
Here did my DUNCOMB's Honours shine anew,
For me not only, but the World to view.
This Prince that from his Soul does Worth regard,
And never gives th'Immoral Man Reward;
That never once on Cowardice did smile,
But those he Raises Guardians of the Isle;
Ev'n He himself, the Envious to convince
Of their own Spite, and DUNCOMB's Innocence,
Gave him the Recompence with which we see
He Crowns persisting Faith, and Suffe'ring Loyaltie.
Whom the King Honours and the People chuse,
To such a One who can Applause refuse?
Fit for the Praises of the Chasest Muse.
Let then his Loud-Tongu'd Suffe'rings be repaid
With louder Praise;—for, since my Walls were laid,
No Subject e'er was such a Friend to Trade.
Who does the Nation's Inte'rest study more?
Or better Laws propose to feed the Poor?
Nor does he (splitting on the Common Shelf)
Propose to others what he shuns himself:
To give by Dribblets (which is chiefly done)
Is but to keep the Needy starving on:
He lays out his Reliefs at nobler Rates,
His Dole's a Market, and his Gifts Estates.
Who in his Office ever raised so high
AUGUSTA's Name for Hospitality?
What Table thro' the Nation does afford
So vast a Plenty as his Shrieval Board?
Who for the Loyal noblier does prepare?
And Wit and Vertue still are welcome there.
Mean while the sparkling Wines around him move,
Th'Inspiring Nectar that the Muses love.
For me not only, but the World to view.
This Prince that from his Soul does Worth regard,
And never gives th'Immoral Man Reward;
That never once on Cowardice did smile,
But those he Raises Guardians of the Isle;
Ev'n He himself, the Envious to convince
Of their own Spite, and DUNCOMB's Innocence,
Gave him the Recompence with which we see
He Crowns persisting Faith, and Suffe'ring Loyaltie.
Whom the King Honours and the People chuse,
To such a One who can Applause refuse?
Fit for the Praises of the Chasest Muse.
Let then his Loud-Tongu'd Suffe'rings be repaid
With louder Praise;—for, since my Walls were laid,
No Subject e'er was such a Friend to Trade.
Who does the Nation's Inte'rest study more?
Or better Laws propose to feed the Poor?
Nor does he (splitting on the Common Shelf)
Propose to others what he shuns himself:
To give by Dribblets (which is chiefly done)
Is but to keep the Needy starving on:
166
His Dole's a Market, and his Gifts Estates.
Who in his Office ever raised so high
AUGUSTA's Name for Hospitality?
What Table thro' the Nation does afford
So vast a Plenty as his Shrieval Board?
Who for the Loyal noblier does prepare?
And Wit and Vertue still are welcome there.
Mean while the sparkling Wines around him move,
Th'Inspiring Nectar that the Muses love.
Stay then no longer thus lamenting here,
But hope a milder Heav'n and kinder Air;
The Rising of thy Better Stars is near.
If my Perswasions have not lost their Charms,
My DUNCOMB shall restore Thee to my Arms.
Wealth, Wit, Employment, all by HIM are sway'd;
'Tis but a Word, a Nod, and He's obey'd.
But hope a milder Heav'n and kinder Air;
The Rising of thy Better Stars is near.
If my Perswasions have not lost their Charms,
My DUNCOMB shall restore Thee to my Arms.
Wealth, Wit, Employment, all by HIM are sway'd;
'Tis but a Word, a Nod, and He's obey'd.
I here had answer'd but the Dame withdrew;
And with Her Sleep retir'd, and left me too:
But left th'Impression deep upon my Mind
Of DUNCOMB honour'd, and AUGUSTA kind.
Ah Heav'n! I cry'd, let him but Prospe'rous be,
And 'tis no matter what becomes of me.
And with Her Sleep retir'd, and left me too:
But left th'Impression deep upon my Mind
Of DUNCOMB honour'd, and AUGUSTA kind.
Ah Heav'n! I cry'd, let him but Prospe'rous be,
And 'tis no matter what becomes of me.
Forgive me, Sir, that thus (opprest with Spleen)
I treat you with this Visionary Scene;
That on a Night-piece I your Worth display,
So dear to Vertue, and so worthy Day.
Nor let the Muses lose me your Esteem,
Since they Petition only but in Dream:
In Dreams they live, and chiefly Dreams regard,
But most they Err when Dreaming of Reward.
But tho' my Sleep dissent, I waking ne'er
Upon that Subject shall offend your Ear.
These Melancholy Vapours, bred at Sight
Of Winter, with the Spring will take their Flight;
When Op'ning Sweets, and Universal Green,
Produce a Gay Inimitable Scene.
Tho' now with Rains, or Shudd'ring Frost, we strive,
That Glo'rious Season will again revive:
The Tuneful Choir, thro' ev'ry Field and Grove,
Will then renew their Musick and their Love:
With them th'exulting Muse her Voice shall raise,
And waking then I'll sing my PATRON's Praise.
I treat you with this Visionary Scene;
That on a Night-piece I your Worth display,
So dear to Vertue, and so worthy Day.
Nor let the Muses lose me your Esteem,
Since they Petition only but in Dream:
In Dreams they live, and chiefly Dreams regard,
But most they Err when Dreaming of Reward.
But tho' my Sleep dissent, I waking ne'er
Upon that Subject shall offend your Ear.
167
Of Winter, with the Spring will take their Flight;
When Op'ning Sweets, and Universal Green,
Produce a Gay Inimitable Scene.
Tho' now with Rains, or Shudd'ring Frost, we strive,
That Glo'rious Season will again revive:
The Tuneful Choir, thro' ev'ry Field and Grove,
Will then renew their Musick and their Love:
With them th'exulting Muse her Voice shall raise,
And waking then I'll sing my PATRON's Praise.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |