The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead With Explanatory Notes on his Writings, and His life written by Captain Edward Thompson. With a Head of the Author, From a Painting by Mr. Gainsborough |
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MANNERS;
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 | The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead |  |
25
MANNERS;
A SATIRE.
Written in 1738.
Paulus vel Cossus vel Drusus moribus esto.
Juvenal.
Juvenal.
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“Well—of all plagues which make Mankind their sport,
“Guard me, ye Heav'ns! from that worst plague—a Court.
“'Midst the mad Mansions of Moor-fields, I'd be
“A straw-crown'd Monarch, in mock majesty,
“Rather than Sovereign rule Britannia's fate,
“Curs'd with the Follies and the Farce of State.
“Rather in Newgate Walls, O! let me dwell,
“A doleful Tenant of the darkling Cell,
“Than swell, in Palaces, the mighty store
“Of Fortune's Fools, and Parasites of Pow'r.
“Than Crowns, Ye Gods! be any state my doom,
“Or any dungeon, but—a Drawing-Room.
“Guard me, ye Heav'ns! from that worst plague—a Court.
“'Midst the mad Mansions of Moor-fields, I'd be
“A straw-crown'd Monarch, in mock majesty,
“Rather than Sovereign rule Britannia's fate,
“Curs'd with the Follies and the Farce of State.
“Rather in Newgate Walls, O! let me dwell,
“A doleful Tenant of the darkling Cell,
“Than swell, in Palaces, the mighty store
“Of Fortune's Fools, and Parasites of Pow'r.
“Than Crowns, Ye Gods! be any state my doom,
“Or any dungeon, but—a Drawing-Room.
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“Thrice happy Patriot! whom no Courts debase,
“No Titles lessen, and no Stars disgrace.
“Still nod the Plumage o'er the brainless head;
“Still o'er the faithless heart the Ribband spread.
“Such toys may serve to signalize the Tool,
“To gild the Knave, or garnish out the Fool;
“While You, with Roman virtue arm'd, disdain
“The tinsel trappings and the glitt'ring chain:
“Fond of your Freedom spurn the venal Fee,
“And prove He's only Great—who dares be Free.
“No Titles lessen, and no Stars disgrace.
“Still nod the Plumage o'er the brainless head;
“Still o'er the faithless heart the Ribband spread.
“Such toys may serve to signalize the Tool,
“To gild the Knave, or garnish out the Fool;
“While You, with Roman virtue arm'd, disdain
“The tinsel trappings and the glitt'ring chain:
“Fond of your Freedom spurn the venal Fee,
“And prove He's only Great—who dares be Free.
Thus sung Philemon in his calm retreat,
Too wise for pow'r, too virtuous to be great.
Too wise for pow'r, too virtuous to be great.
But whence this rage at Courts? reply'd his Grace,
Say, is the mighty crime, to be in Place?
Is that the deadly sin, mark'd out by Heav'n,
For which no mortal e'er can be forgiv'n?
Must All, All suffer, who in Courts engage,
Down from Lord Steward, to the puny Page?
Can Courts and Places be such sinful things,
The sacred gifts and palaces of Kings?
Say, is the mighty crime, to be in Place?
Is that the deadly sin, mark'd out by Heav'n,
For which no mortal e'er can be forgiv'n?
Must All, All suffer, who in Courts engage,
Down from Lord Steward, to the puny Page?
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The sacred gifts and palaces of Kings?
A Place may claim our rev'rence, Sir, I own;
But then the Man its dignity must crown:
'Tis not the Truncheon, or the Ermine's pride,
Can screen the Coward, or the Knave can hide.
Let Stair and *** head our Arms and Law,
The Judge and Gen'ral must be view'd with awe:
The Villain then would shudder at the Bar;
And Spain grow humble at the sound of War.
But then the Man its dignity must crown:
'Tis not the Truncheon, or the Ermine's pride,
Can screen the Coward, or the Knave can hide.
Let Stair and *** head our Arms and Law,
The Judge and Gen'ral must be view'd with awe:
The Villain then would shudder at the Bar;
And Spain grow humble at the sound of War.
What Courts are sacred, when I tell your Grace,
Manners alone must sanctify the place?
Hence only each its proper name receives;
Haywood's a brothel; White's a den of thieves:
Bring whores and thieves to Court, you change the scene,
St. James's turns the brothel, and the den.
Manners alone must sanctify the place?
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Haywood's a brothel; White's a den of thieves:
Bring whores and thieves to Court, you change the scene,
St. James's turns the brothel, and the den.
Who would the Courtly Chapel holy call,
Tho' the whole Bench should consecrate the wall?
While the trim Chaplain, conscious of a See,
Cries out, “My King, I have no God but Thee;”
Lifts to the Royal Seat the asking eye,
And pays to George the tribute of the sky;
Proves sin alone from humble roofs must spring,
Nor can one earthly failing stain a King.
Tho' the whole Bench should consecrate the wall?
While the trim Chaplain, conscious of a See,
Cries out, “My King, I have no God but Thee;”
Lifts to the Royal Seat the asking eye,
And pays to George the tribute of the sky;
Proves sin alone from humble roofs must spring,
Nor can one earthly failing stain a King.
Bishops and Kings may consecrate, 'tis true;
Manners alone claim homage as their due.
Without, the Court and Church are both prophane,
Whatever Prelate preach, or Monarch reign;
Religion's rostrum Virtue's scaffold grows,
And Crowns and Mitres are mere raree-shows.
Manners alone claim homage as their due.
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Whatever Prelate preach, or Monarch reign;
Religion's rostrum Virtue's scaffold grows,
And Crowns and Mitres are mere raree-shows.
In vain, behold yon rev'rend turrets rise,
And Sarum's sacred spire salute the skies!
If the lawn'd Levite's earthly vote be sold,
And God's free gift retail'd for Mammon gold;
No rev'rence can the proud Cathedral claim,
But Henley's shop, and Sherlock's, are the same.
And Sarum's sacred spire salute the skies!
If the lawn'd Levite's earthly vote be sold,
And God's free gift retail'd for Mammon gold;
No rev'rence can the proud Cathedral claim,
But Henley's shop, and Sherlock's, are the same.
Whence have St. Stephen's walls so hallow'd been?
Whence? From the virtue of his Sons within.
But should some guileful Serpent, void of grace,
Glide in its bounds, and poison all the place;
Should e'er the sacred voice be set to sale,
And o'er the heart the Golden Fruit prevail;
The place is alter'd, Sir; nor think it strange
To see the Senate sink into a Change.
Whence? From the virtue of his Sons within.
But should some guileful Serpent, void of grace,
Glide in its bounds, and poison all the place;
Should e'er the sacred voice be set to sale,
And o'er the heart the Golden Fruit prevail;
The place is alter'd, Sir; nor think it strange
To see the Senate sink into a Change.
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Or Court, or Church, or Senate-house, or Hall,
Manners alone beam dignity on all.
Without their influence, Palaces are cells;
Crane-Court, a magazine of Cockle-shells;
The solemn Bench no bosom strikes with awe,
But Westminster's a warehouse of the Law.
Manners alone beam dignity on all.
Without their influence, Palaces are cells;
Crane-Court, a magazine of Cockle-shells;
The solemn Bench no bosom strikes with awe,
But Westminster's a warehouse of the Law.
These honest truths, my Lord, deny you can;
Since all allow that ‘Manners make the Man.’
Hence only glories to the Great belong,
Or Peers must mingle with the peasant throng.
Since all allow that ‘Manners make the Man.’
Hence only glories to the Great belong,
Or Peers must mingle with the peasant throng.
Tho' strung with Ribbands, yet behold his Grace
Shines but a Lacquey in a higher place!
Strip the gay Liv'ry from the Courtier's back,
What marks the diff'rence 'twixt My Lord and Jack?
The same mean, supple, mercenary Knave,
The Tool of Power, and of State the Slave:
Alike the vassal heart in each prevails,
And all his Lordship boasts is larger vales.
Shines but a Lacquey in a higher place!
Strip the gay Liv'ry from the Courtier's back,
What marks the diff'rence 'twixt My Lord and Jack?
The same mean, supple, mercenary Knave,
The Tool of Power, and of State the Slave:
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And all his Lordship boasts is larger vales.
Wealth, Manors, Titles, may descend, 'tis true;
But ev'ry Heir must Merit's claim renew.
But ev'ry Heir must Merit's claim renew.
Who blushes not to see a C**** Heir
Turn slave to sound, and languish for a Play'r?
What piping, fidling, squeaking, quav'ring, bawling!
What sing-song riot, and what eunuch-squawling!
C****, thy worth all Italy shall own,
A Statesman fit, where Nero fill'd the throne.
Turn slave to sound, and languish for a Play'r?
What piping, fidling, squeaking, quav'ring, bawling!
What sing-song riot, and what eunuch-squawling!
C****, thy worth all Italy shall own,
A Statesman fit, where Nero fill'd the throne.
See poor Lævinus, anxious for renown,
Through the long gallery trace his lineage down,
And claim each Hero's visage for his own.
What tho' in each the self-same features shine,
Unless some lineal virtue marks the line,
In vain, alas! He boasts his Grandsire's name,
Or hopes to borrow lustre from his fame.
Who but must smile, to see the tim'rous Peer
Point 'mong his race our bulwark in the war?
Or in sad English tell how Senates hung
On the sweet music of his Father's tongue?
Unconscious, tho' his Sires were wise and brave,
Their virtues only find in him a grave.
Through the long gallery trace his lineage down,
And claim each Hero's visage for his own.
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Unless some lineal virtue marks the line,
In vain, alas! He boasts his Grandsire's name,
Or hopes to borrow lustre from his fame.
Who but must smile, to see the tim'rous Peer
Point 'mong his race our bulwark in the war?
Or in sad English tell how Senates hung
On the sweet music of his Father's tongue?
Unconscious, tho' his Sires were wise and brave,
Their virtues only find in him a grave.
Not so with Stanhope; see by him sustain'd
Each hoary honour which his Sires had gain'd.
To him the virtues of his race appear
The precious portion of five hundred year;
Descended down, by him to be enjoy'd,
Yet holds the talent lost, if unemploy'd.
From hence behold his gen'rous ardour rise,
To swell the sacred stream with fresh supplies:
Abroad, the Guardian of his Country's cause;
At home, a Tully to defend her Laws.
Senates with awe the patriot sounds imbibe,
And bold Corruption almost drops the bribe.
Thus added worth to worth, and grace to grace,
He beams new glories back upon his race.
Each hoary honour which his Sires had gain'd.
To him the virtues of his race appear
The precious portion of five hundred year;
Descended down, by him to be enjoy'd,
Yet holds the talent lost, if unemploy'd.
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To swell the sacred stream with fresh supplies:
Abroad, the Guardian of his Country's cause;
At home, a Tully to defend her Laws.
Senates with awe the patriot sounds imbibe,
And bold Corruption almost drops the bribe.
Thus added worth to worth, and grace to grace,
He beams new glories back upon his race.
Ask ye, What's Honour? I'll the truth impart.
Know, honour, then, is Honesty of Heart.
To the sweet scenes of social Stow repair,
And search the Master's breast,—You'll find it there.
Too proud to grace the Sycophant or Slave,
It only harbours with the Wise and Brave;
Ungain'd by Titles, Places, Wealth, or Birth:
Learn this, and learn to blush, ye Sons of Earth!
Blush to behold this Ray of Nature made
The victim of a Ribband, or Cockade.
Know, honour, then, is Honesty of Heart.
To the sweet scenes of social Stow repair,
And search the Master's breast,—You'll find it there.
Too proud to grace the Sycophant or Slave,
It only harbours with the Wise and Brave;
Ungain'd by Titles, Places, Wealth, or Birth:
Learn this, and learn to blush, ye Sons of Earth!
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The victim of a Ribband, or Cockade.
Ask the proud Peer, What's Honour? he displays
A purchas'd Patent, or the Herald's blaze;
Or, if the Royal Smile his hopes has blest,
Points to the glitt'ring Glory on his Breast:
Yet, if beneath no real virtue reign,
On the gay coat the Star is but a stain:
For I could whisper in his Lordship's ear,
Worth only beams true radiance on the Star.
A purchas'd Patent, or the Herald's blaze;
Or, if the Royal Smile his hopes has blest,
Points to the glitt'ring Glory on his Breast:
Yet, if beneath no real virtue reign,
On the gay coat the Star is but a stain:
For I could whisper in his Lordship's ear,
Worth only beams true radiance on the Star.
Hence see the Garter'd Glory dart its rays,
And shine round E*** with redoubled blaze:
Ask ye from whence this flood of lustre's seen?
Why E*** whispers, votes, and saw Turin.
And shine round E*** with redoubled blaze:
Ask ye from whence this flood of lustre's seen?
Why E*** whispers, votes, and saw Turin.
Long Milo reign'd the Minion of Renown;
Loud his eulogiums echo'd thro' the Town:
Where'er he went, still crouds around him throng,
And hail'd the Patriot as he pass'd along.
See the lost Peer, unhonour'd now by all,
Steal through the street, or skulk along the Mall;
Applauding sounds no more salute his ear,
But the loud Pæan's sunk into a sneer.
Whence, you'll enquire, could spring a change so sad?
Why, the poor man ran military mad;
By this mistaken maxim still misled,
That Men of Honour must be cloth'd in Red.
My Grandsire wore it, Milo cries—'tis good:
But know, the Grandsire stain'd it red with blood.
First 'midst the deathful dangers of the field,
He shone his Country's guardian, and its shield;
Taught Danube's stream with Gallic gore to flow;
Hence bloom'd the Laurel on the Grandsire's brow:
But shall the Son expect the wreath to wear,
For the mock triumphs of an Hyde-Park War?
Sooner shall Bunhill, Blenheim's glories claim,
Or Billers rival brave Eugene in fame;
Sooner a like reward their labours crown,
Who storm a Dunghill, and who sack a Town.
Loud his eulogiums echo'd thro' the Town:
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And hail'd the Patriot as he pass'd along.
See the lost Peer, unhonour'd now by all,
Steal through the street, or skulk along the Mall;
Applauding sounds no more salute his ear,
But the loud Pæan's sunk into a sneer.
Whence, you'll enquire, could spring a change so sad?
Why, the poor man ran military mad;
By this mistaken maxim still misled,
That Men of Honour must be cloth'd in Red.
My Grandsire wore it, Milo cries—'tis good:
But know, the Grandsire stain'd it red with blood.
First 'midst the deathful dangers of the field,
He shone his Country's guardian, and its shield;
Taught Danube's stream with Gallic gore to flow;
Hence bloom'd the Laurel on the Grandsire's brow:
But shall the Son expect the wreath to wear,
For the mock triumphs of an Hyde-Park War?
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Or Billers rival brave Eugene in fame;
Sooner a like reward their labours crown,
Who storm a Dunghill, and who sack a Town.
Mark our bright Youths, how gallant and how gay,
Fresh plum'd and powder'd in Review Array.
Unspoil'd each feature by the martial scar,
Lo! A***** assumes the God of War:
Yet vain, while prompt to arms by plume and pay,
He claims the Soldier's Name from Soldier's Play.
This truth, my Warrior, treasure in thy breast,
A standing Soldier is a standing jest.
When bloody battles dwindle to Reviews,
Armies must then descend to Puppet-shews;
Where the lac'd Log may strut the Soldier's part,
Bedeck'd with feather, tho' unarm'd with heart.
Fresh plum'd and powder'd in Review Array.
Unspoil'd each feature by the martial scar,
Lo! A***** assumes the God of War:
Yet vain, while prompt to arms by plume and pay,
He claims the Soldier's Name from Soldier's Play.
This truth, my Warrior, treasure in thy breast,
A standing Soldier is a standing jest.
When bloody battles dwindle to Reviews,
Armies must then descend to Puppet-shews;
Where the lac'd Log may strut the Soldier's part,
Bedeck'd with feather, tho' unarm'd with heart.
There are who say, “You lash the sins of men!
“Leave, leave to Pope the poignance of the pen;
“Hope not the bays shall wreath around thy head;
“Fannius may write, but Flaccus will be read.”
Shall only One have privilege to blame?
What then, are vice and folly Royal Game?
Must all be Poachers who attempt to kill?
All, but the mighty Sovereign of the Quill?
Shall Pope, alone, the plenteous harvest have,
And I not glean one straggling Fool, or Knave?
Praise, 'tis allow'd, is free to all mankind;
Say, why should honest Satire be confin'd?
Tho', like th' immortal Bard's, my feeble dart
Stains not its feather in the culprit heart;
Yet know, the smallest insect of the wing
The horse may teaze, or elephant can sting:
Ev'n I, by chance, some lucky darts may show'r,
And gall some great Leviathans of Pow'r.
“Leave, leave to Pope the poignance of the pen;
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“Fannius may write, but Flaccus will be read.”
Shall only One have privilege to blame?
What then, are vice and folly Royal Game?
Must all be Poachers who attempt to kill?
All, but the mighty Sovereign of the Quill?
Shall Pope, alone, the plenteous harvest have,
And I not glean one straggling Fool, or Knave?
Praise, 'tis allow'd, is free to all mankind;
Say, why should honest Satire be confin'd?
Tho', like th' immortal Bard's, my feeble dart
Stains not its feather in the culprit heart;
Yet know, the smallest insect of the wing
The horse may teaze, or elephant can sting:
Ev'n I, by chance, some lucky darts may show'r,
And gall some great Leviathans of Pow'r.
I name not W****e; You the reason guess;
Mark yon fell Harpy hov'ring o'er the Press.
Secure the Muse may sport with names of Kings;
But Ministers, my Friend, are dang'rous things.
Who would have P****n answer what he writ;
Or Special Juries, judges of his wit?
Mark yon fell Harpy hov'ring o'er the Press.
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But Ministers, my Friend, are dang'rous things.
Who would have P****n answer what he writ;
Or Special Juries, judges of his wit?
Pope writes unhurt—but know, 'tis diff'rent quite
To beard the lion, and to crush the mite.
Safe may he dash the Statesman in each line;
Those dread his satire, who dare punish mine.
To beard the lion, and to crush the mite.
Safe may he dash the Statesman in each line;
Those dread his satire, who dare punish mine.
Turn, turn your satire then, you cry, to praise.
Why, praise is satire, in these sinful days.
Say, should I make a Patriot of Sir Bill,
Or swear that G****'s Duke has wit at will;
From the gull'd Knight could I expect a place,
Or hope to lye a dinner from his Grace,
Tho' a reward be graciously bestow'd
On the soft satire of each Birth-day Ode?
Why, praise is satire, in these sinful days.
Say, should I make a Patriot of Sir Bill,
Or swear that G****'s Duke has wit at will;
From the gull'd Knight could I expect a place,
Or hope to lye a dinner from his Grace,
Tho' a reward be graciously bestow'd
On the soft satire of each Birth-day Ode?
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The good and bad alike with praise are blest;
Yet those who merit most, still want it least:
But conscious Vice still courts the chearing ray,
While Virtue shines, nor asks the glare of day.
Need I to any, Pult'ney's worth declare?
Or tell Him Carteret charms, who has an ear?
Or, Pitt, can thy example be unknown,
While each fond Father marks it to his Son?
Yet those who merit most, still want it least:
But conscious Vice still courts the chearing ray,
While Virtue shines, nor asks the glare of day.
Need I to any, Pult'ney's worth declare?
Or tell Him Carteret charms, who has an ear?
Or, Pitt, can thy example be unknown,
While each fond Father marks it to his Son?
I cannot truckle to a Slave in State,
And praise a Blockhead's wit, because he's great:
Down, down, ye hungry Garretteers, descend,
Call W****e Burleigh, call him Britain's Friend;
Behold the genial ray of Gold appear,
And rouze, ye swarms of Grub-street and Rag-fair.
And praise a Blockhead's wit, because he's great:
Down, down, ye hungry Garretteers, descend,
Call W****e Burleigh, call him Britain's Friend;
Behold the genial ray of Gold appear,
And rouze, ye swarms of Grub-street and Rag-fair.
42
See with what zeal yon tiny Insect burns,
And follows Queens from palaces to urns:
Tho' cruel Death has clos'd the Royal ear,
The flatt'ring Fly still buzzes round the bier:
But what avails, since Queens no longer live?
Why, Kings can read, and Kings, you know, may give.
A Mitre may repay his heav'nly Crown,
And, while he decks her brow, adorn his own.
And follows Queens from palaces to urns:
Tho' cruel Death has clos'd the Royal ear,
The flatt'ring Fly still buzzes round the bier:
But what avails, since Queens no longer live?
Why, Kings can read, and Kings, you know, may give.
A Mitre may repay his heav'nly Crown,
And, while he decks her brow, adorn his own.
Let Laureat Cibber Birth-day Sonnets sing,
Or Fanny crawl, an Ear-wig on the King:
While one is void of wit, and one of grace,
Why should I envy either Song or Place?
I could not flatter, the rich Butt to gain;
Nor sink a Slave, to rise V**e C*****n.
Or Fanny crawl, an Ear-wig on the King:
While one is void of wit, and one of grace,
Why should I envy either Song or Place?
I could not flatter, the rich Butt to gain;
Nor sink a Slave, to rise V**e C*****n.
Perish my verse! whene'er one venal line
Bedaubs a Duke, or makes a King divine.
First bid me swear, he's sound who has the plague,
Or Horace rivals Stanhope at the Hague.
What, shall I turn a Pandar to the Throne,
And list with B**ll to roar for Half-a-crown?
Sooner T**r***l shall with Tully vie,
Or W**n***n in Senate scorn a ***;
Sooner Iberia tremble for her fate
From M****h's Arms, or Ab***n's Debate.
Bedaubs a Duke, or makes a King divine.
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Or Horace rivals Stanhope at the Hague.
What, shall I turn a Pandar to the Throne,
And list with B**ll to roar for Half-a-crown?
Sooner T**r***l shall with Tully vie,
Or W**n***n in Senate scorn a ***;
Sooner Iberia tremble for her fate
From M****h's Arms, or Ab***n's Debate.
Tho' fawning Flatt'ry ne'er shall taint my lays,
Yet know, when Virtue calls, I burst to praise.
Behold yon Temple rais'd by Cobham's hand,
Sacred to Worthies of his native land:
Ages were ransack'd for the Wise and Great,
Till Barnard came, and made the groupe complete.
Be Barnard there—enliven'd by the voice,
Each Busto bow'd, and sanctify'd the choice.
Yet know, when Virtue calls, I burst to praise.
Behold yon Temple rais'd by Cobham's hand,
Sacred to Worthies of his native land:
Ages were ransack'd for the Wise and Great,
Till Barnard came, and made the groupe complete.
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Each Busto bow'd, and sanctify'd the choice.
Pointless all Satire in these iron times;
Too faint are colours, and too feeble rhimes.
Rise then, gay Fancy, future glories bring,
And stretch o'er happier days thy healing wing.
Too faint are colours, and too feeble rhimes.
Rise then, gay Fancy, future glories bring,
And stretch o'er happier days thy healing wing.
Rapt into thought, lo! I Britannia see
Rising superior o'er the subject Sea;
View her gay pendents spread their silken wings,
Big with the fate of Empires, and of Kings:
The tow'ring Barks dance lightly o'er the main,
And roll their thunder thro' the realms of Spain.
Peace, violated Maid, they ask no more,
But waft her back triumphant to our shore;
While buxom Plenty, laughing in her train,
Glads ev'ry heart, and crowns the Warrior's pain.
On, Fancy, on! still stretch the pleasing scene,
And bring fair Freedom with her golden reign;
Chear'd by whose beams ev'n meagre Want can smile,
And the poor Peasant whistle 'midst his toil.
Rising superior o'er the subject Sea;
View her gay pendents spread their silken wings,
Big with the fate of Empires, and of Kings:
The tow'ring Barks dance lightly o'er the main,
And roll their thunder thro' the realms of Spain.
Peace, violated Maid, they ask no more,
But waft her back triumphant to our shore;
While buxom Plenty, laughing in her train,
Glads ev'ry heart, and crowns the Warrior's pain.
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And bring fair Freedom with her golden reign;
Chear'd by whose beams ev'n meagre Want can smile,
And the poor Peasant whistle 'midst his toil.
Such days, what Briton wishes not to see?
And such each Briton, FRED'RICK, hopes from Thee.
And such each Briton, FRED'RICK, hopes from Thee.
THE END.
| The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead | |