The Poems of John Byrom :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poems of John Byrom

Edited by Adolphus William Ward

Byrom, John (1692-1763)

VOL. I.—MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

PART I.

II.

PART II.

II.

VOL. II.—SACRED POEMS.

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I. VOL. I.—MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I. PART I.

A PASTORAL.

I

My Time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phebe went with me wherever I went;
Ten thousand sweet Pleasures I felt in my Breast:
Sure never fond Shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous Change on a sudden I find!
When Things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

II

With such a Companion to tend a few Sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good-humour'd, so cheerful and gay,
My Heart was as light as a Feather all Day.
But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy, as never was known.
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd,
And my Heart,—I am sure it weighs more than a Pound.

III

The Fountain, that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the Pebbles among,
Thou know'st little Cupid, if Phebe was there,
'Twas Pleasure to look at, 'twas Music to hear.
But now she is absent, I walk by its Side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide:
“Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.”

IV

My Lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phebe and I were as joyful as they,
How pleasant their Sporting, how happy their Time,
When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime!
But now, in their Frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their Fleeces an handful of Grass;
“Be still, then,” I cry, “for it makes me quite mad
To see you so merry, while I am so sad.”

V

My dog I was ever well pleasèd to see
Come wagging his Tail to my Fair one and me;
And Phebe was pleas'd too, and to my Dog said,
“Come hither, poor Fellow,” and patted his Head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry “Sirrah,” and give him a blow with my Crook;

And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his Master, when Phebe's away?

VI

When walking with Phebe, what sights have I seen!
How fair was the Flower, how fresh was the Green!
What a lovely Appearance the Trees and the Shade,
The Corn-fields and Hedges, and ev'ry Thing made!
But now she has left me, tho' all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas naught but the Magic, I find, of her Eyes
Made so many beautiful Prospects arise.

VII

Sweet Music went with us both all the Wood thro',
The Lark, Linnet, Throstle, and Nightingale too;
Winds over us whisper'd, Flocks by us did Bleat,
And “chirp” went the Grasshopper under our Feet.
But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on,
The Woods are but lonely, the Melody's gone:
Her Voice in the Consort, as now I have found,
Gave ev'ry Thing else its agreeable Sound.

VIII

Rose, what is become of thy delicate Hue?
And where is the Violet's beautiful Blue?

Does aught of its Sweetness the Blossom beguile?
That Meadow, those Daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah, Rivals! I see what it was that you drest
And made your selves fine for,—a Place in her Breast:
You put on your Colours to pleasure her Eye,
To be pluckt by her Hand, on her Bosom to die.

IX

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phebe return,
While amidst the soft Zephyr's cool Breezes I burn;
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his Wings, and 'twould melt down the Lead.
Fly swifter, ye Minutes, bring hither my Dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.
Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay,
Nor will budge one Foot faster for all thou can'st say.

X

Will no pitying Pow'r that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear Nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor Shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah, what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye Swains, how ye part with your Fair!

HOW TO MOVE THE WORLD.

If a man do but keep himself sober and stout,
The world as he'd have it must needs turn about.

TUNBRIDGIALE,

Being a Description of Tunbridge, in a Letter to a Friend at London.

I

Dear Peter, whose Friendship I value much more,
Than Bards their own Verses, or Misers their Store:
Your Books, and your Bus'ness, and ev'ry thing else
Lay aside for a while, and come down to the Wells!
The Country so pleasant, the Weather so fine,
A World of fair Ladies, and delicate Wine!
The Proposal, I fancy, you'll hardly reject:
Then hear, if you come, what you are to expect.

II

Some sev'n or eight Mile off, to give you the Meeting,
Barbers, Dippers, and so forth, we send to you greeting.

Soon as they set Eyes on you, off flies the Hat:
“Does your Honour want this? does your Honour want that?”
That being a Stranger, by this Apparatus
You may see our good Manners, before you come at us.
Now this, please your Honour, is what we call Tooting,
A Trick in your Custom to get the first Footing.

III

Conducted by these civil Gen'men to Town,
You put up your Horse, for Rime's sake, at the Crown.
My Landlord bids welcome, and gives you his Word
For the best Entertainment the House can afford;
You taste which is better, his White, or his Red,
Bespeak a good Supper, good Room, and good Bed;
In short,—just as Travellers do when they 'light;—
So, to fill up the Stanza, I wish you Goodnight.

IV

But then the next Morning, when Phœbus appears,
And with his bright Beams our glad Hemisphere cheers,
You rise, dress, get shav'd, and away to the Walks,
The Pride of the Place, of which ev'ry one talks.

There, I would suppose you a-drinking the Waters,
Didn't I know that you come not for any such Matters;
But to see the fine Ladies in their Déshabille,
A Dress that's sometimes the most studied to kill.

V

The Ladies you see, aye, and Ladies as fair,
As charming, and bright as you'll see anywhere:
You eye and examine the beautiful Throng,
As o'er the clean Walks they pass lovely along;
And if any, by Chance, looks a little Demurer,
You fancy, like ev'ry young Fop, you could cure her;
Till from some pretty Nymph a deep Wound you receive,
And your self want the Cure, which you thought you could give.

VI

Not so wounded, howe'er, as to make you forget,
That your Honour this Morn has not breakfasted yet.

So to Morley's you go, look about, and sit down;
Then comes the young Lass for your Honour's half-Crown;
She brings out the Book, you look wisely upon her:
“What's the Meaning of this?”—“To Subscribe, please your Honour.”
So you write, as your Betters have all done before ye;—
'Tis a Custom, and so there's an End of the Story.

VII

And now, all this while, it is forty to one
But some Friend or other you've happen'd upon:
You all go to Church upon hearing the Bell,—
Whether out of Devotion, yourselves best can tell;—
From thence to the Tavern to toast pretty Nancy,
Th' aforesaid bright Nymph, that had smitten your Fancy:
Where Wine and good Victuals attend your Commands,
And Wheatears, far better than French Ortolans.

VIII

Then, after you've din'd, take a View of our Ground,
And observe the fine Mountains that compass us round;

And, if you could walk a Mile after your Eating,
There's some comical Rocks, that are worth contemplating:
You may, if you please, for their oddness and make,
Compare 'em—let's see—to the Derbyshire Peak;
They're one like the other, except that the Wonder
Does here lie above Ground, and there it lies under.

IX

To the Walks, about seven, you trace back your Way,
Where the Sun marches off, and the Ladies make Day.
What crowding of Charms: Gods,—or rather Goddésses!
What Beauties are here! What bright looks, airs, and Dresses!
In the room of the Waters had Helicon sprung,
And the Nymphs of the Place by old Poets been sung,
To invite the Gods hither they would have had Reason,
And Jove had descended each Night in the Season.

X

If with Things here below we compare Things on high,
The Walks are like yonder bright Path in the Sky,

Where heavenly Bodies in such Clusters mingle,
Tis impossible, Sir, to describe 'em all single:
But if ever you saw that sweet Creature Miss K---y,
If ever you saw her, I say,—let me tell ye,
Descriptions are needless: for surely to you,
No Beauty, no Graces, can ever be new.

XI

But when to their Gaming the Ladies withdraw,
Those Beauties are fled, which when walking you saw;
Ungrateful the Scene which you there see display'd,
Chance murd'ring those Features which Heaven had made.
If the fair Ones their Charms did sufficiently prize,
Their Elbows they'd spare for the sake of their Eyes;
And the Men too,—what Work! its enough, in good faith is't,
Of the nonsense of Chance to convince any Atheist.

XII

But now 'tis high Time, I presume, to bid Vale,
Lest we tire you too long with our Tunbridgiale;

Which if the sour Critics pretend to unravel,
Or at these our Verses should stupidly cavil,—
If this be the Case, tell the Critics, I pray,
That I care not one Farthing for all they can say.
And so I conclude, with my Service, good Peter,
To yourself and all Friends. Farewell, Muse; farewell, Metre!

THE ASTROLOGER.

I

Fellow-Citizens all, for whose Safety I peep
All Night at the Stars, and all Day go to sleep;
Attend, while I shew you the Meaning of Fate
In all the strange Sights we have seen here of late;
And thou, O Astrology, Goddess divine,
Celestial Decipheress, gently incline

Thine Ears, and thine Aid, to a Lover of Science,
That bids to all Learning but thine a Defiance.

II

For what Learning else is there half so engaging
As an Art where the Terms of themselves are presaging;
Which by muttering o'er, any gentle Mechanic
May put his whole Neighbourhood into a Panic;
Where a Noddle well turn'd for Prediction, and Shoes,
If it can but remember hard Words, cannot choose,
From the Prince on his Throne to the Dairy Maid milking,
But read all their Fortunes in yonder blue Welkin?

III

For the sky is a Book, where, in Letters of Gold,
Is writ all that Almanacs ever foretold;
Which he that can read and interpret also—
What is there, which such a one cannot foreshow?
When a true Son of Art ponders over the Stars,
They reflect back upon him the Face of Affairs;
Of all Things of Moment they give him an Inkling,
While Empires and Kingdoms depend on their Twinkling.

IV

Your Transits, your Comets, Eclipses, Conjunctions,
Have all, it is certain, their several Functions;
And on this Globe of Earth here, both jointly and singly,
Do influence Matters most ástonishingly.

But to keep to some Method, on this same Occasion,
We'll give you a full and true Interpretation
Of all the Phenomena we have rehearst.
Of which in their Order: the first, of the first.

V

As for Mercury's travelling over the Sun,
There's Nothing in that, Sirs, when all's said and done;
For what will be, will be; and Mercury's Transit,
I'm pos'tive, will neither retard, nor advance it.
But when a Conjunction or Comet takes Place,
Or a total Eclipse, that's a different Case:
They that laugh at our Art may here see with their Eyes,
That some Things, at least, may appear from the Skies.

VI

A Conjunction of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars,
You may turn, if you please, Gentlemen, to mere Farce:
But what if it plainly appear, that three Men
Are foretold by three Planets—what will ye say then?
Now, to prove this, I'll only make one small Request,
That is, that you'll all turn your Faces to th' East;

And then you shall see, ere I've done my Epistle,
If I don't make it out, ay, as clear as a Whistle.

VII

In the first Place, old Saturn, we very well know,
Lost his Kingdom and Provinces some while ago;
Nor was it long after old Saturn's Disgrace,
That Jupiter mov'd to step into his Place;
And Mars, we all know, was a quarrelsome Bully,
That beat all his Neighbours most únmercifully;
And now, who can doubt who these Gentlemen are,
Saturn, Jupiter, Mars?—Sophy, Sultan, and Czar.

VIII

But to prove, nearer Home, that the Stars have not trifl'd,
Pray have we not lost, cruel Star, Doctor Byfield?
Alas! Friends at Richard's, alas! what a Chasm
Will be made in the Annals of Enthusiasm!
As soon as the Comet appear'd in the Sky,
Pray did not the Doctor straight fall sick and die?
I wonder how Folk could discover a Comet,
And yet never draw this plain Consequence from it.

IX

The death of the Regent might show, if it needed,
Why they saw it in France fo much plainer than we did;
And how well it forebodes to our Nobles and Princes,
That its Tail was here shorter by several Inches.

But so near to the Eagle this Comet appear'd,
That something may happen, it is to be fear'd:
Great Men have been known by the Arms which they bore,
But “God bless the Emperor,”—I say no more.

X

And now for th' Eclipse, which is such an Appearance
As perhaps will not happen this many a Year hence.
The King of France died, the last total Eclipse,
Of a Mortification near one of his Hips;
From whence by our Art may be plainly made out,
That some great Man or other must die at this Bout;
But as the Eclipse is not yet, nor that neither,
You know 'tis not proper to say more of either.

XI

Yet two that are false I shall venture to name,
Men of Figure and Parts, and of unspotted Fame;
Who, all Parties will own, are and always have been
Great Ornaments to the high Station they're in,
Admir'd of all Sides; who will therefore rejoice,
When, consulting the Stars, I pronounce it their Voice,
That, for all this Eclipse, there shall no Harm befall
Those two honest—Giants, that are in Guildhall.

XII

So much for great Men;—I come now to predict
What Evils in gen'ral will Europe afflict:
Now, the Evils that Conjurers tell from the Stars,
Are Plague, Famine and Pestilence, Bloodshed and Wars,
Contagious Diseases, great Losses of Goods,
Great Burnings by Fire, and great Drownings by Floods;
Hail, Rain, Frost and Snow, Storms of Lightning and Thunder:
And if none of these happen,—'twill be a great Wonder.

ON THE AUTHOR'S COAT OF ARMS.

I

The Hedge-hog for his Arms, I would suppose,
Some Sire of ours, beloved Kinsfolk, chose,
With aim to hint Instruction wise and good
To us Descendants of his Byrom Blood:
I would infer, if you be of his Mind,
The very Lesson that our Sire design'd.

II

He had observ'd that Nature gave a Sense
To ev'ry Creature of its own Defence,—
Down from the Lion with his tearing Jaws
To the poor Cat that scratches with her Paws:
All show'd their Force, when put upon the Proof,
Wherein it lay,—Teeth, Talons, Horn, or Hoof.

III

Pleas'd with the Porcupine, whose native Art
Is said to distance Danger by his Dart,
To rout his Foes, before they come too near,
From ev'ry Hurt of close Encounter clear:
This, had not one Thing bated of its Price,
Had been our worthy Ancestor's Device.

IV

A Foe to none, but ev'ry Body's Friend,
And loth, altho' offended, to offend,—
He sought to find an Instance, if it could
By any Creature's Art be understood,
That might betoken Safety when attack'd,
Yet where all Hurt should be a Foe's own Act.

V

At last the Hedge-hog came into his Thought,
And gave the perfect Emblem that he sought.
This little Creature, all Offence aside,
Rolls up itself in its own prickly Hide,
When Danger comes; and they that will abuse,
Do it themselves, if their own Hurt ensues.

VI

Methinks, I hear the venerable Sage:
“Children! Descendants all thro' ev'ry Age!
Learn from the prudent Urchin in your Arms,
How to secure yourselves from worldly Harms!
Give no Offence,—to you if others will,
Firmly wrapt up within yourselves, be still.

VII

“This Animal is giv'n for outward Sign
Of inward, true Security Divine.

Sharp on your Minds let pointed Virtues grow,
That, without injuring, resist a Foe;
Surround with these an honest, harmless Heart,
And He that dwells in it will take your Part.

VIII

“Whatever Ills your christian Peace molest,
Turn to the Source of Grace within your Breast;
There lies your Safety. O that all my Kin
May ever seek it, where 'tis found,—within!
That Soul no Ills can ever long annoy,
Which makes its God the Centre of its Joy.”

A LETTER TO R. L., ESQ.

If Senesino do but rift,
“O caro, caro!” that flat fifth:
I'd hang if e'er an Opera Witling
Could tell Cuzzoni from a Kitling!

I

Dear Peter, if thou can'st descend
From Rodelind to hear a Friend,
And if those Ravish'd Ears of thine
Can quit the shrill celestial Whine
Of gentle Eunuchs, and sustain
Thy native English without pain,
I would, if t'ain't too great a Burden,
Thy ravish'd Ears intrude a Word in.

II

To Richard's and to Tom's full oft
Have I stept forth, O Squire of Toft,
In hopes that I might win, perchance,
A sight of thy sweet Countenance;
Forth have I stept, but still, alas!
Richard's, or Tom's, 'twas all a Case:
Still met I with the same Reply—
“Saw you Sir Peter?”—“No, not I.”

III

Being at length no longer able
To bear the dismal Trissylláble,
Home I retir'd in saunt'ring Wise,
And inward turning all my Eyes,
To seek thee in the friendly Breast
Where thou hast made a kind of Nest,
The gentle Muse I 'gan invoke,
And thus the Neck of Silence broke:

IV

“Muse!” quoth I, treading on her Toes,
“Thou sweet Companion of my Woes,
That whilom wont to ease my Care,
And get me now and then — a Hare:

Why am I thus depriv'd the Sight
Both of the Alderman and Knight?
Tell me, O tell me, gentle Muse,
Where is Sir Peter, where is Clowes?”

V

“Where your Friend Joseph is, or goes,”
Reply'd Melpomene, “Lord knows;
And what Place is the fairest Bidder
For the Knight's presence—. Let's consider:
Your wandering Steps you must refer to
Rehearsal, Op'ra, or Concerto;
At one or other of the three
You'll find him most undoubtedly.”

VI

Now Peter, if the Muse says true,
To all my Hopes I bid adieu;
Adieu, my hopes, if Op'ramanie
Has seiz'd on Peter's Pericranie,
Drunk with Italian Siren's Cup!
Nay then, in troth, I give him up:
The Man's a Quack, whoe'er pretends he
Can cure him of that fiddling Phrenzy.

EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS BETWEEN HANDEL AND BONONCINI.

Some say, compar'd to Bononcini,
That Mynheer Handel's but a Ninny;
Others aver, that he to Handel
Is scarcely fit to hold a Candle.
Strange all this Difference should be
'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

A LETTER TO R. L., ESQ.,

On His Departure from London.

I

Dear Peter, whose Absence, whate'er I may do
In a Week or two hence, at this Present I rue:
These Lines, in great Haste, I convey to the Mitre,
To tell the sad Plight of th' unfortunate Writer.

You have left your old Friend so affected with Grief,
That nothing but Riming can give him Relief;
Tho' the Muses were never worse put to their Trumps,
To comfort poor Bard in his sorrowful Dumps.

II

The Moment you left us, with Grief be it spoken,
This poor Heart of mine was as thoff it were broken;
And I almost faint still if a Carriage approach
That looks like a Highgate or Barnet Stage-coach;
And really, when first that old Vehicle gap'd
To take in Friend Pee—so the Fare had but scap'd,
If I did not half wish the Man might overturn it,
And swash it to Pieces, I am a sous'd Gurnet.

III

The Rhenish and Sugar, which at your Departure
We drank, would have made me, I hop'd, somewhat heartier;
Yet the Wine but more strongly to Weeping inclin'd,
And my Grief by the sugar was double-refin'd.

It is not to tell how my Breast fell a-throbbing,
When at the last Parting our Noses were bobbing!
Those sad farewell Accents—I think on 'em still—
“You'll remember to write, John?”—“Yes, Peter, I will.”

IV

You no sooner was gone, but this famous Metropolis,
That seem'd just before so exceedingly populous,
When I turn'd me towards it, seem'd all of a sudden
As if it was gone from the Place it had stood in.
But for Squire Hazel's Brother, sagacious Jack,
I should hardly have known how to find my Way back;
How he brought me from Smithfield to Dick's I can't say,
But remember the Charter-House stood in our Way.

V

At Dick's I repos'd me, and call'd for some Coffee,
And sweeten'd, and supt, and still kept thinking of ye;

But not with such Pleasure as when I came there
To wait 'till Sir Peter should chance to appear.
There, while I was turning you o'er in my Mind,
“Doctor, how do you do?” says a Voice from behind;
Thought I to myself: “I should know that same Organ;”—
And who should it be but my Friend Doctor Morgan?

VI

The Doctor and I took a small walk, and then
He went somewhere else, I to Richard's again.
All Ways have I try'd the sad Loss to forget.
I have saunter'd, writ Short-hand, eat Custard, et cet.
With honest Duke Humphrey I pass the long Day,
To others, as yet, having little to say;

For indeed, I must own, since the Loss of my Chum,
I am grown, as it were, a mere Gerund in Dumb.

VII

But, Muse! we forget that our Grief will prevent us
From treating of Matters more high and momentous.
Poor Jonathan Wild!—Clowes, Peer Williams and I
Have just been in waiting to see him pass by:

Good law! how the Houses were crowded with Mobs,
That lookt like Leviathan's Picture in Hobbes,
From the very ground Floor to the Top of the Leads,
While Jonathan past thro' a Holborn of Heads.

VIII

From Newgate to Tyburn he made his Procession,
Supported by two of the nimble Profession:

Between the unheeded poor Wretches he sat,
In his Night-gown and Wig, but without e'er a Hat;
With a Book in his Hand he went weeping and praying,
The Mob all along, as he pass'd 'em, huzzaing;
While a Parcel of Verses the Hawkers were hollowing,
Of which I can only remember these following:

IX

“The cunning old Pug ev'ry Body remembers,
“That, when he saw Chesnuts a roasting i'th' Embers,
“To save his own Bacon, took Puss's two Foots,
“And so out o'th' Embers he tickl'd his Nuts.
“Thus many a poor Rogue has been burnt in the Hand,
“And 'twas all Nuts to Jonathan, you understand;
“But he was not so cunning as Æsop's old Ape,
“For the Monkey has brought himself into the Scrape.”

X

And now, Peter, I'm come to the end of my Tether;
So I wish you good Company, Journey, and Weather,

When Friends in the Country enquire after John,
Pray tender my Service t'em all every one,
To the Ladies at Toft, Legh of High-Legh,
To the Altringham Meeting, if any there be,
Darcy Lever, Will Drake, Cattell and Cottam,—
An excellent Rhime that, to wind up one's Bottom!

Richard's Monday Night May 24, 1725.

P.S.

What News? Why the Lords, if the Minutes say true,
Have past my Lord Bolingbroke's Bill three to two,—

Three to one, I would say; and resolvèd also
That the Commons have made good their Articles—ho!
And To-morrow, Earl Thomas's Fate to determine,
Their Lordships come arm'd both with Judgment and Ermine;
The Surgeons, they say, have got Jonathan's Carcase,
If so, I'll go see't, or it shall be a hard Case.

EXTEMPORE VERSES

Upon a Trial of Skill Between the Two Great Masters of the Noble Science of Defence, Messrs. Figg and Sutton.

I

Long was the great Figg by the prize fighting Swains
Sole Monarch acknowledg'd of Marybone Plains;
To the Towns, far and near, did his Valour extend,
And swam down the River from Thame to Gravesend;
Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, Pipe-maker by Trade,
Who, hearing that Figg was thought such a stout Blade,
Resolv'd to put in for a Share of his Fame,
And so sent to challenge the Champion of Thame.

II

With alternate Advantage two Trials had past,
When they fought out the Rubbers on Wednesday last.
To see such a Contest the House was so full,
There hardly was room left to thrust in your Skull.
With a Prelude of Cudgels we first were saluted,
And two or three Shoulders most handsomely fluted;
Till, wearied at last with inferior Disasters,
All the Company cry'd: “Come, the Masters! the Masters!”

III

Whereupon the bold Sutton first mounted the Stage,
Made his Honours, as usual, and yearn'd to engage;
Then Figg, with a Visage so fierce and sedate,
Came and enter'd the List with his fresh-shaven Pate.
Their Arms were encircled by Armigers two,
With a red Ribbon Sutton's and Figg's with a blue.
Thus adorn'd, the two Heroes, 'twixt Shoulder and Elbow,
Shook Hands, and went to't, and the Word it was “Bilbo.”

IV

Sure such a Concern in the Eyes of Spectators
Was never yet seen in our Amphitheátres:

Our Commons and Peers, from their several Places,
To half an Inch Distance all pointed their Faces;
While the Rays of old Phœbus, that shot thro' the Sky-light,
Seem'd to make on the Stage a new kind of Twilight;
And the Gods, without doubt, if one could but have seen 'em,
Were peeping there thro' to do Justice between 'em.

V

Figg struck the first Stroke, and with such a vast Fury,
That he broke his huge Weapon in Twain, I assure you;
And, if his brave Rival this Blow had not warded,
His Head from his Shoulders had quite been discarded.
Figg arm'd him again, and they took t'other Tilt,
And then Sutton's Blade run away from its Hilt.
The Weapons were frighted, but as for the Men,
In Truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.

VI

Such a Force in their Blows, you'd have thought it a Wonder
Every Stroke they receiv'd did not cleave them asunder;
Yet so great was their Courage, so equal their Skill,
That they both seem'd as safe as a Thief in a Mill:
While in doubtful Attention Dame Victory stood,
And which Side to take could not tell for her Blood,
But remain'd, like the Ass 'twixt two Bottles of Hay,
Without ever moving an Inch either way.

VII

Till Jove to the Gods signified his Intention
In a Speech that he made them, too tedious to mention;
But the Upshot on't was, that, at that very Bout,
From a Wound in Figg's Side the hot Blood spouted out.
Her Ladyship then seem'd to think the Case plain;
But Figg stepping forth with a sullen disdain,
Shew'd the Gash, and appeal'd to the Company round,
If his own broken Sword had not given him the Wound?

VIII

That Bruises and Wounds a Man's Spirit should touch,
With Danger so little, with Honour so much!—
Well, they both took a Dram, and return'd to the Battle,
And with a fresh Fury they made the Swords rattle;
While Sutton's Right Arm was observèd to bleed
By a Touch from his Rival,—so Jove had decreed,—
Just enough for to shew that his Blood was not Ichor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red Liquor.

IX

Again they both rush'd with so equal a Fire on,
That the Company cry'd: “Hold, enough of cold Iron!
To the Quarter Staff now, Lads.” So first having dram'd it,
They took to their Wood, and i'faith never sham'd it.
The first Bout they had was so fair and so handsome,
That, to make a fair Bargain, 'twas worth a King's Ransom;

And Sutton such Bangs to his Neighbour imparted,
Would have made any Fibres but Figg's to have smarted.

X

Then after that Bout they went on to another,—
But the Matter must end on some Fashion or other:
So Jove told the Gods he had made a Decree,
That Figg should hit Sutton a stroke on the Knee.
Tho' Sutton, disabled as soon as he hit him,
Would still have fought on, but Jove would not permit him.
'Twas his Fate, not his Fault, that constrain'd him to yield:
And thus the great Figg became Lord of the Field.

XI

Now, after such Men, who can bear to be told
Of your Roman and Greek puny Heroes of old?
To compare such poor Dogs as Alcides and Theseus
To Sutton and Figg would be very facetious.
Were Hector himself, with Apollo to back him,
To encounter with Sutton,—zooks! how he would thwack him!
Or Achilles, tho' old Mother Thetis had dipt him,
With Figg—odds my Life! how he would have unript him!

XII

To Cæsar and Pompey, for want of Things juster,
We compare these brave Boys; but 'twill never pass Muster.
Did those mighty Fellows e'er fight Hand to Fist once?
No, I thank you; they kept at a suitable Distance.
What is Pompey the Great, with his Armour begirt,
To the much greater Sutton, who fought in his Shirt?
Or is Figg to be pair'd with a Cap-a-pee Roman.
Who scorn'd any Fence but a jolly Abdomen?

THE DISSECTION OF A BEAU'S HEAD.

From The Spectator, No. 275.

I

We found by our Glasses, that what at first sight
Appear'd to be Brains was another Thing quite;
A heap of strange stuff fill'd the holes of his Skull,
Which, perhaps, serv'd the Owner as well to the full.
And as Homer acquaints us (who certainly knew),
That the Blood of the Gods was not real and true,
Only something that was very like it: just so,
Only something like Brain is the Brain of a Beau.

II

The Pineal Gland, where the Soul's Residénce is,
Smelt desperate strong of Perfúmes, and Essénces,

With a bright horny Substance encompast around,
That in numberless Forms, like a Diamond, was ground:
Insomuch that the Soul, if there was any there,
Must have kept pretty constant within its own Sphere;
Having Bus'ness enough, without seeking new Traces,
To employ all its Time with its own pretty Faces.

III

In the hind part o'th' Head there was Brussels and Mechlin,
And Ribands, and Fringes, and such kind of Tackling;
Billet-doux and soft Rimes lin'd the whole Cerebellum,
Op'ra songs and prickt Dances, as 'twere upon Vellum.
A brown kind of Lump, that we ventur'd to squeeze,
Disperst in plain Spanish, and made us all sneeze.
In short, many more of the like kind of Fancies,
Too tedious to tell, fill'd up other Vacáncies.

IV

On the Sides of this Head were in several Purses,
On the Right, Sighs and Vows,—on the Left, Oaths and Curses.

These each sent a Duct to the Root of the Tongue,
From whence to the Tip they went jointly along.
One particular place was observèd to shine
With all sorts of Colours, most wonderful fine;
But when we came nearer to view it, in Troth,
Upon Éxamination 'twas nothing but Froth.

V

A pretty large Vessel did plainly appear
In that part of the Scull 'twixt the Tongue and the Ear;
With a spongy Contrivance distended it was,
Which the French Virtuosos call Galimatiás,
We Englishmen, nonsense: a Matter indeed
That most Peoples Heads are sometimes apt to breed.
Entirely free from it, not one Head in twenty;
But a Beau's, 'tis presum'd, always has it in plenty.

VI

Mighty hard, thick, and tough was the Skin of his Front,
And, what is more strange, not a Blood Vessel on't;
From whence we concluded, the Party deceast
Was never much troubled with Blushing at least.
The Os Cribriforme as full as could stuff
Was cramm'd, and in some Places damag'd, with Snuff:
For Beaux with this Ballast keep stuffing their Crib,
To preserve their light Heads in a true Æquilib.

VII

That Muscle, we found, was exceedingly plain,
That helps a Man's Nose to express his disdain,
If you chance to displease him, or make a Demand,
Which is oft the Beau's Case, that he “don't understand.”
The Reader well knows, 'tis about this same Muscle
That the old Latin Poets all make such a Bustle,
When they paint a Man giving his Noddle a Toss,
And cocking his Nose, like a Rhínocerós.

VIII

Looking into the Eye, where the Musculi lay
Which are call'd Amatorii, that is to say,
Those Muscles, in English, wherewith a Man ogles,
When on a fair Lady he fixes his Goggles,
We found 'em much worn; but that call'd th' Elevator,
Which lifts the Eyes up tow'rds the summit of Nature,
Seem'd so little us'd, that the Beau, I dare say,
Never dazzled his Eyes much with looking that way.

IX

The outside of this Head, for its Shape and its Figure,
Was like other Heads, neither lesser nor bigger;

Its Owner, as we were inform'd, when alive,
Had past for a Man of about thirty-five.
He ate, and he drank, just like one of the Crowd;
For the rest, he drest finely, laught often, talkt loud;
Had Talents in's way; for sometimes at a Ball
The Beau shew'd his Parts, and outcaper'd 'em all.

X

Some Ladies, they say, took the Beau for a Wit;
But in his Head, truly, there lay—deuce a bit.
He was cut off, alas! in the Flow'r of his Age
By an eminent Cit, that was put in a Rage:
The Beau was, it seems, complimenting his Wife,
When his éxtreme Civility cost him his Life;
For his Eminence took up an old paring-Shovel,
And on the hard Ground left my Gem'man to grovel.

XI

Having finish'd our Work, we began to replace
The Brain, such as 'twas, in its own proper Case.
In a fine Piece of scarlet we laid it in State,
And resolv'd to prepare so extraordinary a Pate;
Which would eas'ly be done, our Anatomist thought,
Having found many Tubes that already were fraught
With a kind of a Substance he took for Mercurial,
Lodg'd there, he suppos'd, long before the Beau's Burial.

XII

The Head laid aside, he then took up the Heart,
Which he likewise laid open with very great Art;
And with many Particulars truly we met
That gave us great insight into the Coquette.
But having, kind Reader, already transgrest
Too much on your Patience, we'll let the Heart rest;
Having giv'n you the Beau for To-day's Speculation,
We'll reserve the Coquette for another Occasion.

A Full and True Account of an Horrid and Barbarous Robbery, Committed on Epping Forest upon the Body of the Cambridge Coach.

In a Letter to M. F., Esq.

Arma Virunque Cano.

I

Dear Martin Folkes, dear Scholar, Brother, Friend,
And Words of like Importance without End:
This comes to tell you, how in Epping Hundred
Last Wednesday Morning I was robb'd and plunder'd.
Forgive the Muse, who sings what, I suppose,
Fame has already trumpeted in Prose;
But Fame's a lying Jade: the turn of Fate
Let poor Melpomene herself relate;
Spare the sad Nymph a vacant Hour's Relief,
To rime away the Remnants of her Grief.

II

On Tuesday Night, you know with how much Sorrow
I bid the Club farewell: “I go To-morrow.”

To-morrow came, and so accordingly
Unto the place of Rendezvous went I.
Bull was the House, and Bishopgate the Street,
The Coach as full as it could cram: to wit,
Two Fellow-Commoners de Aulâ Trin.,
And eke an honest Bricklayer of Lynn,
And eke two Norfolk Dames, his Wife and Cousin,
And eke my Worship's self, made half a Dozen.

II

Now then, as Fortune had contriv'd, our Way
Thro' the wild Brakes of Epping-Forest lay:
With Travellers and Trunks, a hugeous Load,
We hagg'd along the solitary Road;
Where nought but Thickets within Thickets grew,
No House nor Barn to cheer the wand'ring View;
Nor lab'ring Hind, nor Shepherd did appear,
Nor Sportsman with his Dog or Gun was there;
A dreary Landscape, bushy and forlorn,
Where Rogues start up like Mushrooms in a Morn.

III

However, since we, none of us, had yet
Such Rogues but in a Sessions Paper met,
We jok'd on Fear; tho', as we past along,
Robbing was still the Burden of the Song.
With untry'd Courage bravely we repell'd
The rude Attacks of Dogs—not yet beheld,
With val'rous Talk still battling, till at last
We thought all Danger was as good as past.
Says one,—too soon, alas!—“Now let him come:
Full at his Head I'll fling this Bottle of Rum.”

IV

Scarce had he spoken, when the Brickman's Wife
Cry'd out “Good Lord! he's here, upon my Life!”
Forth from behind the Wheels the Villain came,
And swore such Words as I dare hardly name;
But you'll suppose them, Brother, not to drop
From me, but him—: “G---d d---n ye, Coachman, stop!
Your Money, Z---ds, deliver me your Money!
Quick, d---n ye, quick: must I stay waiting on ye?
Quick, or I'll send,”—and nearer still he rode,—
“A Brace of Balls amongst ye all, by ---!”

V

I leave you, Sir, to judge yourself, what Plight
We all were put in by this cursèd Wight.
The trembling Females into Labour fell;
Big with the sudden Fear, they Pout, they Swell;
And soon, deliver'd by his horrid Curses,
Brought forth two Strange and Preternatural Purses,

That look'd indeed like Purses made of Leather;—
But let the sweet-tongu'd Maningham say whether
A common Purse could possibly conceal
Shillings, Half-crowns, and Half-pence by piece-meal.

VI

The Youth, who flung the Bottle at the Knave
Before he came, now thought it best to wave
Such Resolution, and preserve the Liquor,
Since a round Guinea might be thrown much quicker.
So, with impetuous Haste he flung him that,
Which the sharp Rascal parried with his Hat.
His right-hand Man, a Brother of our Quill,
Prudently chose to shew his own good Will
By the same Token, and without much Scruple
Made the Red-rugg'd Collector's Income duple.

VII

My Heart (for Truth I always must confess)
Did sink—an Inch exactly—more or less.

With both my Eyes I view'd the Thief's Approach;
And read the Case of—Pistol versus Coach;
A woeful Case, which I had oft heard quoted,
But ne'er before in all my Practice noted.
So, when the Lawyers brought in their Report,
“Guinea per Christian to be paid in Court:”
“Well off, thinks I, “with this same Son of a ---,
“If he prefers his Action for no more!

VIII

“No more! why, hang him, is not that too much,
“To pay a Guinea for his vile High-Dutch?
“'Tis true, he had us here upon the hank
“With Action strong, and swears to it point blank;
“Yet why resign the yellow One Pound One?
“No, tax his Bill, and give him Silver, John.”
So said, so done, and, putting Fist to Fob,
I flung th' apparent value of the Job,

An Ounce of Silver, into his Receiver,
And mark'd the Issue of the Rogue's Behaviour.

IX

He, like a thankless Wretch that's overpaid,
Resents, forsooth, th' Affront upon his Trade;
And treats my Kindness with a—“This won't do:
Look ye here, Sir, I must ha' Gold from you.”
To this Demand of the ungrateful Cur
Defendant John thought proper to demur.
The Bricklayer, joining in the White Opinion,
Tender'd five Shillings to Diana's Minion;
Who still kept threatning to pervade his Buff,
Because the Payment was not prompt enough.

X

Before the Women with their Purses each
Had Strength to place Contents within his reach,
One of his Pieces, falling downwards, drew
The Rogue's Attention hungrily thereto.
Straight he began to damn the Charioteer:
“Come down ye Dog, reach me that Guinea there!”
Down jumps th' affrighted Coachman on the Sand,
Picks up the Gold, and puts it in his Hand,

Missing a rare Occasion, tim'rous Dastard,
To seize his Pistol, and dismount the Bastard.

XI

Now, while in deep and serious Ponderment
I watch'd the Motions of his next Intent,
He wheel'd about, as one full bent to try
The Matter in Dispute 'twixt him and I,
And how my Silver Sentiments would hold
Against that hard Dilemma, Balls or Gold.
“No Help,” said I, “no Tachygraphic Pow'r
“To interpose in this unequal Hour?
“I doubt—I must resign—there's no defending
“The Cause against that murderous Fire-Engine.”

XII

When lo! descending to her Champion's Aid,
The Goddess Short-Hand, bright Celestial Maid,
Clad in a letter'd Vest of silver Hue,
Wrought by her fav'rite Phebe's Hand, she flew.

Th' unfolded Surface fell exactly neat,
In just Proportions, o'er her Shape complete;
Distinct with Lines of purer flaming White,
Transparent Work, Intelligibly bright;
Form'd to give Pleasure to th' ingenious Mind,
But puzzle and confound the stupid Hind.

XIII

Soon as the Wretch the Sacred Writing spy'd,
“What Conjuration-Sight is this?” he cry'd.
My Eyes meanwhile the Heav'nly Vision clear'd;
It shew'd how all his hellish Look appear'd.
(Heav'n shield all Travellers from foul Disgrace,
As I saw Tyburn in the Ruffian's Face!
And, if aright I judge of human Mien,
His Face ere long in Tyburn will be seen.)
The Hostile Blaze soon seiz'd his miscreant Blood;
He star'd,—turn'd short,—and fled into the Wood.

XIV

Danger dismist, the gentle Goddess smil'd
Like a fond Parent o'er her fearful Child,
And thus began to drive the dire Surprise
Forth from my anxious Breast in jocund wise:

“My Son,” said she, “this Fellow is no Weston,
“No Adversary, Child, to make a Jest on.
“With Ink Sulphureous upon Human Skin
“He writes, indenting horrid Marks therein;
“But—thou hast read his Fate—the halter'd Slave
“Shall quickly sing his Penitential Stave.

XV

“Pursue thy Route; but when thou tak'st another,
“Bestride some generous Quadruped or other.
“Let this enchanted Vehicle confine,
“From this Time forth, no Votaries of mine;
“Let me no more see honest Short-hand Men
“Coop'd up in Wood, like Poultry in a Pen.
“And at Trin. Coll. when e'er thou art enlarging
“On Epping-Forest, note this in the Margin:
‘Let Cambridge Scholars, that are not quite bare,
‘Shun the dishonest Track, and ride thro' Ware.’”

XVI

“Adieu, my Son! resume thy wonted Jokes;
“And write Account hereof to Martin Folkes.”

This said, she mounts; the Characters divine
Thro' the bright Path immensely brilliant shine.—
Now safe arriv'd, first for my Boots I wrote;
I tell the Story, and subjoin the Note;
And lastly, to fulfil the dread Commands,
These hasty Lines presume to Kiss your Hands.
Excuse the tedious Tale of a Disaster;
I am
Your Humble Servant
and
Grand-Master.

THE POETASTER.

I

When a Poet, as Poetry goes now-a-days,
Takes it into his Head to put in for the Bays,
With an old Book of Rimes and a Half-pint of Claret
To cherish his Brains, mounted up to his Garret,
Down he sits with his Pen, Ink and Paper before him,
And labours as hard as his Mother that bore him.

II

Thus plac'd, on the Candle he fixes his Eyes,
And upon the bright Flame on't looks wonderful wise;
Then, snuffing it close, he takes hold of his Pen,
And, the Subject not starting, he snuffs it again;
Till perceiving at last that not one single Thought,
For all his wise Looks, will come forth as it ought,
With a Bumper of Wine he emboldens his Blood,
And prepares to receive it, whenever it should.

III

Videlicet: first, he invokes the nine Muses,
Or some one of their Tribe for his Patroness chooses;
The Girl, to be sure, that of all the long Nomine
Best suits with his Rime, as for instance, Melpomene.
And what signifies then this old Bard-beaten Whim?
What's he to the Muses, or th' Muses to him?
Why, the Bus'ness is this: the poor Man, lack-a-day,
At first setting out, don't know well what to say.

IV

Then he thinks of Parnassus and Helicon Streams,
And of old musty Bards mumbles over the Names;
Talks much to himself of one Phœbus Apollo,
And a Parcel of Folk that in's Retinue follow;

Of a Horse namèd Pegasus that had two Wings,
Of Mountains, and Nymphs, and a hundred fine Things:
Tho' with Mountains and Streams, and his Nymphs of Parnáss,
The Man, after all, is but just where he was.

TO HENRY WRIGHT OF MOBBERLEY, ESQ.

On Buying the Picture of Father Malebranche at a Sale.

I

Well, dear Mr. Wright, I must send you a line:—
The purchase is made, Father Malebranche is mine;
The adventure is past which I long'd to achieve,
And I'm so overjoy'd, you will hardly believe.
If you will but have patience, I'll tell you, dear friend,
The whole history on't, from beginning to end.
Excuse this long tale,—I could talk, Mr. Wright,
About this same picture from morning to night.

II

The morning it low'r'd, like the morning in Cato,
And brought on, methought, as important a day too.
But about ten o'clock it began to be clear;
And, the fate of our capital piece drawing near,
Having supp'd off to breakfast some common decoction.
Away trudgèd I in all haste to the Auction.
Should have call'd upon you, but the Weaver Committee
Forbade me that pleasure,—the more was the pity!

III

The clock struck eleven as I enter'd the room,
Where Rembrandt and Guido stood waiting their doom,
With Holbein and Rubens, Van Dyck, Tintoret,
Jordano, Poussin, Carlo Dolci, et cet.
When at length in the corner perceiving the Père,
“Ha!” quoth I to his face, “my old friend, are you there?”
And methought the face smil'd, just as tho' it would say:
“What, you're come, Mr. Byrom, to fetch me away!”

IV

Now, before I had time to return it an answer,
Comes a Short-hander by,—Jemmy Ord was the man, Sir:—
“So, Doctor! good morrow!”—“So Jemmy! bon jour!
Some rare pictures here!”—“So there are, to be sure.
Shall we look at some of them?”—“With all my heart, Jemmy!”
So I walk'd up and down, with my old pupil wi' me;
Making still such remarks as our wisdom thought proper,
Where things were hit off in wood, canvas, or copper.

V

When at length, about noon, Mr. Auctioneer Cox
With his book and his hammer mounts into his box:
“Lot the first, number One.” Then advanced his upholder
With Malebranche,—so Atlas bore Heav'n on his shoulder.
Then my heart, Sir, it went pit-a-pat, in good sooth,
To see the sweet face of The Searcher of Truth.
“Ha!” thought I to myself, “if it cost me a million,
This right honest head, then, shall grace my pavilion.”

VI

Thus stood Lot the first,—both in number and worth,
If pictures were priz'd for the men they set forth.

I'm sure, to my thinking, compar'd to this number,
Most lots in the room seem'd to be but mere lumber.
The head then appearing, Cox left us to see't,
And fell to discoursing concerning the feet:
“So long, and so broad!—'Tis a very fine head!
Please to enter it, gen'men,”—was all that he said.

VII

Had I been in his place, not the stroke of a hammer,
Till the force had been tried both of rhet'ric and grammar.
“A very fine head!”—Had thy head been as fine,
All the heads in the house had vail'd bonnets to thine!—
Not a word, whose it was; but, in short, 'twas a head—
“Put it up what you please.” So, somebody said:
“Half-a-piece,” and so on. For three pounds and a crown,
(To sum up my good fortune) I fetch'd him me down.

VIII

There were three or four bidders,—I cannot tell whether,—
But they never could come two upon me together;
For as soon as one spoke, then immediately, pop!
I advanc'd something more, fear the hammer should drop.
I consider'd, should Cox take a whim of a sudden,
What a hurry 'twould put a man's Lancashire blood in!
“Once—twice—three pounds five”—so, nemine con.,
Came an absolute rap, and thrice happy was John.

IX

“Who bought it?” quoth Cox. “Here's the money,” quoth I,
Still willing to make the securest reply;
And the safest receipt that a body can trust
For preventing disputes, is “Down with your dust!”
So I bought it, and paid for 't; and boldly I say,
'Twas the best purchase made at Cadogan's that day:
The works the man wrote are the finest in nature;
And a most clever piece is his genuine portraíture.

X

For the rest of the pictures, and how they were sold,
To others there present I leave to be told.
They seem'd to go off, as at most other sales,
Just as folk's money, judgment or fancy prevails,
Some cheap, and some dear. Such an image as this
Comes a trifle to me, and an odd wooden Swiss
Wench's head—God knows, who?—forty-eight guineas, if her
Grace of Marlborough likes it:—so fancies will differ.

XI

When the bus'ness was o'er, and the crowd somewhat gone,
Whip, into a coach I convey Number One.
“Drive along, honest friend, fast as e'er you can spin.”
So he did; and 'tis now safe and sound at Gray's Inn;

“Done at Paris,” it says, “from the life by” one “Gery,”—
Who that was, I can't tell, but I wish his heart merry,—
“In the year Ninety-eight,”—sixty just from the birth
Of the greatest divine that e'er liv'd upon earth.

XII

And now, if some evening, when you are at leisure,
You'll come and rejoice with me over my treasure,
With a friend or two with you, that will in free sort
Let us mix Metaphysics and Short-hand and port:
We'll talk of his book, or what else you've a mind
Take a glass, read or write, as we see we're inclin'd;
Such friends and such freedom!—What can be more clever?
Huzza! Father Malebranche and Short-hand for ever!

ADVICE TO THE Rev. Messrs. H--- and H--- to Preach Slow.

I

Brethren, this comes to let you know
That I would have you to preach slow;
To give the Words of a Discourse
Their proper Time, and Life, and Force;

To urge what you think fit to say,
In a sedate, pathetic Way,
Grave and delib'rate, as 'tis fit
To comment upon Holy Writ.

II

Many a good Sermon gives Distaste
By being spoke in too much Haste;
Which, had it been pronounc'd with Leisure,
Would have been listen'd to with Pleasure;
And thus the Preacher often gains
His Labour only for his Pains;
As (if you doubt it) may appear
From ev'ry Sunday in the Year.

III

For how indeed can one expect
The best Discourse should take Effect,
Unless the Maker thinks it worth
Some Care and Pains to set it forth?
What! does he think the Pains he took
To write it fairly in a Book,
Will do the Bus'ness?—Not a Bit:
It must be spoke as well as writ.

IV

What is a Sermon, good or bad,
If a Man reads it like a Lad?

To hear some People, when they preach,
How they run o'er all Parts of Speech,
And neither raise a Word, nor sink:
Our learned Bishops, one would think,
Had taken School-boys from the Rod,
To make Ambassadors of God.

V

So perfect is the Christian Scheme,
He that from thence shall take his Theme;
And Time to have it understood,
His Sermon cannot but be good.
If he will needs be preaching Stuff,
No Time indeed is short enough;
E'en let him read it like a Letter:
The sooner it is done, the better.

VI

But for a Man that has a Head,
(Like yours or mine, I'd like t' have said,)
That can upon Occasion raise
A just Remark, a proper Phrase:
For such a one to run along,
Tumbling his Accents o'er his Tongue,
Shows only that a Man at once
May be a Scholar and a Dunce.

VII

In point of Sermons, 'tis confest,
Our English Clergy make the best.

But this appears, we must confess,
Not from the Pulpit, but the Press.
They manage, with disjointed Skill,
The Matter well, the Manner ill;
And, what seems Paradox at first,
They make the best, and preach the worst.

VIII

Would they but speak as well as write,
Both Excellences would unite:
The outward Action being taught
To show the Strength of forward Thought.
Now, to do this, our Short-hand School
Lays down this plain and general Rule:
“Take Time enough;”—all other Graces
Will soon fill up their proper Places.

TO THE SAME.

I

To Haddon John, and Heyward Thomas, greeting!
On Friday next there is to be a meeting
At ancient Bufton's, where the brethren, Wright,
Baskervyle, Swinton, Toft's facetious knight,

[And] Lancaster, and Cattel, if he can,
And, on the same terms, Clowes the alderman,
Have all agreed to hold, upon the border
Of Altrincham, a Chapter of the Order.

II

Now then, sagacious brethren, if the time
Suits with convenience, as it does with rime,
I hope we safely may depend upon
The representatives of Warrington.
See that no business contradict your journey;
If any should, transact it by attorney;
On Friday morn be ready spurred and booted,
That your convenience may not be non-suited.

III

Moreover, brethren, if the time permit,
Bring something in your pockets neatly writ;

For thus it was agreed by all our votes,
That ev'ry member should produce his notes.
“Bring every man some writing of his own
That we mayn't meet for theory alone,”
Said the Grand-Master, “but for practice also;”—
To which the general answer was: “We shall so.”

IV

Could but I once a country congress fix,
Before the winter calls me up to Dick's,
And tie therewith, as with a shorthand tether,
My Lancashire and Cheshire sons together:
Then, emulation would perhaps inspire,
And one example set the rest on fire;
So should my sons of Lancashire and Cheshire
Work ev'ryone at shorthand like a thresher.

V

Yea, meet, my sons; appoint a shorthand feast
Each fortnight, three weeks, or each month at least;
Lest it be said by longhand men profane,
We caught so many clever folk in vain!
Be not discouraged, then, if one by one—
Dull solitude!—you go but slowly on:
For, when you meet together in a bundle,—
Adzooks! you cannot think how fast you'll trundle!

VI

So saith the simile: we mortal people
Are like the bells that hang within a steeple;
Where one poor, solitary, single bell
Working alone, prolongs a dismal knell;
But all together, with one common zeal,
Join merrily enough to ring a peal.

VERSES SPOKEN EXTEMPORE

At the Meeting of a Club, Upon the President's Appearing in a Black Bob-Wig, Who usually wore a White Tie.

I

Our President, in Days of Yore,
Upon his Head a Caxen wore;
Upon his Head he wore a Caxen,
Of Hair as white as any Flaxen:
But now he cares not of a Fig;
He wears upon his Poll a Wig,—
A shabby Wig upon his Poll,
Of Hair as black as any Coal.

II

A sad and dismal Change, alas!
Choose how the Deuce it came to pass!

Poor President! what evil Fate
Revers'd the colour of his Pate?
For if that lamentable Dress
Were his own choosing, one would guess,
By the deep Mourning of his Head,
His Wits were certainly gone dead.

III

Sure, it could ne'er be his own choosing
To put his Head in such a Housing.
It must be ominous, I fear;
Some Mischief, to be sure, is near.
Nay, should that black, fore-boding Phiz
Speak from that sturdy Trunk of his,
One could not help but think it spoke
Just like a Raven from an Oak.

IV

A Caxen of so black a Hue,
On our Affairs looks plaguy blue.
We do not meet with such an Omen
In any Story, Greek or Roman;
A Comet, or a blazing Star
Were not so terrible by far.
No, in that Wig the Fates have sent us
Of all Porténts the most portentous.

V

Who does not tremble for the Club,
That looks upon his Wig so scrub?
Without a Knot! without a Tie!—
What can we hang together by?
So scrub a Wig to look upon,—
How can the dire Phænomenon
Be long before it has undone us?
Oh! 'Tis a cruel Bob upon us.

VI

The President, when's Wig was white,
He was another Mortal quite;
Nay, when he sprinkled it with Powder,
No Man in Manchester talk'd louder.
How blest were we! but now, alack!
The wearing of a Wig so black
Such a Disgrace has brought about—
Burn it! 'twill never be worn out.

VII

Thou art a Lawyer, honest Joe,
I prithee, wilt thou let us know,

Whether the black Act won't extend,
So as to reach our worthy Friend?
What! can he wear a Wig so shabby,
When Folks are hang'd from Waltham Abbey,
For loving Ven'son, and appearing
So like that Head there, so like Fearing?

VIII

You're a Divine, Sir: I'll ask you,
Is that a Christian, or a Jew,
Or Turk? “Aye, Turk, as sure as Hops,
You see the Saracen in his Chops.”
And yet these Chops, tho' now so homely,
Were Christian-like before, and comely.
That wicked Wig! to make a Face
So absolutely void of Grace!

IX

You, Master Doctor, will you try
Your skill in Physiognomy?
Of what Disease is it a Symptom?
Don't look at me, but look at him, Tom.
Is it not Scurvy, think you?—“Yes;
If any thing be Scurvy, 'tis.”
A Phrenzy? or a Periwigmanie
That over-runs his Pericranie?

X

“It seems to me a Complication
Of all Distempers, o' some Fashion;
It is a Coma, that is plain,
A great Obstruction of the Brain.
A Man to take his Brains, and bury 'em
In such a Wig!—a plain Delirium!
I never saw a human Face
That suffer'd more by such a Case.

100

XI

“If you examine it, you'll see 'tis
P---burnt: that shows a Diabetes.
Bad Weather has relaxt, you see,
The Fibres to a great Degree;
Certès, the Head, in these black Tumours,
Is full of vitiated Humours,—
Of vitiated Humours full,
Which shows a Numbness of the Scull.

XII

“So of the rest.”—But now, Friend Thomas,
The Cure will be expected from us;
For while it hangs on him, of course,
It will, if possible, grow worse.
“Habit so foul! there is, in short,
Nothing but Salivation for't.”
But what can Salivation do?
It has been fluxt, and refluxt too.

XIII

But why to Doctors do I urge on
The Bus'ness of a Barber-Surgeon?
Your Barber-Surgeon is the Man
It must be cur'd by, if it can.
Ring for my Landlord Lawrenson;
Come, let's e'en try what can be done;
A Remedy there may be found,
Provided that the Brain be sound.

101

TO THE REV. MESSRS. H--- AND H---

On Preaching Extempore.

102

I

The Hint I gave sometime ago,
Brethren, about your preaching slow,
You took, it seems; and thereupon
Could make two Sermons out of one.
Now this Regard, to former Lines
Paid so successfully, inclines

103

To send Advice the second Part:
“Try if you cannot preach by Heart.”

II

Be not alarm'd, as if Regard
To this would prove so very hard.
The first Admonishment you fear'd
Would so turn out, till it appear'd
That Custom only made to seem
So difficult in your Esteem
What, upon Trial, now procures
Your Hearers' Ease, and also yours.

III

Do but consider how the Case
Now stands in fact in ev'ry Place,
All Christendom almost around,
Except on our reformèd Ground.
The greatest Part, untaught to brook
A Preacher's reading from a Book,
Would scarce advance within his reach,
Or then acknowledge him to preach.

IV

Long after preaching first began,
How unconceiv'd a reading Plan!
The rise of which, whatever Date
May be assign'd to it, is late;—

104

From all Antiquity remote
The manuscriptal reading Rote;
No Need, no Reason prompted then
The Pulpit to consult the Pen.

V

However well prepar'd before,
By pond'ring, or by writing o'er
What he should say, still it was said
By him that preach'd,—it was not read.
Could ancient Memory, then, better
Forbear the poring o'er the Letter,
Brethren, than yours? If you'll but try,
That Fact I'll venture to deny.

VI

Moderns, of late, give Proofs enow
(Too many, as it seems to you),
That Matters of religious Kind,
Stor'd up within the thoughtful Mind,
With any Care and Caution stor'd,
Sufficient Utterance afford
To tell an Audience what they think,
Without the Help of Pen and Ink.

VII

How apt to think too, is the Throng,
A Preacher short, a Reader long!

105

Claiming itself to be the Book
That should attract a Pastor's Look.
If you lament a careless Age,
Averse to hear the Pulpit Page,
Speak from within, not from without,
And Heart to Heart will turn about.

VIII

Try it; and if you can't succeed,
'Twill then be right for you to read;
Altho' the Heart, if that's your choice,
Must still accompany the Voice.
And tho' you should succeed, and take
The Hint, you must not merely make
Preaching extempore the View,
But ex Æternitate too.

106

ON CLERGYMEN PREACHING POLITICS.

To R--- L---, Esq.

I

Indeed, Sir Peter, I could wish, I own,
That Parsons would let Politics alone!
Plead, if they will, the customary Plea
For such like Talk, when o'er a Dish of Tea;
But when they teaze us with it from the Pulpit,
I own, Sir Peter, that I cannot gulp it.

107

II

If on their Rules a Justice should intrench
And preach, suppose, a Sermon from the Bench,
Would you not think your Brother Magistrate
Was touch'd a little in his hinder Pate?
Now, which is worse, Sir Peter, on the total,—
The Lay Vagary, or the Sacerdotal?

III

In ancient Times, when Preachers preach'd indeed
Their Sermons, ere the Learnèd learnt to read,
Another Spirit and another Life
Shut the Church Doors against all Party strife.
Since then, how often heard from sacred Rostrums
The lifeless Din of Whig and Tory Nostrums!

IV

'Tis wrong, Sir Peter, I insist upon't;
To common Sense 'tis plainly an Affront.
The Parson leaves the Christian in the Lurch,
Whene'er he brings his Politics to Church.
His Cant, on either Side, if he calls Preaching,
The Man's wrong-headed, and his Brains want Bleaching.

V

Recall the Time from conquering William's Reign,
And guess the Fruits of such a preaching Vein:

108

How oft its Nonsense must have veer'd about,
Just as the Politics were in or out;—
The Pulpit govern'd by no Gospel Data,
But new Success still mending old Errata!

VI

Were I a King (God bless me!) I should hate
My Chaplains meddling with Affairs of State;
Nor would my Subjects, I should think, be fond,
Whenever theirs the Bible went beyond.
How well, methinks, we both should live together,
If these good Folks would keep within their Tether!

THE PLEASURES OF CHESS.

Checkmate, dear Doctor! Well, I do profess,
It is an admirable game, this chess,—
A sweet device; whoever found it out,
He was a clever fellow, without doubt.

109

BONE AND SKIN.

AN EPIGRAM.

110

Bone and Skin,
Two millers thin,
Would starve the town, or near it;—
But be it known
To Skin and Bone,
That Flesh and Blood can't bear it.

111

CONTENTMENT,

OR THE HAPPY WORKMAN'S SONG.

I

I Am a poor Workman as rich as a Jew,—
A strange sort of Tale, but however 'tis true;
Come listen a while, and I'll prove it to you
So as Nobody can deny, &c.

II

I am a poor Workman, you'll easily grant;
And I'm rich as a Jew, for there's nothing I want;

112

I have Meat, Drink, and Cloaths, and am hearty and cant,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

III

I live in a Cottage, and yonder it stands;
And while I can work with these two honest Hands,
I'm as happy as they that have Houses and Lands,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

IV

I keep to my Workmanship all the Day long,
I sing and I whistle, and this is my Song:
“Thank God, That has made me so lusty and strong,”
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

V

I never am greedy of delicate Fare;
If He give me enough, tho' 'tis never so bare,
The more is His Love, and the less is my Care,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

VI

My Clothes on a Working-day looken but lean;
But when I can dress me—on Sundays, I mean,—
Tho' cheap, they are warm, and tho' coarse, they are clean,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

113

VII

Folk cry'n out “hard Times,” but I never regard,
For I ne'er did, nor will set my Heart upo'th' Ward;
So 'tis all one to me, bin they easy or hard,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

VIII

I envy not them that have thousands of Pounds,
That sport o'er the Country with Horses and Hounds;
There's nought but Contentment can keep within bounds,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

IX

I ne'er lose my Time o'er a Pipe, or a Pot,
Nor cower in a Nook like a sluggardly Sot;
But I buy what is wanting with what I have got,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

X

And if I have more than I want for to spend,
I help a poor Neighbour or diligent Friend;
He that gives to the Poor, to the Lord he doth lend,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XI

I grudge not that Gentlefolk dressen so fine;
At their Gold and their Silver I never repine,

114

But I wish all their Guts were as hearty as mine,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XII

With Quarrels o'th' Country, and Matters of State,
With Tories and Whigs, I ne'er puzzle my Pate;
There's some that I love, and there's none that I hate,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XIII

What tho' my Condition be ever so coarse,
I strive to embrace it for better and worse;
And my Heart, I thank God, is as light as my Purse,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

XIV

In short, my Condition, whatever it be,
'Tis God that appoints it, as far as I see;
And I'm sure I can never do better than He,
Which Nobody can deny, &c.

115

A SONG.

[Why, prithee now, what does it signify]

I

Why, prithee now, what does it signify
For to bustle and make such a Rout?
It is Virtue alone that can dignify,
Whether clothèd in Ermine or Clout.
Come, come, and maintain thy Discretion,
Let it act a more generous Part;
For I find, by thy honest Confession,
That the World has too much of thy Heart.

II

Beware, that its fatal Ascendancy
Do not tempt thee to mope and repine;
With an humble and hopeful Dependency
Still await the good Pleasure Divine.
Success in a higher Beatitude
Is the End of what's under the Pole;
A Philosopher takes it with Gratitude,
And believes it is best on the whole.

116

III

The World is a Scene, thou art sensible,
Upon which, if we do but our best,
On a Wisdom That's incomprehensible
We may safely rely for the rest:
Then trust to Its kind Distribution;
And, however Things happen to fall,
Prithee, pluck up a good Resolution
To be cheerful and thankful in all!

117

CARELESS CONTENT.

I

I Am Content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the World for me;
When Fuss and Fret was all my Fare,
It got no ground, as I could see:
So, when away my Caring went,
I counted Cost, and was Content.

II

With more of Thanks, and less of Thought,
I strive to make my Matters meet;
To seek, what ancient Sages sought,
Physic and Food in sour and sweet;
To take what passes in good Part,
And keep the Hiccups from the Heart.

118

III

With good and gentle-humour'd Hearts
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the Subject be that starts;
But if I get among the Glum,
I hold my Tongue to tell the Troth,
And keep my Breath to cool my Broth.

IV

For Chance or Change, of Peace or Pain,
For Fortune's Favour, or her Frown,
For Lack or Glut, for Loss or Gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down;
But swing what Way the Ship shall swim,
Or tack about, with equal Trim.

V

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the Turn of ev'ry Tide;
If simple Sense will not succeed,
I make no Bustling, but abide:
For shining Wealth, or scaring Woe,
I force no Friend, I fear no Foe.

119

VI

Of Ups and Downs, of Ins and Outs,
Of “they're i' th' wrong,” and “we're i' th' right,”
I shun the Rancours, and the Routs;
And, wishing well to every Wight,
Whatever Turn the Matter takes,
I deem it all but Ducks and Drakes.

VII

With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the Folks should flout me, faint;
If wonted Welcome be withdrawn,
I cook no Kind of a Complaint,—
With none dispos'd to disagree;
But like them best, who best like me.

VIII

Not that I rate myself the Rule
How all my Betters should behave;
But Fame shall find me no Man's Fool,
Nor to a Set of Men a Slave;
I love a Friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a Hank.

IX

Fond of a true and trusty Tie,
I never loose where'er I link;

120

Tho', if a Bus'ness budges by,
I talk thereon just as I think:
My Word, my Work, my Heart, my Hand,
Still on a Side together stand.

X

If Names or Notions make a noise,
Whatever Hap the Question hath,
The Point impartially I poise,
And read or write, but without Wrath:
For, should I burn or break my Brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my Pains?

XI

I love my Neighbour as myself,
Myself like him too, by his Leave;
Nor to his Pleasure, Pow'r or Pelf,
Come I to crouch, as I conceive;
Dame Nature doubtless has design'd
A Man the Monarch of his Mind.

XII

Now taste and try this Temper, Sirs,
Mood it and brood it in your Breast;
Or, if ye ween, for worldly stirs
That Man does right to mar his Rest,
Let me be deft and debonair:
I am Content, I do not care.

121

A DIALOGUE ON CONTENTMENT.

J.
What Ills, dear Phebe, would it not prevent,
To learn this one short lesson: “Be content!”
No very hard Prescription, in effect,
This same Content; and yet, thro' its neglect,
What mighty Evils do “we human Elves,”
As Prior calls us, bring upon ourselves!
Evils that Nature never meant us for,
The Vacuums that she really does abhor.
Of all the Ways of judging Things amiss,
No Instance shows our Weakness more than this:
That Men on Earth won't set their Hearts at rest,
When God in Heaven does all Things for the best.
What strange, absurd Perverseness!

122

P.
Hold, good Brother!
Don't put yourself, I pray, in such a Pother;
“'Tis a fine Thing to be Content;” why, true;
'Tis just and right, we know as well as you;
And yet, to be so, after all this Rout,
Sometimes has puzzled you yourself, I doubt.
Folks in the Vigour of their Health and Strength
May rail at Discontent in Words at length,
Who yet, when disappointed of their Wishes,
Will put you off with surly “Humphs” and “Pishes.”
“Let's be content and easy!”—gen'ral Stuff!
Your happy People are content enough.
If you would reason to the Purpose, show
How they who are unhappy may be so;
How they who are in Sickness, Want, or Pain,
May get their Health, Estate, and Ease again;
How they—

J.
Nay, Phebe, don't go on so fast;
Your just Rebuke now suits yourself at last.
Methinks you wander widely from the Fact:
'Tis not how you or I or others act
That we are talking of, but how we should.
A Rule, tho' ill observ'd, may still be good.
Nor did I say that a contented Will
Would hinder all, but many Sorts of Ill.
This it will do, and, give me Leave to say,
Much lessen such as it can't take away.
You said your-self, 'twas just; I think you did—

123

P.
Yes, yes; I don't deny it—

J.
Sense forbid
That e'er you should! Its Practice then, perchance,
Is monstrous hard in many a Circumstance?

P.
“Monstrous?” why Monstrous? Let that Word be barr'd,
And I shan't stick to say, I think it “hard,”
And very hard; nay, I could almost add
That, in some Cases, 'tis not to be had.

J.
“Not to be had?” Content? It costs'us naught;
'Tis purchas'd only with a little Thought;
We need not fetch it from a distant Clime,
It may be found at Home at any Time;
Our very Cares contribute to its Growth,
It knows no Check but voluntary Sloth;
None but ourselves can rob us of its Fruit;
It finds, whene'er we use it, fresh Recruit;
The more we gather, still the more it thrives,
Fresh as our Hopes and lasting as our Lives:
“Not to be had” is wrong;—but, I forgot,
You did not say quite absolutely “not,”
But could “almost” have said so; the “almost”
Perhaps was meant against a florid Boast
Of such Content as, when a Trial came
Severe enough, would hardly own its Name.

P.
Perhaps it was; and, now your Fire is spent,
You can reflect, I find, that this Content,
Which you are fond of celebrating so,
May, now and then, be difficult to show:
So difficult that—

124

J.
Hold a bit, or ten
To one the Chance, that I shall fire again!
“'Tis just and right,” you own as well as me.
Now, for my Part, I rather choose to see
The Easiness of what is just and right,
Which makes it more encouraging to Sight,
Than scarecrow Hardships that almost declare
Content an un-come-at-able Affair,
And consequently tempt one to distrust
For Difficulties what is right and just.
Thus I object to Hardship; if you please,
Show for what Reason you object to Ease.

P.
Why, for this Reason:—tho' it should be true
That what is just and right, is easy too,
Such Ease is nothing of a talking kind,
But of right Will, that likes to be resign'd,
And cherishes a Grace which, with regard
To the unpractis'd, may sometimes be hard.
You treat Content as if it were a Weed
Of neither Cost nor Culture; when indeed
It is as fine a Flower that can be found
Within the Mind's best cultivated Ground;
Where, like a Seed, it must have light and Air
To help its Growth, according to the Care
That Owners take, whose philosophic Skill
Will much depend upon the Weather still.
Good should not make them careless, nor should bad
Discourage—

125

J.
Right, provided it be had.
I'll not dispute, but own, what you have said
Has hit the Nail, directly, on the Head:
Easy or hard, all Pains within our Pow'r
Are well bestow'd on such a charming Flow'r.

126

ON PATIENCE.

Written at the Request of a Friend.

PART I.

I

“A verse on Patience?” Yes; but then prepare
Your Mind, Friend H---c---t, with a reading Share;
Or else 'twill give you rather less than more,
To hear it mention'd, than you had before:
If mine to write, remember, 'tis your Task
To bear the Lines which you are pleas'd to ask.

II

Patience the Theme.—A blessèd Inmate this,
The nursing Parent of our Bosom Bliss:

127

Abroad for Bliss she bids us not to roam,
But cultivate is real Fund at Home,—
A noble Treasure, when the patient Soul
Sits in the Centre, and surveys the whole.

III

The bustling World, to fetch her out from thence,
Will urge the various, plausible Pretence;
Will praise Perfections of a grander Name,
Sound great Exploíts, and call her out to Fame;
Amuse and flatter, till the Soul, too prone
To Self-activity, deserts her Throne.

IV

Be on your Guard; the Bus'ness of a Man
Is, to be sure, to do what good he can,—
But first at Home: let Patience rule within,
Where Charity, you know, must first begin;
Not money'd Love is fondly understood,
But calm, sedate Propensity to Good.

V

The genuine Product of the Virtue, Friend,
Which you oblige me here to recommend;
The Trial this of all the rest beside,
For, without Patience, they are all but Pride;
A strong Ambition shines within its Sphere,
But proves its Weakness when it cannot bear.

128

VI

There lies the Test; bring ev'ry thing to that;
It shows us plainly what we would be at:
Of gen'rous Actions we may count the Sum,
But scarce the Worth, till Disappointments come.
Men oft are then most gen'rously absurd:
Their own good Actions have their own bad Word.

VII

Impatience hates Ingratitude, forsooth!
Why? It discovers an ungrateful Truth:
That, having done for Interest or Fame
Such and such doings, she has lost her Aim;
While thankless People, really in her Debt,
Have all got theirs, and put her in a Fret.

VIII

Possest of Patience, a right humble Mind
At all Events is totally resign'd;
Does good for sake of good, not for th' Event,
Leaves that to Heav'n, and keeps to its Content;
Good to be done or, to be suffer'd, Ill,
It acts, it bears, with meek, submissive Will.

129

IX

“Enough, enough! Now tell me, if you please,
“How is it to be had, this mental Ease?”
God knows, I do not, how it is acquir'd;
But this I know: if heartily desir'd,
We shall be thankful for the Donor's Leave
To ask, to hope, and wait till we receive.

PART II.

I

“Virtues,” you say, “by Patience must be tried;
“If that be wanting, they are all but Pride.”
“Of Rule so strict I want to have a Clue.”
Well, if you'll have the same Indulgence too,
And take a fresh Compliance in good Part,
I'll do the best I can, with all my Heart.

II

Pride is the grand Distemper of the Mind,
The Source of ev'ry Vice of ev'ry Kind.
That Love of self, wherein its Essence lies,
Gives Birth to vicious Tempers, and supplies;
We coin a world of Names for them, but still,
All comes to Fondness for our own dear Will.

130

III

We see, by Facts, upon the triple Stage
Of present Life, Youth, Manhood, and old Age,
How, to be pleas'd, be honour'd, and be rich,—
These three Conditions commonly bewitch.
From young to old, if human Faults you weigh,
'Tis selfish Pride that grows from green so grey.

IV

Pride is, indeed, a more accustom'd Name
For quest of Grandeur, Eminence, or Fame;
But that of Pleasure, that of Gold betrays
What inward Principle it is that sways;
The Rake's young Dotage, and the Miser's old,
One same enslaving Love to Self unfold.

V

If Pride be thus the Fountain of all Vice;
Whence must we say that Virtue has its rise
But from Humility? and what the sure
And certain sign, that even this is pure?
For Pride itself will in its Dress appear,
When nothing touches that same Self too near.

131

VI

But when provok'd, and, say, unjustly too,
Then Pride disrobes; then, what a huge ado!
Then, who can blame the Passion of a Pride,
That has got Reason, Reason of its Side?
“He's in the wrong, and I am in the right;—
Resentment, come! Humility, good Night!”

VII

Now, the Criterion, I apprehend,
On which, if any, one may best depend,
Is Patience; is the “Bear” and the “Forbear,”
To which the truly virtuous adhere;
Resolv'd to suffer, without Pro and Con,
A thousand Evils rather than do one.

VIII

Not to have Patience, and yet not be proud,
Is Contradiction not to be allow'd:
All Eyes are open to so plain a Cheat,
But of the blinded by the Self-deceit;
Who, with a like Consistency, may tell
That nothing ails them, tho' they are not well.

IX

Strict is the Rule, but, notwithstanding, true,
However I fall short of it, or you:

132

Best to increase our Stock, if it be small,
By dealing in it with our Neighbours all;
And then, who knows but we shall, in the End,
Learn to have Patience with ourselves,—and mend?

133

A HINT TO A YOUNG PERSON,

For his better Improvement by Reading or Conversation.

I

In reading Authors, when you find
Bright Passages that strike your Mind,
And which perhaps you may have Reason
To think on at another Season:
Be not contented with the Sight,
But take them down in Black and White.
Such a Respect is wisely shown
That makes another's Sense one's own.

II

When you're asleep upon your Bed,
A Thought may come into your Head,
Which may be of good use, if taken
Due Notice of when you're awaken.

134

Of midnight Thoughts to take no heed
Betrays a sleepy Soul indeed;
It is but dreaming in the Day
To throw our nightly Hours away.

III

In Conversation, when you meet
With Persons cheerful and discreet,
That speak or quote, in Prose or Rime,
Things or facetious or sublime,
Observe what passes, and anon,
When you come home, think thereupon;
Write what occurs, forget it not;
A good Thing sav'd's a good Thing got.

IV

Let no remarkable Event
Pass with a gaping Wonderment,—
A Fool's device: “Lord, who would think!”—
Commit it safe to Pen and Ink,
Whate'er deserves Attention now;
For, when 'tis pass'd, you know not how,
Too late you'll find it, to your Cost,
So much of human Life is lost.

V

Were it not for the written Letter,
Pray, what were living Men the better
For all the Labours of the Dead,
For all that Socrates e'er said?

135

The Morals brought from Heav'n to Men
He would have carried back again:
'Tis owing to his Short-hand Youth
That Socrates does now speak Truth.

136

ABSENT FRIENDS.

137

What! be a Niger? No, my absent friend!
Whoever talks against him, I'll defend.

POWDER WITHOUT SHOT.

For sixty-five if sixty-eight were laid,
A compliment to Bentley would be paid;
Like to a Prince, to celebrate whose birth
The rusty cannons are stuck deep in earth;
Well-primed, they fire; give ev'ry year a stroke
And so discharge their powder and their smoke.

138

EPILOGUE TO HURLOTHRUMBO,

OR, THE SUPERNATURAL.

143

Enter Hurlothrumbo.
Ladies and Gentlemen, my Lord of Flame
Has sent me here to thank you in his Name.

144

Proud of your Smiles, he's mounted many a Story
Above the tip-top Pinnacle of Glory:
Thence he defies the Sons of Clay, the Critics,—
“Fellows,” says he, “that are mere Paralytics,
With Judgments lame and Intellects that halt,
Because a Man outruns them, they find fault.”
He is indeed, to speak my poor Opinion,
Out of the reach of critical Dominion.
[Enter Critic.
Adso! here's one of 'em.
Cr.
A strange odd Play, Sir;

[Enter Author; pushes Hurlothrumbo aside.
Au.
Let me come to him! Pray, what's that you say, Sir?

Cr.
I say, Sir, Rules are not observ'd here—

Au.
Rules,
Like Clocks and Watches, were all made for Fools.
Rules make a Play? that is—

Cr.
What, Mr. Singer?

Au.
As if a Knife and Fork should make a Finger.

Cr.
Pray, Sir, which is the Hero of your Play?

Au.
Hero? Why, they're all Heroes in their Way.

145

Cr.
But, here's no Plot!—or none that's understood.

Au.
There's a Rebellion, tho'; and that's as good.

Cr.
No Spirit, nor Genius in't.

Au.
Why, didn't here
A SPIRIT and a GENIUS both appear?

Cr.
Poh! 'tis all Stuff and Nonsense—

Au.
Lack-a-day!
Why, that's the very Essence of a Play.
Your Old House, New House, Opera, and Ball,—
'Tis NONSENSE, Critic, that supports'em all,
As you yourselves ingeniously have shown,
Whilst on their Nonsense you have built your own.

Cr.
Here wants—

Au.
Wants what? Why now, for all your canting,
What one Ingredient of a Play is wanting?
Music, Love, War, Death, Madness without Sham,
Done to the Life, by Persons of the Dram.;
Scenes and Machines, descending and arising;
Thunder and Lightning;—ev'rything surprising!

Cr.
Play, Farce, or Opera is't?

146

Au.
No matter whether;
'Tis a Rehearsal of 'em all together.
But come, Sir, come! Troop off, old Blundermonger,
And interrupt the Epilogue no longer!
[Author drives the Critic off the Stage.
Hurlo, proceed!

Hurlo.
Troth! he says true enough;
The Stage has given Rise to wretched Stuff.
Critic or Player, a Dennis or a Cibber,
Vie only which shall make it go down glibber.
A thousand murd'rous Ways they cast about
To stifle it; but, Murder-like, 'twill out.
Our Author fairly, without so much Fuss,
Shows it in puris Naturalibus;
Pursues the Point beyond its highest Height;
Then bids his Men of Fire and Ladies bright
Mark how it looks, when it is out of sight.
So true a Stage, so fair a Play for Laughter,
There never was before, nor ever will come after,—
Never, no never! Not while vital Breath
Defends ye from that long-liv'd mortal, Death.

147

“Death!”—Something hangs on my prophetic Tongue;
I'll give it Utterance, be it right or wrong:
“Handel himself shall yield to Hurlothrumbo,
And Bononcini too shall cry ‘Succumbo;’”—
That's, if the Ladies condescend to Smile:
Their Looks make Sense or Nonsense in our Isle.

151

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

A TALE.

152

I.

“Tale?” That will raise the Question, I suppose:
“What can the Meaning be of the three black Crows?”
It is a London Story, you must know,
And happen'd, as they say, some Time ago.
The Meaning of it Custom would suppress,
Till at the End;—but come, nevertheless,
Tho' it may vary from the Use of old
To tell the Moral till the Tale be told,
We'll give a Hint, for once, how to apply
The Meaning, first—and hang the Tale thereby.

II.

People full oft are put into a Pother,
For want of understanding one another;
And strange, amusing Stories creep about,
That come to Nothing, if you trace them out;
Lies of the Day, or Month perhaps, or Year,
That serve their Purpose and then disappear;
From which, meanwhile, Disputes of ev'ry Size,
That is to say, Misunderstandings, rise,
The Springs of Ill, from Bick'ring up to Battle,
From Wars and Tumults down to Tittle-Tattle:
Such as, for Instance (for we need not roam
Far off to find them, but come nearer Home)
Such as befall by sudden misdivining
On Cuts, on Coals, on Boxes, and on Signing,

153

Or (may good Sense avert such hasty Ills
From this Foundation, this Assembly),—Mills!
It may, at least it should, correct a Zeal
That hurts the public or the private Weal,
By eager giving of too rash Assent,
To note, how Meanings that were never meant
Will fly about, like so many black Crows,
Of that same Breed of which the Story goes.

III.

Two honest Tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the Hand;
“Hark-ye,” said he, “'tis an odd Story this
About the Crows!”—“I don't know what it is,”
Replied his Friend.—“No? I'm surprised at that;
Where I come from it is the common Chat.
But you shall hear:—an odd Affair indeed!
And, that it happen'd, they are All agreed.
Not to detain you from a Thing so strange,
A Gentlemen, that lives not far from 'Change,
This Week, in short, as all the Alley knows,
Taking a Puke, has thrown up Three black Crows.”

IV.

“Impossible!” “Nay, but it's really true;
I have it from good Hands, and so may You.”

154

“From whose, I pray?”—So, having nam'd the Man,
Straight to enquire his curious Comrade ran.
“Sir, did you tell”—relating the Affair—
“Yes, Sir, I did; and if it's worth your Care,
Ask Mr. Such a-one, he told it me;—
But, by the Bye, 'twas Two black Crows, not Three.”

V.

Resolv'd to trace so wond'rous an Event,
Whip, to the third the Virtuoso went.
“Sir”—and so forth;—“Why yes; the Thing is Fact,
Tho' in regard to Number not exact:
It was not Two black Crows, 'twas only One:
The Truth of that you may depend upon.
The Gentleman himself told me the Case.”
“Where may I find him?”—“Why, in such a Place.”

VI.

Away goes he, and having found him out:
“Sir, be so good as to resolve a Doubt.”
Then to his last Informant he referr'd,
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard;
“Did you, Sir, throw up a black Crow?”—“Not I!”
“Bless me, how People propagate a Lie!
Black Crows have been thrown up, Three, Two and One;
And here, I find, all comes at last to None!

155

Did you say Nothing of a Crow at all?”—
“Crow? Crow?—perhaps I might, now I recall
The Matter over.”—“And, pray Sir, what was't?”—
“Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my Neighbour so,
Something that was—as black, Sir, as a Crow.”

156

VERSES On the Danger and Impropriety of Hastily Attaching Wrong Ideas to Words or Epithets.

I.

'Tis not to tell what various Mischief springs
From wrong Ideas fix'd to Words or Things,
When Men of hasty and impatient Thought
Will not examine Matters, as they ought,
But snatch the first Appearance, nor suspect,
What is so oft the Case, their own Defect.

II.

Defect—which, if occasion offers, makes
The most absurd, ridiculous Mistakes,

157

To say no worse;—for Evils to recite
Of deeper kind is not our Task to-night,
But just to versify a case or two
That grave Divines relate, and, when they do,
Justly remark that, in effect, the prone
To hasty Judgment make the case their own.

III.

When Martin Luther first grew into fame,
His Followers obtain'd a double Name:
Some call'd 'em Martinists, and some again
Express'd by Lutherans the self-same Men.
Meaning the same, you see, and same the Ground;
But mark the force of Diff'rence in the Sound.

IV.

Two zealous Proselytes to his Reform,
Which then had rais'd an universal Storm,
Meeting by chance upon a publick Walk,
Soon made Religion Subject of their talk;
Its low Condition both dispos'd to own,
And how corrupt the Church of Rome was grown.
In this preliminary Point indeed,
Tho' Strangers to each other, they agreed;
But, as the Times had bred some other Chiefs,
Who undertook to cure the common Griefs,
They were oblig'd, by further hints, to find,
If in their choice they both were of a Mind.
After some winding of their Words about,
To seek this secondary Problem out,

158

“I am,” declar'd the bolder of the two,
“A Martinist, and so, I hope, are you.”
“No,” said the other, growing somewhat hot,
“But I'll assure you, Sir, that I am not;
I am a Lutheran; and, live or die,
Shall not be any thing beside, not I.”
“If not a Martinist,” his Friend replied,
“Truly, I care not what you are beside.”
Thus Fray began, which, Critics may suppose,
But for Spectators would have come to Blows;
And so they parted, Matters half discuss'd,
All in a huff, with mutual disgust.

V.

The prose Account of Dr. More, I think,
Relates the Story of two Clowns in Drink.
The Verse has cloth'd it in a different strain;
But, either way, the gentle Hint is plain,
That 'tis a foolish Bus'ness to commence
Dispute on Words, without regard to Sense.

VI.

Such was the case of these two Partizans;
There is another of a single Man's
Still more absurd, if possible, than this
Must I go on, and tell it you? (Chorus:)
“Yes, Yes.”

VII.

A certain Artist, I forget his Name,
Had got for making Spectacles a Fame,
Or “Helps to read,”—as, when they first were sold,
Was writ, upon his glaring Sign, in Gold;

159

And, for all Uses to be had from Glass,
His were allow'd by Readers to surpass.
There came a Man into his Shop one Day:
“Are you the Spectacle-Contriver, pray?”
“Yes, Sir,” said he; “I can, in that Affair,
Contrive to please you, if you want a Pair.”
“Can you? pray, do then!” So at first he chose
To place a youngish Pair upon his Nose,
And Book produc'd, to see how they would fit;
Ask'd how he lik'd 'em. “Like 'em? Not a bit.”
“Then, Sir, I fancy, if you please to try,
These in my Hand will better suit your Eye.”
“No, but they don't.” Well, come Sir, if you please,
Here is another Sort, we'll e'en try these;
Still somewhat more they magnify the Letter:
Now, Sir?” “Why, now—I'm not a bit the better.”
“No? Here, take these that magnify still more;
How do they fit?” “Like all the rest before.”

VIII.

In short, they tried a whole Assortment thro',
But all in vain; for none of them would do.
The Operator, much surpris'd to find
So odd a Cast, thought, sure the Man is Blind!
“What sort of eyes can you have got?” said he.
“Why, very good ones, Friend, as you may see.”
“Yes, I perceive the clearness of the Ball;
Pray, let me ask you: can you read at all?”
“No, you great Blockhead; if I could, what need
Of paying you for any Helps to Read?”
And so he left the Maker in a Heat,
Resolv'd to post him for an arrant Cheat.

160

THE APE AND THE FOX.

A FABLE.

I

Old Æsop so famous was certainiy right
In the Way that he took to instruct and delight,
By giving to Creatures, Beasts, Fishes, and Birds,
Nay to Things, tho' inanimate, Language and Words.
He engag'd by his Fables th' Attention of Youth,
And forc'd even Fiction to tell them the Truth;

II

Not so quickly forgot, as the Mind is more able
To retain a true Hint in the shape of a Fable;
And Allusions to Nature insensibly raise
The Reflection suggested by fabular Phrase,

161

That affords less exception for Cavil to find,
While the Moral more gently slides into the Mind.

III

Thus, to hint that a Kingdom will flourish the most,
Where the Men in high Station are fit for their Post,
And disgraces attend both on Person and Station,
If Regard be not had to due Qualification,
He invented, they tell us, this Fable of old,
Which the Place I am in now requires to be told.

IV

The Beasts, on a Time, when the Lion was dead,
Met together in Council to choose them a Head;
And, to give to their new Constitution a Shape
Most like to the human, they fix'd on the Ape;
They crown'd, and proclaim'd him by Parliament Plan,
And never was Monkey so like to a Man.

V

The Fox, being fam'd for his Cunning and Wit,
Was propos'd to their Choicc, but they did not think fit
To elect such a Sharper, lest, watching his Hour,
He should cunningly creep into absolute Pow'r;
No fear of King Ape, or of being so rid:
He would mind his Diversion, and do as they did.

162

VI

Sly Reynard, on this, was resolv'd to expose
Poor Pug, whom the Senate so formally chose;
And having observ'd in his Rambles a Gin
Where a delicate Morsel was nicely hung in,
He let the King know what a Prize he had found,
And the Waste, where it lay, was his Majesty's Ground.

VII

“Show me where,” said the Ape; so the Treasure was shown,
Which he seiz'd with Paw Royal, to make it his own;
But the Gin, at same time, was dispos'd to resist,
And clapping together caught Pug by the Wrist,
Who perceiv'd, by his Fingers laid fast in the Stocks,
What a Trick had been play'd by his Subject the Fox.

VIII

“Thou Traitor!” said he, “but I'll make thee anon
An Example of Vengeance”; and so he went on,
With a Rage most Monarchical. Reynard, who ey'd
The Success of his Scheme, gave a Sigh, and reply'd:
“Well, adieu, Royal Sir! 'twas a cruel Mishap,
That your Majesty's Grace did not understand Trap!”

163

DULCES ANTE OMNIA MUSÆ.

I

Of all Companions that a Man can choose,
Methinks the sweetest is an honest Muse,
Ready, the subject proper and the Time,
To cheer Occasion with harmonic Rime.
Of all the Muses (for they tell of nine),
Melpomene, sweet flowing Mel., be mine!

164

II

Her's the judicious and the friendly Part
To clear the Head, to animate the Heart;
Their kindred Forces, tempering, to unite;
Grave to instruct, and witty to delight;
With Judgment cool, with Passions rightly warm,
She gives the Strength to Numbers and the Charm.

III

Her Lines, whatever the Occasion be,
Flow without forcing, natural and free:
No stiff'ning of 'em with poetic Starch,
Whether her Bard is to be grave or arch:
Of diff'rent Topics which the Times produce
She prompts the fittest for the present Use

IV

She decks, when call'd, when honour'd to attend
On sacred Piety, her best lov'd Friend,
Decks with a Grace, and arms with a Defence,
Religion, Virtue, Morals, and good Sense;
Whatever tends to better human Mind
Sets Mel. at Work, a Friend to all Mankind.

V

A Foe, but void of any Rancour, Foe
To all the noisy Bustlings here below;

165

To all Contention, Clamour, and Debate
That plagues a Constitution, Church, or State,
That plagues a Man's ownself, or makes him will
His other Self, his Neighbour, any Ill.

VI

Life, as Mel. thinks, a short, uncertain Lease,
Demands the fruits of Friendship, and of Peace.
“Arms and the Man” her sister Clio sings;
To her she leaves your Heroes and your Kings,
To sound the Present, or to act the Past,
And tread the Stage in Buskin and Bombast.

VII

With Nymphs and Swains fond Mel. would strew the Fields,
With Flocks and Herds, instead of Spears and Shields;
Recall the Scenes that blest a golden Age
Ere mutual Love gave way to martial Rage;
And Bards, high soaring above simpler Phrase,
To genuine Light preferr'd the glaring Blaze.

VIII

She scorns alike ignobly to rehearse
The spiteful Satire, or the venal Verse;
Free in her Praise, and in her Censure too,
But Merit, but Amendment, is her view;

166

A rising worth still higher to exalt,
Or save a Culprit from a future Fault.

IX

No sour, pedantical, abusive Rage,
No vicious Rant defiles her freest Page;
No vile, indecent Sally, or profane,
To pleasure Fools, or give the Wise a Pain;
Her Mirth is aim'd to mend us, if we heed,
And what the chastest of her Sex may read.

X

She looks on various Empires, various Men,
As all one Tribe, when she directs the Pen;
She loves the Briton, and she loves the Gaul,
Swede, Russ, or Turk,—she wishes well to all:
They all are Men, all Sons of the same Sire,
And must be all belov'd, if Mel. inspire.

XI

It would rejoice her Votaries to see
All Europe, Asia, Africa agree;
“But the New World, New-England's dire Alarms?
“Should not Melpomene now sing to Arms?”—
No, she must ever wish all War to cease;
While Folks are fighting, she must hold her Peace;

XII

Content to hope that, what Events are due
Will bless New-England, and old England too;

167

Friend to fair Traders and free Navigation,
And Friend to Spain, but Foe to Depredation;
And Friend to France, but let heroic Clio
Demolish French Encroachments at Ohio.

XIII

Safe from all foreign, and domestic Foes
Be all your Liberties in Verse or Prose!
Be safe Abroad your Colonies, your Trade,
From Guarda-costas, and from Gasconade:
At Home your Lives, your Acres and your Bags;
And Plots against ye vanish all to Rags!

XIV

But much of Safety, let concluding Line
Observe, depends upon yourselves;—in fine,
Home, or Abroad, the World is but a School,
Where all Things roll to teach one central Rule:
That is: “If you would prosper and do well,
Love one another, and remember Mel.”

168

THE COUNTRY FELLOWS AND THE ASS.

A FABLE.

I

A Country Fellow and his Son, they tell
In modern Fables, had an Ass to sell.
For this intent they turn'd it out to play,
And fed so well, that by the destin'd Day

169

They brought the Creature into sleek Repair,
And drove it gently to a neighb'ring Fair.

II

As they were jogging on, a rural Class
Was heard to say: “Look! Look there, at that Ass
And those two Blockheads trudging on each Side,
That have not, either of 'em, Sense to ride!
Asses all Three!”—And thus the Country Folks
On Man and Boy began to cut their Jokes.

III

Th' old Fellow minded nothing that they said,
But ev'ry Word stuck in the young one's Head;
And thus began their Comment thereupon:
“Ne'er heed 'em Lad!” “Nay, Faither, do get on!”
“Not I, indeed!”—“Why then, let me, I pray!”
“Well, do; and see what prating Tongues will say!”

IV

The Boy was mounted; and they had not got
Much further on, before another Knot,
Just as the Ass was pacing by, pad, pad,
Cried: “O! that lazy Looby of a Lad!

170

How unconcernedly the gaping Brute
Lets the poor aged Fellow walk afoot!”

V

Down came the Son on hearing this Account,
And begg'd and pray'd, and made his Father mount;
Till a third Party, on a further Stretch,
“See! See,” exclaim'd, “that old hard-hearted Wretch!
How like a Justice there he sits, or Squire,
While the poor Lad keeps wading thro' the Mire!”

VI

“Stop!” cried the Lad, still deeper vexed in Mind,
“Stop, Father, stop! let me get on behind!”
Thus done, they thought they certainly should please,
Escape Reproaches, and be both at Ease;
For, having tried each practicable Way,
What could be left for Jokers now to say?

VII

Still disappointed by succeeding Tone:
“Hark ye, you Fellows! Is that Ass your own?
Get off, for Shame, or one of you at least!
You both deserve to carry the poor Beaft,
Ready to drop down dead upon the Road,
With such an huge, unconscionable Load!”

VIII

On this, they both dismounted and, some say,
Contriv'd to carry, like a Truss of Hay,

171

The Ass between 'em.—Prints, they add, are seen
With Man and Lad, and slinging Ass between;
Others omit that Fancy in the Print,
As over-straining an ingenious Hint.

IX

The Copy that we follow says: the Man
Rubb'd down the Ass, and took to his first Plan;
Walk'd to the Fair, and sold him; got his Price,
And gave his Son this pertinent Advice:
“Let Talkers talk; stick thou to what is best:
To think of pleasing all—is all a Jest.”

172

“IN NOVA FERT ANIMUS MUTATAS DICERE FORMAS CORPORA.”

—Ov. Metam., i. 1–2.

Spoken on the Same Occasion.

I.

Pythagoras, an ancient Sage, opin'd
That Form, and Shape were Indexes of Mind;
And Minds of Men, when they departed hence,
Would all be form'd according to this Sense;
Some Animal, or human Shape again,
Would shew the Minds of all the former Men.

II.

Let us adopt this Transmigration-plan,
And mark, how Animal exhibits Man.
Tyrants, for instance, (to begin with those
Who make the greatest noise, the greatest woes)
Of their Dominion Lions are the Key,
That Reign in Deserts now, and hunt their Prey.

173

Sometimes, dethron'd and brought upon a Stage,
Or coop'd, like Bajazet, within a Cage,
For Six-pence, safe from all tyrannic harms,
One may see Kings, perhaps, at the King's Arms;
See savage Monarchs, who had shown before
The tusky Temper of the wildest Boar,
Vested in proper Shape, when they are dead,
Reviv'd, and caught, and shown at the Boar's Head.

III.

In some tam'd Elephant our Eyes may scan
The once great, rich, o'ergrown, half-reas'ning Man.
My Lord had Sense to wind into his Maw
All within reach, that lay within the Law;
What would have fed a thousand Mouths was sunk,
To fill his own, by hugeous length of Trunk;
He grew to monstrous Grandeur, liv'd a Show,
And Stones high rais'd told where he was laid low:

174

By Transmigration it appears, at least,
That such great Man is really a great Beast.

IV.

From Animals that once were Men, to pass
To Men of now almost ambiguous Class:
Players, and Harlequins, and Pantomimes,
Who sell their Shapes to mimick Men and Times,
With all the servile, second-handed Tribe
Of Imitators, endless to describe,—
In their own Figures, when they come to range,
With small Transition into Monkeys change:
For now Men-Monkeys have not in their view
What should be done by Men, but what they do.

V.

Of Tempers, by inferior Forms express'd,
And seen for nothing, something may be guess'd.
When the sly Fox ensnares the silly Geese,
Who does not see that Mind is of a piece
With former Lawyers, who devour'd by far
The sillier Clients, drawn into the Bar?

175

VI.

“Why not Physicians?” hear the Lawyer say;
“Are not they too as wily in their way?”
Why, yes, dear Barrister; but then they own
The Shapes in which their cunning Arts are shown:
Serpents confess, around the Rod entwin'd,
Wily or wise the Æsculapian kind.

VII.

“Why not Divines?” the Doctor may object;
“They have Devourers, too, in ev'ry Sect.”
True; but if one devour, there is for him
A Transmigration more upon the grim:
In human Shape when he has spent his Years,
Stript of Sheep's Clothing, real Wolf appears.

VIII.

Plain in four-footed Animals, let's try
Instance that first occurs in such as fly.
The Parrot shews by its unmeaning prate
Full many a Talker's metamorphos'd Fate;
Whose Tongue outstrips the Clapper of a Mill,
And still keeps saying the same nothing still.

176

As full the City, and as full the Court,
As India's Woods with Creatures of this sort.
If rightly the gay-feather'd Bird foretells
The future Shape of eloquenter Belles
Or Beaux, transmigrated, the human Dolls
Will talk, and shine caress'd in “pretty Polls.”

IX.

Belles you may see pursue a Butterfly
With painted Wings, that flutter in the Sky
And, sparkling, to the Solar Rays unfold
Red mix'd with purple, green with shining Gold.
Nor wonder at the fond Pursuit; for know
That this same Butterfly was once a Beau
And, dress'd according to the newest Whim,
Ran after them, as they run after him.

X.

Footed or flying, all decipher Men;—
Enough to add one other Instance, then:
One from a Courtier, a creeping Thing;
He takes new Colours, as there comes new King;
Lives upon airy Promises, and dies;
His Transmigration can be no surprise:

177

Chameleon-shape by that he comes to share,
Still changes Colours, and still feeds on Air.

XI.

By his ingenious Fiction, in the End,
What could the wise Pythagoras intend?
Too wise a Man not to intend a Clue
To change, hereafter, literally true.
The Solar System of our boasted Age
Was known of old to this enlightned Sage;
So might his Thoughts on Man's immortal Soul,
Howe'er express'd, be right upon the whole:
He meant, one need not scruple to affirm,
This real Truth by Transmigration Term.

XII.

Our Tempers here must point to the degree
In which hereafter we design to be.
From Vice in Minds, undoubtedly, will grow
More ugly Shapes than any here below;
But sacred Virtue, Piety, and Love—
What beauteous Forms will they produce above!

178

VERSES Intended to have been Spoken at the Breaking-up of the Free Grammar School in Manchester, in the year 1748,

when Lauder's charge of Plagiarism upon Milton engaged the Public Attention.

184

THE MASTER'S SPEECH.

I

Our worthy Founder, Gentlemen, this Day
Orders the Youth an Hour's poetic Play,—
Me, on its annual Return, to choose
One single Subject for their various Muse,
That you may see how Fancy will create
Her diff'rent Image in each Youngster's Pate.

II

Now, since our Milton, a renownèd Name,
Had been attack'd for stealing into Fame;
I told 'em: “Lads, now be upon your Guard;
Exert yourselves, and save your famous Bard!
He's call'd a Plagiary: 'tis your's to show
The vain Reproach, and silence Milton's Foe.

185

III

“The Point,” said I, “at which ye now take Aim,
Remember, as ye rime, is Milton's Fame,—
Fame as a Poet only, as attack'd
For plund'ring Verses. Ne'er contest the Fact;
Defend your Bard, tho' granted; and confine
To three times six, at most, your eager Line.”

IV

Then lend a fav'ring Ear, whilst they rehearse
Short and almost extemporary Verse;
A Thought work'd up, that came into the Mind,
With Rimes the first and fittest they could find.
Such was their Task. The Boys have done their best;
Take what you like, Sirs; and excuse the rest.

FIRST LAD.

I

Milton pursu'd, in Numbers more sublime,
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rime.

186

'Tis said: “The Bard did but pretend to soar;
For such and such attempted them before.”

II

'Tis now an Age ago since Milton writ:
The rest are sunk into Oblivion's Pit;
A Critic diving to their Wrecks, perhaps,
Has, now and then, brought up some loosen'd Scraps.

III

We'll not dispute the Value of them now,
But say one Thing which Critics must allow,
Which all the Nations round us will confess:
“Milton alone—attempted with Success.”

SECOND LAD.

I

When Milton's Ghost into Elysium came
To mix with Claimants for poetic Fame,

187

Some rose, the celebrated Bard to meet,
Welcom'd, and laid their Laurels at his Feet.

II

“Immortal Shades,” said he, “if aught be due
To my Attempts, 'tis owing all to you,”
Then took the Laurels, fresh'ning from his Hand,
And crown'd the Temples of the sacred Band.

III

Others, in Crowds, stood muttering behind;
“Who is the Guest? He looks as he were blind;—
O! this is Milton, to be sure, the Man
That stole from others all his rimeless Plan;—

IV

From those conceited Gentleman, perchance,
That rush to hail him with such Complaisánce.
Ay, that's the Reason of this fawning Fuss.
I like him not,—he never stole from us.”

THIRD LAD.

I

“Crime in a Poet, Sirs, to steal a Thought?”
No, that 'tis not, if it be good for aught.
'Tis lawful Theft; 'tis laudable to boot;
'Tis want of Genius if he does not do't.

188

The Fool admires, the Man of Sense alone
Lights on a happy Thought, and makes it all his own;

II

Flies, like a Bee, along the Muses' Field,
Peeps in, and tastes what any Flow'r can yield,—
Free, from the various Blossoms that he meets
To pick, and cull, and carry Home the Sweets;
While, saunt'ring out, the heavy, stingless Drone
Amidst a thousand Sweets makes none of 'em his own.

FOURTH LAD.

I

A Critic once to a Miltonian made
Of Milton's Plagiarisms a long Parade,
To prove his Work not owing to his Genius,
But to Adamus Exul and Masenius;

189

That he had stol'n the greater Part by much,
Both of his Plan and Matter from the Dutch;

II

“His Abdiel, his fine Charactérs, he took,
And heav'nly Scenes, from such and such a Book;
His hellish, too, the same; from such a one,
He stole his Pandemonium,—and so on;—
Till Milton's Friend cry'd out, at last, quite giddy:
“Poh! hold thy Tongue! he stole the Devil, did he?”

FIFTH LAD.

I

When Oxford saw in her Radclivian Dome
Greek skill and Roman rivall'd here at Home,
Wond'ring she stood, till one judicious Spark
Address'd the Crowd, and made this sage Remark:
“The most unlicens'd Plagiary, this Gibbs!
Nothing in all his Pile, but what he cribs!

190

II

“The Ground he builds upon is not his own;
I know the Quarry whence he had his Stone;
The Forest, too, where all his Timber grow'd;
The Forge wherein his fusèd Metals flow'd;—
In short, survey the Edifice entire,
'Tis all a borrow'd Work, from Base to Spire.”

III

Thus with our Epic Architect he deals,
Who says that Milton in his Poem steals;—
“Steals” if he will; but “without Licence?” no!
Pedlars in Verse unmeaningly do so:
Him Phœbus licens'd, and the Muses Nine
Help'd the rare Thief to raise up—a Design.

SIXTH LAD.

I

Lauder! thy Authors Dutch and German
There is no need to disinter, Man!
To search the mould'ring Anecdote
For Source of all that Milton wrote.
We'll own, from these, and many more,
The Bard enrich'd his ample Store.

II

Phœbus himself could not escape
The Tricks of this poetic Ape:

191

For, to complete his daring Vole,
From his enliven'd Wheels he stole,
Prometheus-like, the Solar Ray
That animated all his Clay.

III

Prometheus-like, then, chain him down;
Prey on his Vitals of Renown;
With critic Talons, and with Beak,
Upon his Fame thy Vengeance wreak:
It grows again, at ev'ry Hour,
Fast as the Vulture can devour.

SEVENTH LAD.

I

Miltonum Vir, O facinus nefarium!
Exagitavit tanquam Plagiarium.
Miramur, hanc qui protulisset Thesin,
Quid esse, Momus, crederet Poësin.
Num, quæso, vult ut, hâc obstetricante,
Dicendum sit quod nemo dixit ante?

192

II

O admirandam hominis versuti
Calliditatem, quâ volebat uti!
Dixisset ipse, nimium securus,
Quod nemo dicet præsens aut futurus,
Dum Felis ungues persequentur murem
Miltonum, scilicet, fuisse Furem.

III

Exulent ergo, (ejus ex Effatis)
Quicunque Nomen usurparint Vatis;
Nullum vocemus prorsus ad Examen
Eorum Sensum, Vim, aut Modulamen:
Furantur omnes;—habeamus verum
Poetam, exhinc, unicum Lauderum!

193

THE NIMMERS.

Two Foot-companions once in deep Discourse,—
“Tom,” says the one, “let's go and steal a Horse!”
“Steal!” says the other, in a huge surprise,
“He that says I'm a Thief, I say he lies.”
“Well, well,” replied his Friend, “no such affront;
I did but ask ye: if you won't, you won't.”
So they jogg'd on, till, in another Strain,
The Querist mov'd to honest Tom again.

194

“Suppose,” says he, “for Supposition's sake,—
'Tis but a Supposition that I make,—
Suppose that we should filch a Horse, I say?”
“Filch! Filch!” quoth Tom, demurring by the Way;
“That's not so bad as downright Theft, I own;
But—yet—methinks—'twere better let alone.
It soundeth something pitiful, and low;
Shall we go filch a Horse, you say? why, no;
I'll filch no filching; and I'll tell no lie;
Honesty's the best Policy, say I.”

Struck with such vast Integrity quite dumb,
His Comrade paus'd; at last, says he: “Come, come!
Thou art an honest Fellow, I agree,—
Honest and poor; alas! that should not be,
And dry into the Bargain, and no Drink!
Shall we go Nim a Horse, Tom?—What dost think?”

How clear Things are when Liquor's in the Case!
Tom answers quick, with casuistic Grace:
“Nim? yes, yes, yes, lets Nim with all my Heart;
I see no harm in Nimming, for my Part.
Hard is the Case, now I look sharp into't,
That Honesty should trudge i'th' Dirt afoot;
So many empty Horses round about,
That Honesty should wear its Bottoms out!
Besides, shall Honesty be chok'd with Thirst?
Were it my Lord Mayor's Horse, I'd nim it first!

195

And, by the by, my Lad, no scrubby Tit!
There is the best that ever wore a Bit
Not far from hence.” “I take ye,” quoth his Friend,
“Is not yon Stable, Tom, our Journey's End?”

Good Wits will jump: both meant the very Steed,
The Top o'th' Country, both for Shape and Speed.
So to't they went, and, with an Halter round
His feather'd Neck, they nimm'd him off the Ground.

And now, good People, we should next relate
Of these Adventurers the luckless Fate.
Poor Tom!—but here the Sequel is to seek,
Not being yet translated from the Greek.
Some say, that Tom would honestly have peacht,
But by his blabbing Friend was over-reacht;
Others insist upon't, that both the Elves
Were, in like Manner, halter-nimm'd themselves.

It matters not:—the Moral is the Thing,
For which our purpose, Neighbours, was to sing.
If it should hit some few amongst the Throng,
Let 'em not lay the Fault upon the Song!
Fair warning, all: He that has got a Cap,
Now put it on, or else beware a Rap!
'Tis but a short one, it is true, but yet
Has a long reach with it, Videlicet:
'Twixt right and wrong, how many gentle Trimmers
Will neither steal nor filch, but will be plaguy Nimmers.

196

THE POND.

“At qui tantuli eget, quanto est opus, is neque Limo
Turbatam transit aquam, neque vitam amittit in Undis”
Hor. Sat. I., i. 59-60.

198

Once on a Time a certain Man was found
That had a Pond of Water in his Ground,—
A fine large Pond of Water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his Turn for many a Year.
Yet, so it was, a strange, unhappy Dread
Of wanting Water seiz'd the Fellow's Head.
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his Pond should sink.
Perpetually tormented with this Thought,

199

He never ventur'd on a hearty Draught;
Still dry, still fearing to exhaust his Store,
When half-refresh'd, he frugally gave o'er;
Reviving, of himself reviv'd his Fright:
“Better,” quoth he, “to be half-chok'd than quite.”

Upon his Pond continually intent,
In Cares and Pains his anxious Life he spent,
Consuming all his Time and Strength away,
To make the Pond rise higher ev'ry Day.
He work'd and slav'd, and oh! how slow it fills!
Pour'd in by Pail-fuls, and took out—by Gills.

In a wet Season, he would skip about,
Placing his Buckets under ev'ry Spout;
From falling Show'rs collecting fresh Supply,
And grudging ev'ry Cloud that passèd by;
Cursing the dryness of the Times each Hour,
Altho' it rain'd as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade thro' ev'ry dirty Spot,
Where any little Moisture could be got;
And when he had done draining of a Bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a Hog;
And cried whene'er Folks blam'd him: ‘What d'ye mean?
It costs a World of Water to be clean!”

If some poor Neighbour crav'd to slake his Thirst,
“What!—rob my Pond? I'll see the Rogue hang'd first!

200

A burning Shame, these Vermin of the Poor
Should creep unpunish'd thus about my Door!
As if I had not Frogs and Toads enow,
That suck my Pond, whatever I can do!”

The Sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of Matters that were wet;
Betimes he rose to sweep the Morning Dew,
And rested late to catch the Ev'ning too.
With Soughs and Troughs he labour'd to enrich
The rising Pond from ev'ry neighb'ring Ditch;
With Soughs, and Troughs, and Pipes, and Cuts, and Sluices,
From growing Plants he drain'd the very Juices;
Made ev'ry Stick of Wood upon the Hedges
Of good Behaviour to deposit Pledges;
By some Conveyance or another still
Devis'd Recruits from each declining Hill;
He left, in short, for this beloved Plunder,
No Stone unturn'd that could have Water under.

Sometimes, when forc'd to quit his awkward Toil
And, sore against his Will, to rest a while,
Then straight he took his Book, and down he sat
To calculate th' Expenses he was at:
How much he suffer'd, at a mod'rate Guess,
From all those Ways by which the Pond grew less.
For, as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd not a single Figure:
He knew a wise old Saying, which maintain'd
That 'twas bad Luck to count what one had gain'd.

201

“First, for my Self, my daily Charges here
Cost a prodigious Quantity a Year;
Altho', thank Heaven, I never boil my Meat,
Nor am I such a Sinner as to sweat.
But Things are come to such a Pass, indeed,
We spend ten Times the Water that we need.
People are grown with washing, cleansing, rinsing,
So finical and nice, past all convincing;
So many proud, fantastic Modes, in short,
Are introduc'd, that my poor Pond pays for't.

“Not but I could be well enough content
With what upon my own Account is spent;
But those large Articles from whence I reap
No Kind of Profit, strike me on a Heap.
What a vast deal each Moment at a sup,
This ever thirsty Earth itself drinks up!
Such Holes and Gaps! Alas! my Pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable Sides.
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many Creatures as it keeps alive,
That creep from ev'ry Nook and Corner, marry!
Filching as much, as ever they can carry.
Then, all the Birds that fly along the Air
'Light at my Pond, and come in for a Share.
Item, at ev'ry Puff of Wind that blows,
Away at once the Surface of it goes;
The rest, in Exhalations to the Sun:
One Month's fair Weather, and I am undone!”

202

This Life he led for many a Year together,
Grew old and grey in watching of his Weather,
Meagre as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopt, as the saying is, his vital Breath.
For as th' old Fool was carrying to his Field
A heavier Burden than he well could wield,
He miss'd his Footing, or somehow he fumbled
In tumbling of it in,—but in he tumbled.
Mighty desirous to get out again,
He scream'd, and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain;
The Place was grown so very deep and wide,
Nor Bottom of it could he feel, nor Side:
And so—i'th' Middle of his Pond—he died.

What think ye now from this imperfect Sketch,
My Friends, of such a miserable Wretch?—
“Why, 'tis a Wretch, we think, of your own making.
No Fool can be suppos'd in such a taking;
Your own warm Fancy”—Nay, but warm or cool,
The World abounds with many such a Fool.
The choicest Ills, the greatest Torments, sure,
Are those which Numbers labour to endure.
“What? For a Pond?”—Why, call it an Estate:
You change the Name, but realise the Fate.

203

ON INOCULATION.

Written when it first began to be practised in England.

204

I

I heard two Neighbours talk, the other Night,
About this new Distemper-giving Plan,
Which some so wrong, and others think so right;
Short was the Dialogue, and thus it ran:

II

“If I had twenty Children of my own,
I would inoculate them ev'ry one.”—
“Ay, but should any of them die, what Moan
Would then be made for vent'ring thereupon!”

III

“No; I should think that I had done the best,
And be resign'd, whatever should befall.”—

205

“But could you really be so quite at Rest?”
“I could.”—“Then, why inoculate at all?

IV

“Since, to resign a Child to God, Who gave,
Is full as easy, and as just a Part,
When sick and led by Nature to the Grave,
As when in Health, and driv'n to it by Art.”

206

MINCE-PIE.

Comical Sir,

The answer I give,
Shall be 'firmative,
So get ready your platter;
For my tutor and I
Shall come to your pie
Without mincing the matter.

Yours, J. B.

207

DRINK.

208

You ask me, friend, what cause can be assigned
For all the various humours of mankind;
Whence, in opinions, tempers, manners, mien,
Thought, speech and act, such diff'rence should be seen?
Why, in one word to tell you what I think:
The cause of all these various things is — Drink!
Ay, you may laugh; but, if it may suffice
In men and manners to believe one's eyes,
Drink, I do say it, is the subtle matter
That makes in human engines such a clatter
That gives account mechanical and true
Why men from men should differ as they do,
Account of ev'ry passion, system, strife,—
In short, of all the incidents of life.
For what is life? Life, as a man may say
Is but the moisture of the human clay,
That holds the soul united to its tether,
And keeps the dusty particles together.
Cantábs, they say, Oxonian bards outshine,
That is, in other words, have better wine;

209

Change but the liquor, and, you'll see Cantábs
Will be the minnows, Oxford men the dabs.

Why do the doctors, in consumptive cases,
Advise in better air to wash our faces?
Do not the doctors know, who thus prescribe,
That air's the liquor which our lungs imbibe?
Well the sagacious health-smiths point the way
To stir life's fire and make the bellows play;
The tainted lobe, regaled with fresher dew,
Heaves and ferments the dregs of life anew,
And, with fresh dew fermenting thus his dregs,
A man once more is set upon his legs;
He that before was down among the dumps,
Looks up again, again bestirs his stumps,
Pays off the doctor, and begins to think
What place will yield him fittest air to drink.

When our distempers did their names receive,
(One instance more, good doctors, by your leave,)
Some chronic matters, such as gout and stone,
That would the force of no arcana own,
To save their credit, these, the learned dons
Cried out, were fix'd hereditary ones:
If a man's father, grand-or great-grand sire
Had had the same, 'twas needless to enquire;
Plain was the case, and safe the doctor's fame;
The poor old ancesters bore all the blame.
Now, I'll appeal to common sense and you,
If such a flam as this can e'er be true?
Judge if our thesis does not solve such failings
Better than twenty Hippocrates' or Galens.

210

Let these old gentlemen say what they please,
'Tis the same drink creates the same disease:
The same bad milk which through two children passes,
May send 'em both in time to that of asses;
If one survives the other for a season,
'Tis intermediate drinking is the reason.
Father and son did one consumption strike?
Truth is, they drank consumedly alike.
What wonder is't, if when relations hap
Oft to claim kindred by the self-same tap,
That he who like his father topes about
Should, like his father, suffer from the gout?
Causes alike alike effects impart;
Then, what occasion for new terms of art,
“Stamens,” and “embryos,” and “animalcules,”
And suchlike fixed hereditary calcules?
It is so hardly to be understood
That all men's toes are made of flesh and blood.

In grave Divinity should it be sung
How diff'rent sects from diff'rent drinkings sprung,
You'll find, if once you enter on the theme,
Religion various, but the cause the same.
Now, therefore, Calvin's meagre jaws compare
With Luther's count'nance, ruddy, plump and fair;

211

Imagine them alive, and tell me whether
These godly heroes ever drank together?
If not, according to our present system,
We may of course in diff'rent parties list 'em.

England indeed preserved the happy mean
Betwixt the fat Reformer and the lean;
And yet, in England, num'rous sects prevail,
Such is its great variety of ale.
Hence Presbyterians, Independents, Quakers,
And such-like prim salvation-undertakers;
Hence Anabaptists, Seekers and what-nots,
Who doubtless suck in schism with their pots.
Were't not for this, the whole fanatic fry
Might come to church as well as you and I.
Who can believe that organs and a steeple
Should give offence to any Christian people?
Does reason, think ye, tell these righteous folks
That sin's in gowns and purity in cloaks?

212

Or do their saints, by gospel truth's command,
Reject the surplice and receive the band?
No, no! 'tis Drink that makes the men so fickle
('Tis Drink that builds the sep'rate conventícle)
Form to themselves a thousand diff'rent shams,
Which they call scruples, but, I say, are drams.

THE WOODEN HORSE.

Old Troy was a town of high renown,
As we [read] in ancient story.
Would you hear how it was quite turned to Greece,
Attend and I'll lay 't before ye.

213

The Greeks they say
At that time of day
Were folks of their own opinion.
Now, these Greeks they did boast
That Troy town they would roast,
As a man would roast an onion.
Many tricks had been tried
By the Greeks, on which side
To obtain the command of the town;—
But to make a short tale,
They came off with a fall,
And their [---] all fell down.

UPROUSE YE, THEN.

214

Ye men that came from Brazen Nose
Into Bridgnorth upon your toes,
Pray, on your beds no longer lie,
If you would see fair Shrewsbury.

THE STATUE IN CHEAPSIDE.

Be easy, citizens, about the statue;
Nor mind this noisy fellow's hideous din.
What need you wonder at his bawling at you,
When he's employed, you say, to rail it in.

215

LINES TO STEPHEN DUCK.

218

Dear Duck.
This comes to wish thee joy of thy good luck,
Thy yearly pension and thy country-seat,
So well bestowed upon thee by the great.
Thy verses, which have come to Lancashire,
We read, and we commend, and we admire
In heart a thousand and a thousand times.
We thank thee, Stephen, for thy honest rhymes,
Wherein thou shew'st a native genius bright,
And poetry upon its legs set right,
Which others with their vicious works and scurvy
Mostly endeavour to turn topsy-turvey:
Rare poets, truly! who in Christian times
Can sanctify the foulest pagan crimes;
Can from a Cæsar's or a Cato's tomb
Revive the old rascalities of Rome;
Preposterous Wits! that labour to set forth
A vain ambitious rebel Tyrant's worth,
Or canonise a sour self-murd'rer's pride,
And make a hero of a suicide!
Stephen, I vow it were a better thing
For such as them to thresh, and such as thee to sing!

219

FATHER JERDAN.

One Father Jerdan once bestowed a gun
Upon a poor man passing through the town.
The poor man straight into an ale-house went
And, having sold the gun, the money spent:
To whom the Father answer'd in this fashion:
“I'd rather lose my coat than my compassion.”

A LADY'S LOVE.

A lady's love is like a candle-snuff,
That's quite extinguish'd by a gentle puff;
But, with a hearty blast or two, the dame,
Just like a candle, bursts into a flame.

220

ON THE WHIG WORKHOUSE BILL.

I

“This Manchester affair, at last,”
Says Plumptre, visiting Sir Harry,
“When we all hoped it should have passed,
Plague on't! has happened to miscarry!”—

II

“Why then, Sir Robert, I must say,
Has used as ill,” replies the Knight.
“What! When he might have gained the day.
Sneak off and leave us! Was that right?”—

221

III

“Why, people said, it was a job,”
Says Plumptre — as indeed it was!
“And so, on second thoughts Sir Bob
Could not in conscience let it pass.”—

IV

“Conscience!” replies Sir Harry, still
Angered the more at such expressions;
“He makes a conscience of my Bill!
I'm sure I voted for ---

When at the Common's bar Byrom, the Doctor, stood
And told of matters what he could,
Plumptre stood up, and said with front severe:
“Pray, let me ask, how came you here?”—
“How came I here?” thought he; “how came I hither?”—
“You must say something!”—“Why, Sir I walked thither.”—
“Walked thither, Sir! Pray, speak to my intention:
What right claim'd you to be at that convention?”—
“What right? Why, Sir, the right of every man
To do his neighbour service where he can.
Pray, did the persons there advance a claim
Present to be in any but that same?
I would not injure, sir, nor yet define
The rights of others; but this claim is mine.”
Thus it appears, that questions put at random
Were answered right. Quod erat demonstrandum.

222

ON SPECIOUS AND SUPERFICIAL WRITERS.

How rare the Case, tho' common the Pretence,
To write on Subjects from a real Sense!
'Tis many a celebrated Author's Fate
To print Effusions just as Parrots prate.
He moulds a Matter that he once was taught,
In various shapes, and thinks it to be Thought.
Words at Command he marshals in Array,
And proves whatever he is pleas'd to say;
While Learning like a Torrent pours along,
And sweeps away the Subject, right or wrong,
One follows for a while a rolling Theme,
Toss'd in the middle of the rapid Stream,
Till out of Sight, with like impetuous Force
Torn from its Roots, another takes the Course;
While Froth and Bubble glaze the flowing Mud,
And the Man thinks all clear and understood.

223

A shining Surface, and a transient View,
Makes the slight-witted Reader think so too.
It entertains him, and the Book is bought,
Read, and admir'd without Expense of Thought;
No Tax impos'd upon his Wits, his Cash
Paid without Scruple, he enjoys the Trash.

THE PASSIVE PARTICIPLE'S PETITION TO THE PRINTER OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

224

I

Urban, or Sylvan, or whatever Name
Delight thee most, thou foremost in the Fame
Of Magazining Chiefs, whose rival Page
With monthly Medley courts the curious Age,—
Hear a poor Passive Participle's Case,
And, if thou can'st, restore me to my Place!

II

Till just of late, good English has thought fit
To call me written, or to call me writ.
But what is writ or written, by the vote
Of Writers now, hereafter must be wrote;
And what is spoken, too, hereafter spoke;
And Measures, never to be broken, broke.

III

I never could be driven; but, in spite
Of Grammar, they have drove me from my Right.

225

None could have risen to become my Foes;
But what a World of Enemies have rose!
Who have not gone, but they have went about;
And, torn as I have been, have tore me out.

IV

Passive I am, and would be; and implore
That such Abuse may be henceforth forbore,—
If not forborne; for, by all Spelling-book,
If not mistaken, they are all mistook;
And, in plain English, it had been as well
If what has fall'n upon me, had not fell.

V

Since this Attack upon me has began,
Who knows what Lengths in Language may be ran?
For, if it once be grew into a Law,
You'll see such Work as never has been saw;
Part of our Speech, and Sense, perhaps, beside,
Shakes when I'm shook, and dies when I am died.

VI

Then, let the Præter and Imperfect Tense
Of my own words to me remit the Sense;

226

Or, since we two are oft enough agreed,
Let all the learnèd take some better heed,
And leave the vulgar to confound the due
Of Præter. tense, and Participle, too!

FROM A GENTLEMAN TO HIS BARBER.

THREE FRAGMENTS.

227

Fragment I.

O thomas, did you see my Beard,
So long, so white, and eke so hard,
Which thus afflicts a suffering Sinner,
You would ere now have sent a Trimmer.

Fragment II.

Thomas,
I hope this short Epistle,
Will serve the purpose of a Whistle,

228

And bring you hither in a Minute,
When you shall see what's written in it.

Fragment III.

From under my Lime-Tree, May 23rd, 1736.

Thomas,
Methinks, 'tis wondrous strange
How some Folks' constitutions change!
When I was young, and went to School,
I thought a poet a stark fool.
As I grew up a taller Lad,
I bolder grew, and thought him mad,
And ne'er vouchsaf'd to read one once;—
So, left the School, and turn'd out Dunce;
And, thus equipp'd, from them was hurl'd
Into a noisy, bustling World,
Where in no time, nor in no Season,
I e'er could meet with Rime or reason.

THE BEAU AND THE BEDLAMITE.

229

I

A patient in Bedlam that did pretty well,
Was permitted sometimes to go out of his Cell.
One Day, when they gave him that Freedom, he spied
A beauish young Spark with a Sword by his Side
With an huge Silver Hilt, and a Scabbard for Steel,
That swung at due Length from his Hip to his Heel.

II

When he saw him advance on the Gallery Ground,
The Bedlamite ran, and survey'd him all round;
While a Waiter suppress'd the young Captain's Alarm
With: “You need not to fear, Sir, he'll do you no Harm.”
At the last he broke out: “Aye, a very fine Show!
May I ask him one Question?” “What's that?” said the Beau.

III

“Pray, what is that long, dangling, cumbersome Thing,
That you seem to be tied to with Riband and String?”
“Why, that is my Sword.” “And what is it to do?”
“Kill my Enemies, Master, by running them thro'.”
“Kill your Enemies? Kill a Fool's Head of your own!
They'll die of themselves, if you'll let them alone.”

230

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

Saint Philip Neri, as old Readings say,
Met a young Stranger in Rome's Streets one Day;
And, being ever courteously inclin'd
To give young Folks a sober Turn of Mind,
He fell into Discourse with him; and thus
The Dialogue they held comes down to us.—

St.
“Tell me what brings you, gentle Youth, to Rome?”

Y.
“To make myself a Scholar, Sir, I come.”

St.
“And, when you are come, what do you intend?”

Y.
“To be a Priest, I hope, Sir, in the End.”

St.
“Suppose it so,—what have you next in view?”

Y.
“That I may get to be a Canon, too.”

St.
“Well; and how then?”

Y.
“Why then, for aught I know,
I may be made a Bishop.”

231

St.
“Be it so;—
What then?”

Y.
“Why, Cardinal's a high degree,
And yet my Lot it possibly may be.”

St.
“Suppose it was,—what then?”

Y.
“Why, who can say
But I've a Chance for being Pope one Day?”

St.
“Well, having worn the Mitre, and red Hat,
And triple Crown,—what follows after that?”

Y.
“Nay, there is Nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this Earth, that Wishing can procure.
When I've enjoy'd a Dignity so high
As long as God shall please, then—I must die.”

St.
“What! ‘Must’ you die, fond Youth, and, at the best,
But wish and hope, and ‘may be’ all the rest?
Take my Advice: whatever may betide,
For that which must be first of all provide;
Then think of that which may be; and indeed,
When well-prepar'd, who knows what may succeed,
But you may be, as you are pleas'd to hope,
Priest, Canon, Bishop, Cardinal, and Pope?”

232

MOSES' VISION.

Moses, to whom, by a peculiar Grace,
God spake (the Hebrew Phrase is) “Face to Face,”
Call'd by an Heav'nly Voice, the Rabbins say,
Ascended to a Mountain's Top one Day;
Where, in some Points perplex'd, his Mind was eas'd,
And Doubts concerning Providence appeas'd.

During the Colloquy Divine, say they,
The Prophet was commanded to survey
And mark what happen'd on the Plain below.
There he perceiv'd a fine, clear Spring to flow
Just at the Mountain's Foot, to which, anon,
A Soldier on his Road came riding on;
Who, taking Notice of the Fountain, stopt,
Alighted, drank, and, in remounting, dropt
A Purse of Gold; but, as the precious Load
Fell unsuspected, he pursued his Road.
Scarce had he gone, when a young Lad came by,
And, as the Purse lay just before his Eye,
He took it up, and, finding its Content,
Secur'd the Treasure, and away he went.
Soon after him a poor, infirm old Man,
With Age and Travel weary quite and wan,

233

Came to the Spring to quench his Thirst, and drank,
And then sat down to rest him on the Bank.
There while he sat, the Soldier on his Track,
Missing his Gold, return'd directly back;
Lit off his Horse, began to swear and curse,
And ask'd the poor old Fellow for his Purse.
He solemnly protested, o'er and o'er,
With Hands and Eyes uplifted to implore
Heav'ns Attestation to the Truth, that he
Nor Purse nor Gold had ever chanc'd to see;—
But all in vain; the Man believ'd him not,
And drew his Sword, and stabb'd him on the spot.

Moses, with Horror and Amazement seiz'd,
Fell on his Face. T he Voice Divine was pleas'd
To give the Prophet's anxious Mind Relief,
And thus prevent expostulating Grief:
“Be not surpris'd, nor ask how such a Deed
The World's Just Judge could suffer to succeed.
The Child has caus'd the Passion, it is true,
That made the Soldier run the old Man thro';
But know one Fact, tho' never yet found out,
And judge how that would banish ev'ry Doubt:
This same old Man, thro' Passion once as wild,
Murder'd the Father of that very Child.”

234

THE CENTAUR FABULOUS.

235

I

Zeuxis of old a Female Centaur drew,
To show his Art, and then expos'd to View.
The human Half with so exact a Care
Was join'd to Limbs of a Thessalian Mare,

236

That, seeing from a different Point the Piece,
Some prais'd the Maid, and some the Mare, of Greece.

II

Like to this Centaur, by his own Relation,
Is Doctor Warburton's Divine Legation;
Which superficial Writers, on each Hand,—
Christians and Deists,—did not understand;
Because they both observ'd from partial Views
Th' incorporated Church and State of Jews.

III

Th' ingenious Artist took the pains to draw,
Full and entire, the Compound of the Law;
The two Societies, the civil Kind
And the religious, perfectly combin'd;
With God Almighty, as a Temp'ral Prince,
Governing both, as all his Proofs evince,

IV

Without the Doctrine of a future State.—
Here with Opponents lies the main Debate.
They cannot reconcile to serious Thought
God's Church and State, with Life to come untaught;

237

With Law or Gospel cannot make to suit
Virgin of Sion sinking down to Brute.

V

Zeuxis the new, they argue, takes a Pride
In Shapes so incompatible allied;
And talks away, as if he had portray'd
A real Creature, mixt of Mare and Maid.
All who deny th' Existence of the Pad,
He centaurises into Fool and Mad.

238

VI

If one objected to a Maiden Hoof,—
“Why, 'tis an Animal,” was all his Proof;
If to an Animal with human Head,—
“Oh! 'Tis a beauteous Woman,” Zeuxis said.
“What! Animal and Woman both at once?”
“Yes; that's essential to the whole, ye Dunce.”

VII

His primary and secondary Sense,
Like Mare and Maid, support his fond Pretence:
From joining-spot he skips to each Extreme,
Or strides to both, and guards the motley Scheme;
Solving with like centauriformal Ease
Law, Prophets, Gospel, quoted as you please.—

239

VIII

Thus both went on, long-labour'd Volumes thro'.—
Now, what must fair, impartial Readers do?
Must they not grieve, if either of them treat
On Law or Grace with Rudeness or with Heat?
Of either Zeuxis they allow the skill,
But that—the Centaur is a Fable still.

240

THOUGHTS ON THE CONSTITUTION OF HUMAN NATURE, AS REPRESENTED IN THE SYSTEMS OF MODERN PHILOSOPHERS.

I

Strong Passions draw, like Horses that are strong,
The Body-Coach of Flesh and Blood along;
While subtle Reason, with each Rein in Hand,
Sits on the Box, and has them at Command;
Rais'd up aloft, to see and to be seen,
Judges the Track, and guides the gay Machine.

II

But was it made for nothing else beside
Passions to draw, and Reason to be Guide?
Was so much Art employ'd to drag and drive
Nothing within the Vehicle alive?

241

No seated Mind, that claims the moving Pew,
Master of Passions, and of Reason too?

III

The grand Contrivance why so well equip
With strength of Passions, rul'd by Reason's Whip?
Vainly profuse had Apparatus been,
Did not a reigning Spirit rest within;
Which Passions carry, and sound Reason means
To render present at pre-order'd Scenes.

IV

They who are loud in human Reason's Praise,
And celebrate the Drivers of our Days,
Seem to suppose, by their continual Bawl,
That Passions, Reason, and Machine, is all;
To them the Windows are drawn up, and clear
Nothing that does not outwardly appear.

V

Matter and Motion, and superior Man
By Head and Shoulders, form their reas'ning Plan.
View'd and demurely ponder'd, as they roll,
And scoring Traces on the Paper Soul,

242

Blank, shaven white, they fill th' unfurnish'd Pate
With new Idéas, none of them innate.

VI

When these Adepts are got upon a Box,
Away they gallop thro' the gazing Flocks;
Trappings admir'd, and the high-mettl'd Brute
And Reason balancing its either Foot;
While seeing Eyes discern, at their Approach,
Fulness of Skill, and emptiness of Coach.

VII

'Tis very well that lively Passions draw,
That sober Reason keeps them all in Awe,—
The one to run, the other to control,
And drive directly to the destin'd Goal.
“What Goal?”—Ay, there the Question should begin:
What Spirit drives the willing Mind within?

VIII

Sense, Reason, Passions, and the like, are still
One self-same Man, whose Action is his Will;
Whose Will, if right, will soon renounce the Pride
Of an own Reason for an only Guide;
As God's unerring Spirit shall inspire,
Will still direct the Drift of his Desire.

243

TO R. L., ESQUIRE,

On his Sending the Author a Hare, according to an Annual Custom.

I

What! another Hare, Peter? Well, so much the better!
I acknowledge myself to be doubly your Debtor;

244

Should ha' thank'd you indeed for the last afore now,
But the Forelock of Time has been short, of somehow.
I hope you won't take it, Sir, as an Affront;
'Twas an excellent good one, for what there was on't.
But since by your Favour here two at a Time,
Let that be for Sense, and this other for Rime.

II

Indeed, when old Jackson, your Namesake and Neighbour,
Had brought what you call'd there “the Fruits of your Labour,—
Of a whole Day's whole Labour:” so labour'd the Mountain,
(Thought I), and when got to the End of her Counting,
While the Neighbours all round her, with Wonder struck dumb,
Stood to see what huge Monster was coming to come,
At last, and with much ado, brought forth a Hero,
When drest, would have made much the same Bill of Fare-o!

III

Not that I lik'd your Present one Penny the worse!
No, if you think so, you are out of your Course.
Your Intention had had the same Courtesy in't, if
The Fruits of your Labour were ne'er so dimin'tive;
Nor should I have fail'd of my Thanks, if old Jackson
Had not told me that he was oblig'd to go back soon.
I began once to write, but I could not proceed in't,
And indeed, as it happens, 'tis well that I didn't.

245

IV

Had I answer'd your Minor, perhaps 'tis a Wager
Whether ever or no I had heard of your Major;
But now, having laid down your Premises twain,
The Conclusion is good, and the Consequence plain.
For, as old Aristotle said, some Time agone,
Two Hens and two Bacons are better than one:
Second Hares are the best, as a Body may say.
D'ye take, Sir, the Force of the Argument—hey?

V

But as after your short Hare you sent a long Ditto,
So you should by your Letter, and lengthen out it too.
You made me to cry, with your bit of a Scrawl,
Like our Trinity Friend—you know who,—“Is this all?”
I expected to find an Account of Miss Puss
As long as my Arm,—and to fob me off thus!
I thought, when a Cheshire Squire sent a Hare hither,
That at least he'd ha' sent the Hare's Pedigree with her.

VI

Sir Peter of Chester would ne'er have been hind'red
From searching of Writings to find out their Kindred;
The Field they were in he'd ha' blazon'd, I trow;
And ha' show'd if your Hares had been Co-heirs, or no;
With many such Questions, so nice and so knotty,
Of which you have said not a Syllable,—;

246

Yet you fancy that I should have somewhat to say t'em,—
As if I had an'thing to do, but to eat 'em!

VII

“Dr. John, 'tis long since I receiv'd any Poë-
“try: Argol, I've sent Hare and Service untó ye.”
Very good, Master Peter; you think, I suppose,
That Verses, with me, are as common as Prose.
“I send you a Hare; send you me a Conceit;”—
Is the old Grammar Rule then gone out of your Pate?
Did your Master ne'er tell you, amongst other Stories,
The Diff'rence betwixt Lepŏres, and Lepōres?

VIII

The last Time, indeed, that you sent me a Hare,
My Fury was mov'd with another Affair;
And the Creature arriv'd just as I had my Head full
Of a Butcher-Hall Challenge, so dire and so dreadful.
But, now our dear Friend is remov'd to Cheapside,
With right Hand, and left Hand, and Pen laid aside;

247

And, for fear I should take his Bread from him, has fled straight
From Butcher-Hall Lane to the Corner of Bread-street.

IX

Having put our Antagonist therefore to Flight,
I return to the Hare here;—adzooks! what a Weight!
The last that you sent us was presently gone;
But this, o' my Word, is a Whopper o' one!
Adzookus, whene'er we begin to see th' End on't,
We'll remember, old Arnold, thy worthy Descendant;
With Knives, and with Forks, and with Spoons we will thump her,
And then, “to the Ladies of Toft” in a Bumper!

248

TO THE SAME.

[_]

In Answer to the following Letter:

“Toft, 13th November, 1761. Friday-night.

“Dear Byrom, I have sent you a hare that was alive this day. You must remember that formerly a Toft Hare would have produced a copy of Verses, and I hope that you still like Hares as well as I do Verses. Be that as it will, I shall be glad to hear in Verse or Prose that you are as well as I could wish you to be. I grow old, stir little from home, and lament that I am not able to put myself in your way s' oft as in former days.

“With kind love to yourself and family, I remain, yours most affectionately,

R. Leycester.

“You find K. George and Mr. Pitt are the present darlings of this nation. Such strange alterations happen everywhere that I shall be surprised at nothing.

To Dr. Byrom, at Manchester.”

“Killed 13th November.”

I

Dear Peter, this tells you as soon as it could,
That the Hare, which you sent us, was tender and good;
And we send you thanks for it.—You say, “a Toft Hare
Was wont to produce a Verse-copied Affair:”
Which is true in the main; but Philosophers oft
Give Effects to wrong Causes. It neither was Toft
Nor Hare that was really productive of Metre,
But,—as here you may see by Self-evidence,—Peter.

249

II

The Hare was no more than occasional Item,
That if Verses were willing, one might as well write 'em;
And Toft, tho' within but a few Mille Passus,
Was as fit for the Purpose as foreign Parnassus.
Its good-natur'd Owner was proximate Cause
Of the free-flowing Rime and its modified Pause,—
The Phœbus, at whose Innuendo the Muse
Her Assistance, jam nunc, knows not how to refuse.

III

Still, it seems, “you like Verse, as you hope I like Hare.”
Ay, for Intercourse' sake; not the worth of the Ware!
Shops would answer your Taste with a much better Line,
And Shambles with full as good Provender mine.
Nay, if one should reflect upon Cruelty's Source
In the Gentlemen Butchers, the Hunt, and the Course,

250

'Twere enough to prevent either Pudding or Jelly
From storing such Carcass within a Man's Belly!

IV

Still I think of old Elwall, invited to sup
At your Chester Abode, when a Hare was cut up,
How he gave me this Answer, concerning this Prog:
“Dost thou ever eat Hare?”—“Dost thou ever eat Dog?”—
Don't think that hereby one intends to degrade
The Presentment, Sir Peter, which now you have made;
I would only suggest that the Thanks which I render,
Stand up on their Feet not to Hare, but Hare-sender;

251

V

Whose Case you describe so exactly like mine,
That it runneth almost in a parallel Line.
You “grow old:”—I grow older;—“stir little from home:”—
I less, and abroad more unable to roam;—
You “lament that you cannot come in a Friend's way,
As you formerly could:”—the same also I say.
Now, the Case being common, how should it affect us,
Seeing, “Aliter non fit avite Senectus?”

VI

With Gratitude, first, as I take it;—a Truth
Which is common, indeed, both to Age, and to Youth.
But, if Youth has neglected to fill up that Page,
—My case!—it belongs to Executor Age
To supply the defect which, tho' negligent, still
We suppose the said Youth to have had in its Will.
Old Senectus is tied, then, for Benefits lent us,
To pay the just Debts of Testator Juventus.

VII

With Temperance, next;—since if Gratitude binds,
For the sake of past Youth, our Senescenter Minds,
They must, in a Body more subject to Phthisic,
Guard against all Excess, and turn Food into Physic.
One sees how corpuscular Eating and Drinking
Make Youth in its Mentals so stout and unthinking;
Age, therefore, altho' not so paunchful or pateful,
Will be much better off, being sober and grateful;—

252

VIII

Two Helps, without which the mere animal Pow'r
In young or old Blood grows insipid or sour.
If the two Ventilators of Life do not mix,
Old Age would, I find, be as cross as two Sticks.
O grant me, ye Pow'rs both of Verse and of Prose,
To be thoughtful and thankful, choose how the World goes,—
Not, tho' the old Man should become twice a Child,
To be peevish and fretful, but placid and mild!

IX

Now, as touching K. George, and his Pensioner Pitt,
Your two present Darlings of national Wit,
And the strange Alterations that seem in your Eyes
So great, as if nothing henceforth could surprise:—
If you have not yet seen Men and Matters so vary,
As to bring you, before, to a “Nil admirari”
In this changeable Island, one need not be told
That you are but a Youngster, but newly grown old.

X

What a Pleasure to come has our Coming to Age,
To emancipate Thought from so shifting a Stage;

253

And to fix it on Matters that will, in all Cases,
Stand firm on their solid, immoveable Bases,—
Real Objects! Your Epitaph, else, on the Hare,
“Kill'd November 13th,” is but one of a Pair
With a poor hunted Peer's, “Decollat. such a Day;”
What more than the Puss has the Peerage, I pray?

XI

It would else be too true, what comes into my Mind,
How our old Master Bentley divided Mankind.
He was talking of Short-Hand, and how an erroneous
“Natare” the Blockheads had made Suëtonius
To write, for “Notare;”—the World, he then said,
Was made up of two Sorts, “Worriérs, Worriéd.”

254

Dick, he told me, should learn, and amidst the World's Hurry,
As the potenter Choice, be a Lawyer and “worry.”

XII

You see now, old Friend, how intentional Aim
Sets out to comply with your Copyhold Claim;
And how Age would run on, if the Muse did not fix
The Rhythmus of Dactyls to ninety-and-six,
And prompt, what the Household requires me to add:
That to hear of Toft Welfare they always are glad,
Being always possess'd of a competent Stock
“Of the best of good Wishes for all your whole Flock.”

255

“THE ART OF ACTING.”

260

I

The Art of Acting, Sir, by Aaron Hill,
Shows that the Man has a poetic Quill,—
A lively Turn of Thought, that could afford
Of Rimes and Epithets a plenteous Hoard;
That could the Subject, which he had in View,
Thro' ev'ry Maze of winding Wit pursue.

II

Nevertheless,—with Freedom may I speak?
Yes, to be sure, to R---n or F---ke!—

261

I would have chosen, had I been to choose,
Another Subject for Friend Aaron's Muse;
And left to manage for itself the Stage,
The Nonsense, Folly, Madness of the Age.

III

Tho' one may praise the Verse, one grieves to feel
A Bard's Invention rack'd upon the Wheel
To show the muscular Effect of Thought
In Looks and Features, Nerves and Sinews, wrought,—
For what? To teach his Buskin-footed Fools
How to belie their Want of Sense by Rules!

IV

The Soul, it seems, what passes by observes
From some snug Place behind the Optic Nerves;
If pleas'd with Objects, she dilates the Brow;
If not, contracts, to frown them out, somehow;
And then the Muscles of the Face and Neck,
Contiguous, take their Bias from her Beck.

V

Thus, in progressive Impulse, thro' the Whole,
Each Part obeys the Meaning of the Soul;

262

Thought shapes the Look, Look Muscles, Muscles Mien;
One Chain of Action runs each Step between;
While Voice and Movement, Gesture, and the like,
All in one Concert are oblig'd to strike.

VI

This is the System, if I take it true,—
The Art which, as he says, is Nature too.
Grant it,—'tis what his Muse in tuneful Lays,
Tho' now and then a little harsh, displays;
Yet all this while, this Art of Looks and Limbs
Is ill-bestow'd upon Theatric Whims.

VII

Actors and Actresses, I say again,
Are not the Pupils worthy of his Pen.
That Muse, which histrionic Wits applaud,
The Wise will think no better than a Bawd.
What “Heliconian Nymph” but would disdain
To dangle after those of Drury-Lane?

VIII

But, “Hold!” says mine.—“Why, what's the matter, Dame?”—
“Matter? Why, do you think you can reclaim

263

This agèd Bard, so eager as to call
The Censure upon Players Cant's low Crawl?”—
“No, Madam; I can hardly hope for that.”—
“No? Then, what is it that you would be at?”—

IX

“Only, to tell a certain Friend of mine
That put it in my Head, what I opine.”—
“A certain Friend? What! He, who in plain Prose
Without our Help has ventur'd to expose
Vice in its odious colours, and to paint
In his Clarissa's Life and Death a Saint?”—

X

“Yes.”—“Why, then, hush! and spare the Playhouse Bard!
We must maintain our Poor, and Times are hard.
The Tragic Jades cry: ‘What becomes of us,
If prosing Fiction may distribute thus
All that is worth the Notice in a Play?’”—
“Well, my dear Muse,—I have no more to say.”

II. PART II.

DIALOGUES IN THE LANCASHIRE DIALECT.

267

I. A LANCASHIRE DIALOGUE, OCCASIONED BY A CLERGYMAN PREACHING WITHOUT NOTES.

James.
Wus yo at Church o' Sunday Morning, John?

John.
Ay, Jeeams, I wus, and wou'd no' but ha' gone
For ne'er so mich. What, wur no' yo theer then?

James.
Nou; and I ha' no' mist, I know no' when.

John.
Whoy, yo had e'en faoo Luck on't.

James.
So I hear;
'At maes me ask ye, whether yo wur theer.

268

They tell'n me that a Pairson coome, and took
His Text bi Hairt, and preacht withaoot a Book.

John.
He did, for sartin, and hauf freeten'd mee,
And moor besoide; but he soon leet us see
He wanted noane.

James.
Whoy, could he do withaoot?

John.
Yoi, better, Mon, bi hauf, for being baoot.
It gan me sich a Notion: for my Pairt,
I think 'at aw true Preaching is by Hairt.
Sich as we han I do not meean to bleeame,
But conno' caw it, fairly, bi that Neeame.
A Book may do at Whooam for Larning seeake,
But in a Pilpit, wheer a Mon shid speeake,
And look at th' Congregation i' their Feeace,
He conno' do't for Pappers in a Keease.
He ta'es fro' them what he mun say, and then
Just looks as if he gan it 'um again.
It is i'th Church; or one cou'd hairdly tell
But he wur conning summat to himsel.
Monny a good Thing, theer, I ha' hard read oo'er,
But never knew what Preeaching wus befoor.

269

James.
And prei ye, John, haoo done ye know it naoo?

John.
Lukko, this Mon has tou't it me, sumhaoo.

James.
A ready Scholar!

John.
“Scholar?” Whoy, a Dunce
May see, beloike, what's shown him aw at wunce.

James.
It ma'es me think,—yo're allivated soa—
O' one that's gloppen'd, 'at has seen a Shoa.

John.
Wou'd yo had seen and hard as weel as I,—
And if I shid say “felt,” I shid no' lie—
Whot it wus moy good Luck to hyear, and see!
Yo'd a bin gloppen'd too, as weel as me.

James.
Happen, I meeght; but con I understond
Onny thing on't, good John, at second Hond?
Yo han this preeaching Seeacret at a Hit:
Con yo remember haoo it wus, a Bit?

John.
“Con yo remember?” Comes into mi Hyead
Yoar telling once o' whot yoar Lowyer said
Agen ou'd Hunks, the Justice o'the Peeace
'At wou'd ha' ta'en away yoar Faither's Leease:
Haoo yo discroib'd him,—what a Mon o'th Lows!
What a fine Tungue! and haoo he geet the Coaze:
Haoo thooas 'at wur not at the 'Soizes too
Cou'd no' believe t'one hauf o' whot wus true!

270

James,
“Remember?” Ay! and shall do, while I'm whick,
Haoo bravely he fund aoot a knavish Trick.
He seeav'd my Faither monny a Starling Paoond,
And bu' for him I had no' bin o'th' Graoond.
That wus a Mon worth hyearing; if yoar Mon
Cou'd tauk loike him, I shid be gloppen'd, John.
But, lukko' me, theeas Lowyers are aw tou't
To speeak their Nomminies, as soon as thou't:
Haoo done yo think wou'd Judge and Jury look,
If onny on 'um shid go tak a Book
Aoot of his Pockett—and so read away?
They'd'n soon think, he had no' mich to say.
Aoor honest Lowyer had my Faither's Deed;
But, Mon, he gan it th' Clark o'th' Coort to read,
And then—he spooak! and if yo had bu' seen,
Whoy, th' Judge himsel cou'd ne'er keep off his Een;
The Jury gaupt agen,—and weel they meeght;
For e'ry Word 'at he had said wus reeght.

John.
Weel, Jeeams; and if a Mon shid be as wairm
Abaoot his Hev'n, as yo abaoot yoar Fairm,
Dunno' yo think, he'd be as pleeast to hear
A Pairson mak his Reeght to houd it clear,
And show the De'el to be as fause a Foe
As that ou'd Rogue the Justice wus to yo?

James.
Naoo, John, I see what you been droiving at,
And I'm o' yoar Oppinion as to that.

271

I shid no' grutch at takking a lung Wauk
To hyear a Clargyman, that cou'd bu' tauk
As that Mon did, cou'd sarch a Thing to th' Booan,
And in good yarnest mak the Coaze his ooan.
I seeldom miss a Sunday hyearing thooas
'At preeachen weel enugh, as preeaching gooas;
But I ha' thou't, sometimes, haooever good,
A Sarmon meeght be better, if it wou'd;
'At, if it cou'd no' make Folks e'en to weep,
It sartinly mit keep 'um aw fro' Sleep.
Yet I ha' seen 'um nodding, Toimes enoo,
Not ooanly Childer, but Church-Wairdens too.
Cou'd yoar foine Preeacher — Morning wus too soon —
Ha' kept Folks wakken, John, i'th' Afternoon?

John.
I wish he wou'd ha' tried; — and, I dare say,
That Morning meeght have onswer'd for aw Day.
He must ha' ta'en a pratty Dose, I think,
'At could ha' gen that Afternoon a Wink.
Sich looking, and sich list'ning! One mit read
In e'ry Feeace: “Ay, heer's a Mon indeed!”
Some meeght ha' slept, if he had com'n agen,
Befoor he spooak;—I'm shure they could no' then.

James.
They wurn, its loike, whaint fond o' summut new.

John.
Nea, nea; that winno' hou'd a Sarmon throo.
Aw they that listen'd when he first begun,
Kept list'ning moor and moor till he had done.
Had he gone eend away, I gi' mi Word,
He had me fast bi th' Ears; I'd not ha' stirr'd.

272

Naoo, yo mun think 'at he taukt weel, at leeast,
And passing weel, 'at Eich-body wur pleeast.
They wou'd no', loikly, give him aw their Vooats
Ooanly becose o' Preeaching withaoot Nooats.

James.
Whoy, but according to my Thinking, John,
It gi's a hugeous Vontidge to a Mon
To preeach withaoot Book, if he con bu' do't,
And he mun needs be better hard to boot.
Aoor Lowyer had noane; and I hauf con feel,
It wus the Reeason whoy he spooak so weel.
Yet, as yo sen, “that ooanly winno' do;”
For th' Mon agen him praited like a Foo.

John.
Jeeams, its e'en haird upon a Lowyer's Tungue,
They hoirn it aoot to oather reeght or wrung.
A diff'rent Keease to that o' Pairsons woide:
They are,—or shid be,—aw o' the same Soide.
It makes, mayhap, aoor Lowyers reeadier far
To pleead withaoot Book, til aoor Pairsons are.

James.
It's loike it duz; for Folks will larn to speeak
Sannner bi hauf for Contradickshon seeak;
And specially, if when their Tale is tou'd
I' Truth or Loies, they mun be paid i' Goud.
Pairsons are paid; and, if they win, may pay
Thir Curates, John, to preeach for 'um, or pray;
And, then, they do not, when they ma'en a Raoot,

273

Tungue it so mich as fling thir Book abaoot.
Yet Word o' Maooth, if it be reeght, 's no Sin:
Whoy conno' Pairsons preeach by't, if they win?

John.
I know no'; Custom's druven to Extreeams:
This may be one 'at they han getten, Jeeams.
Some feeamous Fellies meeght, at first, begin,
And aw the rest han follow'd 'um e're sin.
When a Bell-Weather leeaps but o'er a Stray,
At that same Pleck aw th' rest mun jump away.

James.
Marry, I wish 'at Pairsons, one i' ten,
Wou'd bu' jump back into th' oud Way agen.
Some han great Books enoo to fill a Cairt;
Straunge 'at they conno' lay a Thing to Hairt,
Sich as they loiken best, and ha' the Paoor
To dray it fro' within, for one hauf Haoor!
Haoo coome this Mon to do't?

John.
I conno' tell.
Do it he did so yeeasy to himsel,
And yet wi' so mich Yarnestness, and Fooarce,
Of Tungue and Hond and Look, and good Discooarse,
Aw smooth and clear and, 'ery turn it took,
Still woinding to't like Weater in a Brook;
'At onny Mon o' Larning, takking Aiam,
Meeght ha' larnt fro' him to ha' done the saiame.

James.
“Larning!” when Preeachers first coome in, they sen,
They wurn no' monny on 'um larnèd Men,
Nor Gentry nooather,—

274

John.
Whoy, and they sen true;
But in aoor Days I daoot it woono' do,
To ha' thooas preeach 'at comn so meeghty short
O' th' first Beginners, so weel fitted for't.
Wou'd but aoor Gentlemen o' Larning troy
To preeach fro' th' Hairt, and lay their Pappers bye:
We shid no' think warse on 'um for thir Kin,
Nor loike 'um less, haooever larn'd they bin;
Aoor Folks i' Church Toime wou'd be moor devaoot,
And moin'd the Bus'ness 'at they wurn abaoot:
And thooas good Sarmons 'at mooast o'n 'em ma'en,
By aw good Folks wou'd be mich better ta'en.
Witness this Gentlemon, o' Sunday Morn,
The best 'at I e'er hard sin I wur born!
But come, I'll say no moor; yo'st hear him first:
I wish with au my Hairt he wur the worst.

James.
Ay, yo may wish;—but will he preeach agen?
Haoo ar yo shure o' that?

John.
Nay, soa they sen;
Yo're loike to tak yoar Chaunce, as weel as I.

James.
If onny comes, I'll tak it.—John, Good bye!

275

II. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN SIR JOHN JOBSON AND HARRY HOMESPUN;

OCCASIONED BY THE MARCH OF THE HIGHLANDERS INTO LANCASHIRE IN THE YEAR 1745.

276

Sir John.
Was ye not sadly frighten'd, honest Harry,
To see those Highland Fellows?

Harry.
Not I, marry.

Sir J.
No? How comes that?

H.
Whoy, Sur, I conno' see
What theer wur in 'um that shid freeten me.

Sir J.
So many armèd Ruffians as came here,—
Was there not cause enough for all to fear?

H.
Aw whoa, Sur John? It, happen, mit be so
Wi' sich foine loardly Gentlemen as yo;
But we poor Foke—

Sir J.
Why, prithee, poor or rich,
Is it not much the same?

H.
Nou; not so mich.
We warken hard, as't iz, for meeat and clooas,
And connot eem to be so feert, God knooas.

277

Sir J.
But, Harry, to see Fire and Sword advance!
To have such Enemies as Rome and France!
Should not this move alike both Rich and Poor,
To drive impending Ruin from their Door?

H.
As for the Rich, Sur John, I conno' tell;
But for the Poor, I'll onser for mysel.
If Fire shid come, I ha' nout for it to brun,
Nor wark to find for oather “Swooard” or Gun;
For “France and Rome” my feering is no greater:
They lyen, I think, o'th' tother Side o'th' Weater.

Sir J.
You don't consider what may be the End
Of such a strange Indifference, my Friend.
Pray, whether you have more or less to lose,
Would you not guard your Country from its Foes?

H.
“My Country,” Sur? I have, yo' understond,
In aw the Country not one Inch o' Lond.
They that wood'n feight, and ha' Mon's Blood be spilt,
May, if they win;—but whoy mun I be kilt?

Sir J.
Your Country, Friend, is not the Ground alone;
There is the King that sits upon the Throne;
The Protestant Succession lies at Stake
That bloody-minded Papists want to shake.
Now, you have some Religion left, I hope,
And would not tamely give it to the Pope.

H.
He wou'd no' have it, happen, if I wou'd;
Th' oud Mon beloike mit think his ooan as gud;

278

And true Religion, Sur, if I have onny,
No Mon i'th' Ward con tak it fro' me, con he?

Sir J.
If you but knew, Friend Harry, what a Scene
Of Mischiefs happen'd in King James's Reign:
How, but for Orange's immortal Prince,
The Protestants had all been kill'd long since;
If I should tell you—

H.
Nay, we aw, Sur John,
Known weel enough that yo're a larnìd Mon;
So was my Gronfayther, and ore his Ale
Monny a Toime has toud another Tale;
And I darr say mi Gronfayther toud true;
For, lukko me, th' oud Felly wus no Foo,
Nor Rebbil noather,—

Sir J.
And what was't he toud?

H.
Whoy, moor a deeal than my Brainpon con houd.
Its like yo known as haoo, Sur, th' Oliverians
Cut off th' King's Hyead?

Sir J.
Yes.

H.
And haoo th' Presbyterians
Turnt aoot his Son, and maden a Rebelution?

Sir J.
They did it, Man, to save the Constitution;
'Twas Churchmen too that brought King William in
As well as they—

279

H.
Whoy, be they whoa they win,
One Egg, he sed, wus ne'er moor loike another
Than thooas two mak o' Foke wurn loike tone tother:
They wurn at aw toimes En'mies to th' blood Royal,
And naoo woud'n ha' it that none but hom are loyal:
Haoo con that be, Sur?

Sir J.
Why, I'll tell thee how—

H.
Nay, but yo connot.

Sir J.
Well, but hear me now,
Our Kings are Stewards—

H.
Sur, yo meean they wurn;
For Things, yo known, han tan another Turn:
The Stuarts' Race is—

Sir J.
Poh! thou takes me wrong.

H.
Haoo mun I tak o'reet?

Sir J.
I say, so long
As Kings are our Protectors,—

H.
Luk ye theer!
Oud Oliver agen—

280

Sir J.
Nay, prithee, hear,
And keep thy Nonsense in, till I have done,—

H.
Weel, Weel; I'zt hear yoars first then, if I mun.

Sir J.
The People, Harry, when they all agree—

H.
Aw, Sur?

Sir J.
Be quiet!—choose them a Trustee,
And call him King. Now, if he break his Trust,
They have a Right to turn him out, and must,
Unless they would be ruin'd: dost thou think
For one Man's swimming all the rest should sink?

H.
Yo lov'n a King, Sur, waintly; sink or swim,
No Mon, I foind, is to be draoont but him.
This chozzen King mit, happen, draoon yo furst;
Then yo mit sink him after, an yo durst.
If Folks may tak whot Kings they han a Moind,
Whot Faut wi' all theese Scotchmen con yo foind?

Sir J.
Hang 'em all!—Have they not a King already
That keeps his Contract with the People steady?
Rebels!

H.
Whoy, ay, that's reet, for they wur byetten;
They lost the Feight; but, haoo, if they had getten,
Wou'd yo ha' lik't it, Sur, if an Heelonder
Had toud oo,' Sauce for th' Goose wur Sauce for th' Gonder?

281

Sir J.
Thou'rt a sly Tyke; I'll talk with thee no more.

H.
Whoy, if yo pleeasen, then, Sur, ween give ore,
Wishing that e'ry Mon may have his Reet,
Feight as feight winn;—and so, Sur John, good Neet!

Sir J.
Thou'lt look, I find, to thy own Carcass still.

H.
Yoi, Sur, as lung as ere I con, I will.

III. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SAME, ABOUT COMPELLING A PERSON TO TAKE THE OATHS TO THE GOVERNMENT.

283

Sir John.
Why so grave, Harry? What's the matter, pray?
What makes thee look so sorrowful To-day?

Harry.
Whoy, Sur, I geet sore trubbl'd i' my Moind
At what yon Folk han tou'd me, wheer I doin'd.

Sir J.
Prithee, what's that?

H.
They touden me, Sur John,
That ye han sent a Summons to a Mon

284

To tak an Ooath, a meety long on' too;
An' they aw sen it's moore till he con doo.

Sir J.
Do, or not do, what Bus'ness is't of thine?

H.
“Bus'ness?” Whoy, he's a Naibor, Sur, o' mine;
An' ye han hard, beloike, aoor Pairson tell,
'At one mun love their Naibor as theirsel;—
Besoides 'at he's a sarviseable Felly
As onny 'at we han o'th' Bus'ness, welly.
And, then, an Ooath ye shanno' hyear come aoot
O' that Mon's Maooth, Sur John, the year abaoot;
An' if he be i'th' Moind 'at he has been,
Yo'n foind it mich ado to cram one in.

Sir J.
Harry, that Matter we shall soon discuss:
Trial of Skill is now 'twixt him and us.
We must, and will subdue him, if we can,
He's a seditious, réfractory Man.

H.
Nay, if ye bin for giving aoot o' Hond
Hard Words, Sur, 'at one connot understond,
I'll say no moor;—or else I ha' ta'en a Wauk,
That yo and I mit'n have a Bit o' Tauk.
But, happen, naoo yo're not i'th' Humour—

Sir J.
Yes;
Talk what thou wilt!

285

H.
And yo'n no' tak't amiss?

Sir J.
No.

H.
Then I'll tell 'oo, Mester, whot I think.

Sir J.
Sit thee down first; wilt have a little Drink?

H.
Nou; nor yo noather! We'n be soaber booath,
God willing, Sur, and tauk abaoot this Ooath.

Sir J.
What dost thou know about it?

H.
Whoy, no' mich;
That's true enough,—thank God! I'm no' so rich.
But I con guex abaoot it weel enough:
Foke 'at han tan it, sen it's weary tough.
There's monny a one that wou'd ha' gen a Craoon
With aw his Heart, he neer had leet it daoon.

Sir J.
But it shall cost this Fellow more than so,
If he don't take it;—that I'll let him know.

H.
Win ye, Sur?

Sir J.
Yes, I will.

H.
And if yo win,
Sur John, yo're guilty of a wicked Sin.

Sir J.
Am I? How so?

H.
Whoy, dunnot yo maintain
That Mon may tak God's Holy Name i' vain?

Sir J.
No, indeed, don't I; 'tis what I abhor.

286

H.
Then, pray ye, naoo, whot is this Summons for?
Is it not sent to make a Mon to swear
Summot abaoot the King, and his reet Heir?
And are not yo weel satisfy'd, to boot,
'At he mun tak God's Name i' vain to do't?

Sir J.
That's his Affair to look to, and not ours;
We act according to the legal Pow'rs.
If private Conscience slight the public Call,
It must e'en take the Consequence,—that's all!

H.
Marry, enough o' Conscience! And, good Feeake,
Too mich by hauf, if Consciences may speeak!
What mak' han yo', to mak' another Mon
T' swear agen his? What cawn ye that, Sur John?

Sir J.
We cannot make him, Man, unless he will.

H.
Sur, Sur! It comes to the same Mischief still,—
Or warse, if oather; for, if he fears God,
And winno' fwear, then yo tan up the Rod.
Here's a Commandment kept that God has spokken;
And he mun pay for one o' yo'rs that's brokken.
I say agen that, shift it haoo yo win,
Sur John, yo're guilty of a wicked Sin.

Sir J.
Harry, as Justice of the Peace, I'm tied
For public Peace and Safety to provide;
So are my Brethren. Now, with this Intent,
The Law directs our Summons to be sent.
If disaffected Persons will not give
The Constitution under which they live
Proper Security, they must be made

287

To feel the Force of what they would evade.
If we should suffer these non-juring Knaves,
We shall in Time be Papists all, and Slaves.

H.
“Papists and Slaves?” Whoy, good Sur John, the Pope, —
The Deel himsel, con do no moor, I hope,
Then tempt a Mon to utter with his Tung,
I'th' Name o' God whot he believes is rung.
Mun we be Papists, if we dunnot make
A Mon belie his Maker for aoor Sake?
Mun we be Slaves, except we forcen Foke
To come and put their Necks into aoor Yoke?

Sir J.
Thou dost, not, Harry, understand the laws.

H.
Whoy, han they, Sur, sich desperate lung Claws,
That a Mon's Conscience, hid within his Hairt,
Mun be scratch'd aoot on't by 'um? For my Pairt,
Laws or noa Laws, I'm sure we shidden do
As we aw wishen to be done unto.

Sir J.
Good Faith, thou preachest tolerably well;
But would'st thou have thy Neighbour to rebel?
To make Disturbances in Church and State,
And not be punish'd till it is too late?
Magistrates, Man, must have a Care in Time,
And in the Bud must nip the sprouting Crime.

H.
Nip it i'th' Bud? And so, it mun be doon,
Yo thinken then, by punishing too soon?
Magistrates, Sur, so haesty and so hard,
Ma'en aw th' Rebellions 'at thir ar i'th' Ward.
Let Foke be quiet; when they are so, Sur,
And noather Church nor State will mak a Stur.

288

But to be made to pay, or be forswaurn,
Vexes 'em booath, as sure as yo are baurn.
Whoy mun yo mak my Naibor pay sich Scores?
His Sowl is his, as weel as yoars is yoars.

Sir J.
The Law, not I, obliges him to pay.

H.
Whoy win yo tak that Law agen him, hay?
If yo mun do't, whether yo win or not,
Are yo a Papist, or a Slave, or whot?
Tell me, if this faoo Play be not yoar ooan,
Whot mun yo pay for letting him alooan?

Sir J.
I pay? No Law obliges me to that.
What is it, Harry, that thou would'st be at?

H.
Whoy, Sur, at this:—when Laws ma'en mich adoo,
Monny a wise Mon is made into a Foo;
Freeten'd, o'th' sudden, aoot of his reet Sense,
He'll sell his Wits and aw, to save his Pence.
But, pray, whot Mon, with hauf o' yoar good Thout,
Wou'd do his Naibor an ill Turn for Nout?
When he himsel gets nere a Farthing by't
But shaum of hurting aoot of arrant Spite?
This is the Wark, if yo'n consider weel,
Not of a Mon, Sur John, but of a Deel.
If one cud tak a Look i' that Mon's Breast,
We shudden see him what they cawn “possest.”

Sir J.
Thou mak'st a Devil of me;—very well!

H.
Nou, nou; it's yo that ma'en one o' yo'rsel.
I'd make a Mon o' ye, Sur, if I coud,—
A gradely Mon, that seeches to do good,

289

And not to labbor Books, and sarch a Cawse
For hately Doings in hard-favord Laws.

Sir J.
Thou “sarches” me, I'm sure! Where hast thou had
This same Book-searching Information, Lad?
We have, 'tis true, been studying in what Shape
We best might catch thy Neighbour in a Scrape;
But, by thy Talking, we might spare the Pains,
And better Bus'ness might employ our Brains.

H.
Ay, marry, meeght it! Thooas that letten aoot
Their Breeans to Mischief mit as weel be baoot;
Whoile they done so, it con be no greeat News
That Fokes shid caw 'um summat warse then Foos.

Sir J.
Harry, thou'rt got into a talking Cue.

H.
Yo gin me Leeaf, Sur, do not ye?

Sir J.
I do.—
Now, prithee, tell me then, and talk away,
Nor mince the Matter: what do People say?

H.
I'll tell o', Sur. “Aoor Justices,” they sen,
“That tan themsels to be sich loyal Men,
Makken moor Enemies to th' King and Craoon
Till onny Twenty Men besoide i'th' Taoon.
They praisen mich this Government of aoors,
Becose it has no ‘harbittary Paoors;’
For ‘Trade, Religion, Liberties enjoy'd,
It sheds aw th' Governments i'th' Ward besoide:

290

His ooan Oppinion e'ry Mon may take;
Noa Parsecution in't for Conscience' Sake:’
Monny sich Words they han, as smooth as Oyl,—
And Deeds as sharp as Alegar aw th' whoile.
They getten to a corner by 'umsels,
And there they done, i'th' Ward o' God, nowt elz
But tan their Books, their Bacco, and their Beer,
And conjurn up poor Fellows to appear;
And then the gost'ring—what'n ye caw it?—Corum,
Mun huff, and ding, and carry aw before 'um.”

291

Sir J.
A fine Description, truly, and quite free!
But, Harry, how did it appear to thee?
Could'st thou not find, where thou hast been to dine,
One Word to say for an old Friend of thine?

H.
Yoi, Sur, I said as mich as e'er I coud;
But whaint ado I had to mak it good.
This Summons, Sur, this Summons! fie upon't!
Whot argufi'd my Tung agen yoar Hondt?
Whene'er they thrutten that into my Dish,
It strick me dumb aootreet as onny Fish.
Had I gooan on,—I know, Sur, what I know,—
They'd soon ha' said I wur as bad as yo.
Yo conno' think,—if I may be believ'd,—
Yo conno' think, Sur, haoo my Heart wus griev'd!
I'd fain ha' yo belov'd, Sur, in yoar Turn,
As aw your Anciters before ye wurn;
And I believe that none o' th' Race before,
Be who they win, cou'd e'er desarve it moor;
If thooas good Qualities that God has gin ye,
Mit but appear withaoot, as they are in ye.
But i' this one faoo Pleck, I need mun say,
Yo generaten fro' 'um quite away.
I hope you tan it i' good Part, Sur John;
I meean to sarve ye,—

Sir J.
Honest Lad, go on!
I think thou dost; thee I shall sooner heed

292

Than twenty prating Wiseacres. Proceed!

H.
Whoy then, Sur John, if I may be so boud,
Good-Will, when getten, is as good as Goud.
Yoar Faither left ye here a foine Estate,
He sout his Naibors Love, and not their Hate;
His Principles wurn of another Mak'
From thooas 'at yo han been advois'd to tak'.
This greeat lung Ooath he ne'er coud understond;
If yo bin wiser, naoo yo han his Lond,
Better for yo; and yet I conno' skill
Haoo it shid happen;—but be that as't will,
Yet for yoar Faither's Seeake 'at's deead and gone,
Yo shid'n consider wi' yoar sel, Sur John,
Whether it's hondsom for his Son and Heir
To foorce loike-moinded Men to come and swear.
Monny han said that seen ye so behave:
“Sur John here tramples on his Faither's Grave.”
If, when th' oud Mester wur alive himsel,
The Justices, for Fear he shid rebel,
Had usen'd him as yo done other Foke,
Yoar Wheels had wanted monny a pratty Spoke!
Had he been made, agen his ooan Consent,
A Papish, Sur, by Act o' Parliament,
Yo woud'n ha' caw'd 'um by their proper Name
That did the Thing, tho naoo yo done the same.
Th' oud Mon's hard yoozitch woud ha' raisd yoar Blood—

Sir J.
So really, Harry, I believe it would;
I should not quietly have sitten still,
Had any of 'em us'd my Father ill.

293

H.
Whoy, Sur, and conno' yo think at it, then,
And show some Marcy naoo to other Men?
Suppose this Mon, becose he conno' think
Just as yo done, had nooather Meeat nor Drink;
Coud no', becose 'at Laws ma'en sich a Paoose,
Wark in his Bus'ness and maintain his Haoose;
But aw his Children wurn to beg i'th' Street,—
Wouden yo think it sich a blessèd Seet?
Woud no' yo say, at seeing Rags and Ruin:
“The Deel wus in me! What wus I adoing?”—
Yo gan me Leeaf to tauk, Sur,—

Sir J.
So I did,
And must confess that I am fairly chid.
Thy honest Bluntness oft has made me smile,
Harry, but I ne'er hed thee all the while;
Now, I believe that thou hast gain'd thy End
And I, a better Temper tow'rds thy Friend.

H.
Eh, Sur? God send it! If yoar Heart wur oppen'd
To loving Thouts, haoo Naibors wou'd be gloppen'd!
Before this Justicing made sich a Pother,
Haoo naiburly we liven'd with t'one t'other!
But naoo,—

Sir J.
Well, Harry, thou hast said enough;
I hope, I shan't hereafter be so rough;
Nor sharpen, when they come within my Sphere,
Laws of themselves sufficiently severe.
When thou shalt see him, tell thy Friend from me,
If he'll be quiet, quiet he shall be.
Tell all thy Neighbours that the Thing is done:
The Father's Memory shan't reproach the Son.
Tho' all his Thoughts and mine were not the same,

294

His Worth and Virtues shall direct my Aim.
And, now I have confest to thee, Friend Harry,
We'll call another Cause, if thou canst tarry;
This thou hast richly merited to win.—
Here! Who's in waiting? bring a Tankard in!

H.
Nay, Sur, yo mun excuse me, if yo pleeasen;
Yoar Kindness here in harkening to Reeason
Has made my Hairt (dry as a Kex, Sur John),
Weeter and leeter till good Likkor con.
I'll go my Ways, Sur, whooam afore it's dark,
And let aoor Naibors know o' this Day's Wark;
I lung to see 'um feeling whot I feel,
At present, Sur, God bless ye, and farewell!

295

VERSES CONTRIBUTED TO THE CHESTER COURANT.

296

I. TOM THE PORTER.

297

As Tom the Porter went up Ludgate-Hill,
A swingeing Show'r oblig'd him to stand still.
So, in the Right-hand Passage thro' the Gate
He pitch'd his Burden down, just by the Grate,
From whence the doleful Accent sounds away:
“Pity—the Poor—and Hungry—Debtors—pray.”

298

To the same Garrison from Paul's Church-yard
An half-drown'd Soldier ran to mount the Guard.
Now Tom, it seems, the Ludgateer, and he
Were old Acquaintance, formerly, all three;
And as the Coast was clear, by cloudy Weather,
They quickly fell into Discourse together.

'Twas in December, when the Highland Clans
Had got to Derbyshire from Preston Pans,
And struck all London with a general Panic;—
But mark the Force of Principles Britannic!

The Soldier told 'em fresh the City News,
Just piping hot from Stockjobbers and Jews:
Of French Fleets landing, and of Dutch Neutrality;
Of Jealousies at Court amongst the Quality;

299

Of Swarston Bridge, that never was pull'd down;
Of all the Rebels in full March to Town;
And of a hundred Things beside, that made
Lord May'r himself and Aldermen afraid,—
Painting with many an Oath the Case in View;
And ask'd the Porter what he thought to do?

“Do?” says he, gravely; “what I did before;
What I have done these thirty Years, and more:
Carry, as I am like to do, my Pack,
Glad to maintain my Belly by my Back.
If that but hold, I care not, for my Part,
Come as come will, 'tshall never break my Heart.
I don't see Folks that fight about their Thrones,
Mind either Soldiers' Flesh, or Porters' Bones.
Whoe'er gets better, when the Battle's fought,
Thy Pay nor mine will be advanc'd a Groat.—

300

But, to the Purpose! Now we are met here,
I'll join, if t'will, for one full Mug of Beer.”

The Soldier, touch'd a little with Surprise
To see his Friend's Indifference, replies:
“What you say, Tom, I own, is very good,
But—our Religion!” and he d---n'd his Blood—
“What will become of our Religion?”—“True!”
Says the Jail-Bird; “and of our Freedom too?
If the Pretender,” rapt he out, “comes on,
Our Liberties and Properties are gone!”

And so the Soldier and the Pris'ner join'd
To work up Tom into a better Mind.
He staring dumb, with Wonder struck and Pity,
Took up his Load and trudg'd into the City.

II. ON TESTS.

This contrast of Dissenter and Nonjuror
Shews, to be sure, which Side is much the surer:

301

Strong the Dissenter's, the Nonjuror's weak,
Who vainly for himself attempts to speak.
Says he—“That all Men by an equal Right
Judge for themselves, according to their Light;
That no Man's Conscience should be rul'd by Force,
Which needs not good ones, and makes bad ones worse;
That to impose however true a Creed,
Is what the World calls Popery, indeed;
That all, by Turns, lament the common Grief
Of Penal Laws to punish Men's Belief.”
All these are Arguments (it is confest)
With a Dissenter—that won't bear the Test.

III. MISS ---'S OBSERVATION UPON THE LATIN MOTTO.

303

Folks are grown witty upon one another;
But what's the Meaning of that Latin, Brother,
That stands a-top there of the lowest Wit?
“Why, ‘Indignation makes the Verse.’”—“That's it.
But, pray now, if one turn the Observation,
What's Latin for ‘The Verse makes Indignation?’”

IV. LOVERS OF LIBERTY.

“Balbus, methinks, the Friends of Liberty
Who preach up Freedom should let all be free.”—
“Aye, so think I; but you mistake the name:
These are not Friends, but Lovers of that same;
And Lovers are, you know, such selfish Elves,
They always keep their Mistress to themselves.”

304

V. DE FACTO LOYALTY.

Success the First begot Success the Second;
And then, when Queen Majority had reckon'd,

305

Success the Third was born; when he was dead,
Success the Fourth was crownèd in his stead.
So on, by Arithmetical Progression,
The Numbers christen'd give the true Succession.
Hats, Caps, and Bonnets do but talk at Random;
This is the Fact.—Quod erat demonstrandum.

VI. ON THE NATURALISATION BILL.

306

Sir, in my Mind, this is but half a Bill;
There wants the proper Tally to it still:
“Provided also, That We home-bred Caitiffs
Do clear the Coast for these Outlandish Natives.”
Let, for our Country's sake, this Clause remain,
And it shall have no Subject to complain.

307

Establish then, O Wisdom of the Nation,
For Foreigners a Naturalisation;
For English, Welsh and Scotch—a general Transportation.

VII. ON THE SAME.

Come, all ye foreign strolling Gentry;
Into Great Britain make your Entry;
Abjure the Pope, and take your Oaths,
And you shall have Meat, Drink and Clothes.

VIII. ON THE SAME.

So Romulus his Empire founded whilom,
And made for Foreign Helpmates an Asylum;

308

By whose Assistance, you may read in Livy,
O'er all the country round he rid Tantivy;
From ev'ry Quarter sturdy Villains ran,
And crown'd his Naturalisation-Plan.

IX. ON THE SAME.

With Languages dispers'd, Men were not able
To top the Skies, and build the Tow'r of Babel;
But, if to Britain they shall cross the Main,
And meet by Act of Parliament again,—
Who knows, when all together they repair,
How high a Castle may be built in Air?

X. ON THE SAME.

This Act reminds me, Gen'men, under Favour,
Of old John Bull, the Hair-Merchant and Shaver.
John had a Sign put up, whereof the Writing
Was strictly copied from his own inditing,
Under the painted Wigs, both Bob and Full:
“Moast Munny paid for living Here.—
John Bull.”

309

XI. ADVERTISEMENT UPON THE SAME.

Now upon Sale, a Bankrupt Island,
To any Stranger that will buy Land.—
The Birthright, note, for further Satis-
Faction, is to be thrown in gratis.

XII. THE RUMP PARLIAMENT: A HISTORICAL QUESTION.

310

Since Philalethes will indite no more,
John English comes to smooth the Blunder o'er.
He writes about it, and about it writes;
What he has read, and never read, recites;
Much vers'd in History, he ends his Puff:
“I might myself have made it.”—Like enough!
'Tis oft the case of learnèd Heretoforians,
Who read much History,—but no Historians.

XIII. ON THE SAME.

Hotspur was very ready to turn out,
And write irregularly Rump about;
But when his Trash Correctors came to read,
They altered “Jackanapes!” to “Pert indeed!”
Passing by Nonsense in all other Shapes,
Why should they turn thee out, poor Jackanapes?

311

XIV. THE GHOST OF THE RUMP.

The Ghost of Hamlet! Was that Ghost a Rump?
Then, make in Shakespeare one Correction plump;
And in its Speech to Hamlet, Sir, be bold
To spell aright: “I could a Tail unfold.”

312

XV. TO MISO-MANC. AND COMPANY.

Slain is the good old Cause, when Philaleth.,
A Rumpish Martyr, blunder'd to his Death;

313

The Fight renew'd by English Jack and Hal,
They worse confound the matter than Philal.
With three such Champions sure the Cause will thrive,—
One dead, and Two that are not yet alive.

XVI. HOW DIFFERS HISTORY, PRITHEE, FROM HISTORIANS?

Why, thus, dear Miso, deep in Hist'ry read:
You contradicted what Historians said;
By Proof, then, plain as one can well desire,
Your Hist'ry differs from Historians, Squire.
When your great Hist'ry-Reader makes a Blunder.
Another time be wiser, and knock under!

XVII. WHITWORTH'S VICARIOUS SUFFERINGS.

Whitworth's Soliloquy Thereupon.

Yes! I do suffer for the Jackanapes,—
For more than one, that lead me into Scrapes;
In Paper-War they blunder, huff and vapour.
De'el take the Wars,—they'll ruin the poor Paper!

314

Answer Thereunto.

Why for poor “Jackanapes” should Whitworth suffer,—
For what belongs to “English Hal” the Huffer?
A true Original the Printer shielded:
He did not suffer; but alas! “poor De'el” did.

XVIII. BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

Answer Thereunto.

“ Dear me! has Wit and Verse, at last, no more
'Gainst Rump and Commonwealth to say in Store?
'Gainst Whig Opponents—” 'Tis all one, you see,
To say a Word 'gainst any of the Three,—
Rump, Commonwealth or Whig.—Birds of a Feather,
Proverb and Poet show, will flock together.

XIX. OAK-APPLE DAY.

315

A Stranger, once, on Restoration-Day
Rode through a Town, and then asked where it lay?
When, having learned that he came through the Place,
He turned his Horse; and, pondering the Case:
“Come through it?” says he; “so I thought I should,
But missed my Road in riding through that Wood.”

XX. THE CONTRAST BETWEEN TWO EXECUTED LORDS.

321

I.

As Crowds attended when the fatal Blow
Took off Kilmarnock and Balmerino,
Men were surpris'd that Warriors on a Side
Should in the common Field of Death divide.
By the same Path descending to the Grave,
In the same Cause so widely to behave!
What turns of Anger, Pity, Censure, Praise,
Did such a Contrast of Deportment raise!

II.

One, struck with Horror at Rebellion's Crime,
Seeks by Repentance to redeem the Time;

322

Begs of offended Majesty the Grace,
That future Conduct may the past efface;
Would live, but only till his Blood be spilt
In such a Cause as may atone for guilt;
Would die, if such shall be his Sovereign's Doom;
And, praying for his Race, approach the Tomb.

III.

Approach he must, and be the first to bleed;
The Scene beheld, 'tis terrible indeed!—
The sable Scaffold, Coffin, Axe, and Block,
And circling Eyes on him concenter'd, shock,
Yet not confound. Instructed to prepare,
He meets with Death too serious to dare;
Receives, his Crime avow'd, and Mercy clos'd,
Th' impending Stroke, reluctantly compos'd.

IV.

The other, firm and steady in the Cause
Of injur'd Monarchs and of ancient Laws,
By change of Conduct never stain'd his Fame,—
Child, Youth, and Man, his Principles the same.
How greatly generous his last Adieu,
That from his Friend one more Confession drew!
He clears his Prince's Honour and his own,
And only sorrows not to die alone.

V.

“Pledge me,” he cries, “one Step to Heav'n, my Friends!”
And, in his wonted Dress, thereon ascends;

323

Scorning, when past through Life with Conscience clear,
In Death to play the Hypocrite, and fear.
His Head adornèd with the Scottish Plaid,
His Heart confiding upon God for Aid,
He, as a Guest, invites his welcome Fate,
Gallant, Intrepid, Fearless, and Sedate.

VI.

What shall we say?—If both of them were bad,
The one was Coward, and the other Mad.
If one was wrong, the other in the Right,
The which,—'tis plain to ev'y Party-Wight.
If each obey'd the Dictates of his Breast,
And of true Worth Sincerity be Test;
Then, to Kilmarnock's Penitence give Quarter,
And write Balmerino a valiant Martyr.

324

XXI. A GENUINE DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GENTLEWOMAN AT DERBY AND HER MAID JENNY,

IN THE BEGINNING OF DECEMBER, 1745.

325

Mrs.
Jenny , come here: I'm told that you have been
To see this Man.

Jen.
What Man?

326

Mrs.
Why, you have seen
The young Pretender, Hussy, at his Lodging.
Is it not so?—Come, tell me without dodging!

Jen.
Why, really, Madam, I was passing by,
Thinking no harm, not in the least, not I;
And somebody or other that I met—

Mrs.
What somebody?

Jen.
Indeed now, I forget;—
Said what a handsome Man he was; and so,
Begging your Pardon, Madam, I did go;
But had no ill Intention in the Thing.
A Cat may look, as Folks say, at a King.

Mrs.
“King” do you call him, ye rebellious Slut?

Jen.
I did not call him so, good Madam, but—

Mrs.
But me no butting; not another Day
Shall any Rebel in my Service stay;
I owe you Twenty Shillings,—there's a Guinea;
Pack up, and go about your Business, Jenny!
Matters are come indeed to a fine Pass!
The next Thing, I suppose, you'll go to Mass.

Jen.
“To Mass?” What Road? For I don't know the Place,
Nor could I tell which Way to turn my Face.

Mrs.
“Turn?” You'll turn Papist, and believe Black's White.

Jen.
Why, bless me, Madam, I han't lost my Sight!

Mrs.
And then the Priest will bid you cut my Throat.

327

Jen.
Dear loving Mistress; how you talk by Rote!
I would not hurt a Hair of your dear Head,
Were all the Priests in Mass to kill me dead;
And,—I don't say it with Design to brag,—
Since I've been with you, you han't lost a Rag.
I “cut your Throat” because I saw the P---e,
And never thought of “Black” or “White” e'er since!

Mrs.
Good! This is you that did not call him K---g;
And is not P---e, ye Minx, the self-same Thing?

Jen.
You are so hasty, Madam, with your Snarls!
Would you have me call the Gentleman plain Ch---s?

328

Mrs.
“P--- Ch---” again! Speak out your Treason Tales:
“His R---l H---s Ch---s the P--- of W---s!”

Jen.
Oh, Madam! You say more of him than me;
For I said nothing of his Pedigree.

Mrs.
“Pedigree!” Fool! What would the Wench be at?
What Pedigree has any Bastard Brat?

Jen.
Nay, I'm no Harold; be he what he will,
He is a charming Man to look at still.
When I was got in there, amongst the Throng,
His R---l H---s—

Mrs.
Hussy, hold your Tongue!

Jen.
You call'd him so yourself but just e'en now.

Mrs.
Yes, so I did; but then, the Manner how?

Jen.
And will you turn a Servant out o' Doors,
Because her Manners ben't so fine as yours?

Mrs.
Jenny! I say, you had no Business neither
To see the Creature, or go near him either.

Jen.
“Creature?” Nay, Pardon, Madam, he's no Creature.
But a sweet comely Christian, ev'ry Feature.

Mrs.
“No Creature!” Would you worship him, you Dunce?

Jen.
I would you were to see his Worship once!

Mrs.
How can the Girl cross Questions like a Fool!
Or think that I should go and see the Tool!

329

Jenny! tho' you have done so much amiss,
I pity such an Ignorance as this.
If you'll go mind your Work as heretofore,
And keep at home, I'll pass the Matter o'er.

Jen.

Ah, Madam! you're so good! Let me but speak
My simple Mind, or else my Heart will break!
I've such a strange foreboding in my Heart:
If you but saw him once, we should not part:
Do see him once! What harm is there in seeing?
If after that there be not an agreeing,
Then call me twenty Rebel Sluts: if you,
When you have seen him, ben't a Rebel too.

Now, whether Jenny did persuade her Dame,
Is not, as yet, betrumpeted by Fame:
Sometimes there happen to be secret Views,
That are not put into the public News:
But, by Report, that private Rumour gives,
She'll never part with Jenny while she lives.

XXII. VERSES SPOKEN EXTEMPORE BY A SOLDIER THE DAY AFTER HE RECEIVED A FLANNEN WAISTCOAT, THROUGH THE BOUNTY OF THE QUAKERS.

330

This friendly Waistcoat keeps my Body Warm;
Intrepid now I march, and fear no Harm.
Beyond a Coat of Mail, a sure Defender;
Proof against Pope, the Devil, and Pretender!
The Highland Plaid of no such Pow'r can boast;
Arm'd thus, I'll plunge the foremost in their Host,
Exert my utmost Art, my utmost Might,
And fight for those whose Creed forbids to fight.

XXIII. ONE THING WANTING.

331

When, once, a King enquir'd (no Matter who),
How many Requisites in War would do,
The Monarch thought the Statesman had been funny,
Who answer'd: “Three, Sir: Money, Money, Money.”
But right he answer'd, as Affairs went then,
If Money would procure Allies and Men.
But modern Ministers keep up the Tune
And “Money, Money, Money!” cries each One.
But here the Diff'rence is: these modern Great
Buy only Promises whene'er they treat.
Tho' Money once suffic'd, we must allow,
Some further Requisite is wanting now,
Some higher Quality, to play our Part.—
Say, P---m, is it Honesty, or Art?

332

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

Occasioned by a Sermon intituled “The False Claims to Martyrdom consider'd; a Sermon preach'd at St. Anne's Church, Manchester, November 2nd, 1746, being the Sunday after All Saints' Day, by Benj. Nichols, M.A., Assistant Curate of the said Church, and Chaplain to the Right Honourable the Earl of Uxbridge.”

335

Dear Sir,—I'm really sorry, that our Friend
So far th' ungrateful Subject should extend.
No Stranger He to Nature's tender Ties:
And fewer Words, he tells us, might suffice,
But that the Character of Martyrdom
Had been disgrac'd—poor Panic Dread! by whom?

This groundless Fancy swimming in his Head,
He neither spares the Living nor the Dead.

336

Careless of Accuracy, Place, or Time,
He blackens All,—Life, Principle, or Crime;
Pursues th' Unfortunate beyond the Grave,
With low-plac'd Hints of Saving,—not to save.
Heav'n's lowest Place he argues to forbid,
Unless they died—not as he knew they did.
When he bestow'd this generous Adieu,
Their last and dying Sentiments he knew;
And making such as he embrac'd the Test
Of Happiness, all Hope of being blest,
By a new Priestly Pow'r to loose and bind,
To Penitence impossible confin'd.
Happy for them if so and so they died!
This was to mock Repentance, and deride.
May he repent—or whither must we trace
The saving Ifs that never could take Place?

What Obligation to the Public draws
His forward Zeal beyond the public Laws?
Ev'n rigid Laws, when they condemn, condole,
And pray to God for Mercy on the Soul.
Does then the Gospel, Sir, in his Account,
Or does the Saviour's Sermon on the Mount,
The Gospel's Gospel, does the chosen Bliss
Lead him to more Severity than this?

337

O Divine Sermon! little understood,
If they who preach thee, not content with Blood,
Justly perhaps, perhaps ******** shed,
(Do Thou determine, Judge of Quick and Dead!)
By this devoted Earth's all transient Scene
Measure the Glories of eternal Reign;
Adjust its martyr'd Ranks, and seem to fear,
Lest Heav'n should err—and Jacobites be there!

I am surpris'd, that one of his good Sense
Should write so harshly on a mere Pretence;
Or think of banishing a Soul from Heav'n,
Because a Name had not been rightly giv'n.
Say, that the Living misapply the Word,—
To judge the Dead is shockingly absurd.
Martyr, 'tis granted, has a sacred Use;
And yet, sometimes, a Meaning more diffuse.
Preachers don't scruple (I could name the Page)
To talk of Martyrs to tyrannic Rage,
On dignified Improvements to insist,
And make Additions—to no Romish List.
What then? Must ev'ry Papist needs expel
The whole mistaken Calendar to Hell?
Or such unchristian Fury, if they did,

338

Should not a preaching Protestant forbid?
Is he oblig'd to imitate the worst
That Rome can practise, and pronounce Men curst?
Can diff'rent Politics, or diff'rent Faith,
Afford a Plea for such enormous Wrath?

No; but against an Inference so hard
He did, it seems, particularly guard.
Pray, when his warm Invectives he dispens'd,
What Applications did he guard against,
Lest Parent, Child, or Widow's Heart should ache,
Such as no Mortal could forbear to make.
What Ground for griev'd Relations to resent?
Why understood they what the Preacher meant?
Why knew they not, that touching his Repute
Was the true Meaning of—to persecute?
That gave him Right to comment on the Text,
And claim the great Beatitude annext.

Ye Friends, who wish'd his Reputation safe,
Say, why advise him to this printed Chafe?

339

If the Resentments of the meekest Men
Rise against those, according to his Pen,
Who through inhuman Prejudice divest
Of ev'ry tender Sentiment the Breast:
Why renew theirs, who felt in his Harangue
Of ev'ry height'ning Epithet the Pang?
Who heard the righteous Oratory stretch
To “Rebel”—“Traitor”—“Malefactor”—“Wretch,”—
To Phrases only accurate to stain
Dead Memory, and give the Living Pain?
Sure tender Sentiments forbid the Gust
Of “Executions”—“necessary”—“just”—
Yea, even “merciful”—for such, it seems,
Ours, as he calls them, the good Preacher deems.

Had one, who, nicely sensible of Fame,
Counts many Deaths a Trifle to his Name,
Whom the most natural Resentments grate,
With gentler Mention touch'd unhappy Fate;
Had that Regard, which he would seem to own,
To Bosoms big with recent Griefs been shown;

340

On Dead, on Living, had he thrown less Dirt:
Nor Truth, nor Christian Charity, were hurt;
Nor would Intention's Honesty be spoil'd,
Though even Enemies were less revil'd.

But amongst them, who never wish'd him harm,
In his own Flock, to be so desp'rate warm;
In his own Flock, the Objects of his Love,
Where once he aim'd to please and to improve;
Nothing for native Pity to forbear,
To dwell relentless on the Theme severe,—
Alas! how Zeal of Knowlege gets the start,
When once the Head is warmer than the Heart!
Then is perceiv'd the Popery of those
Who are, in Tongue, the keenest of its Foes;
Rail at Ambition, Bigotry, and Rome,
And hate abroad what they caress at home.

Their Congregations legally are teaz'd,
And all is Clamour, if they are not pleas'd.
False, gross, indecent, ev'ry Thing they say;
Each Word iniquitous, but—print away!
Their Lessons, thus advisedly imprest,

341

Must lay the People's Prejudice to Rest:
Their Passions cool, they will be work'd upon,
To read with Pleasure, what they heard with none:
Praise or Rebellion, the Dilemma now;
Their Teacher's Reas'ning they must needs allow;
Be mov'd, when Things in their true Light are shown,
To take his Conscience, and give up their own;
To like, in Pulpits, Arbitrary Pow'r,
And Seats subdued to Tyrants of an Hour.

Had some State Holyday—Thanksgiving, Fast—
Put him in Mind of cooking such Repast,
He might have pleaded this Excuse, at least,
They need not come, who shall dislike the Feast.
But wherein lies of that Excuse the Force?
“The Sermon fell in with the common Course
Of Preaching,”—how fell in? What, of itself?
No; it had lain compos'd upon the Shelf,
Ready prepar'd for Numbers forc'd to hear
The Bar-like Sounds, and shed the helpless Tear.
'Twas not a sudden Fit of Complaisance;
It fell in—by premeditated Chance.
Free to have spar'd an Audience, wherein
Not to renew their Sorrow was no Sin,
He chose, as one to whom it did belong,
For social Peace to irritate the Throng.
Laymen might hide of Laity the Woes;

342

The Clergy's Office is to interpose.
He acts in Character, while he confines
Both Heav'n and Earth to what himself opines;
Points the dire Stroke at Persons not alive,
And then, at all who pity and survive.

This kind of Conduct,—from Affairs of State,
And Temp'ral Laws, to fix eternal Fate,—
Did Christ and his Apostles, to apply
His own plain Question, ever justify?
“They never meddled with the Rights of Kings.”
How comes He then to meddle with such Things?
“Nor they nor any ancient Martyr died,
A Crown's disputed Title to decide.”
No;—nor to such a titular Dispute
The sacred Function did they prostitute.
For sceptred Rule they neither drew the Sword,
Nor of an earthly Kingdom preach'd the Word.
If the Religion of these Days persuade

343

The Christian Priests to drive this worldly Trade,
In, with such Wrangling, if the Pulpit chimes,
How are we fall'n off from the ancient Times?
'Tis true, they preach,—but how? As Pleaders bawl;
Not as the Ancient Christians did, at all.
They preach, but what Religion? Of a Throne,
By Christ and His not meddled with, they own;
For such Attachment to a reigning Mode,
As Christ, Apostles, Martyrs, all explode.

How was it possible to think of them,
And raise such Wrath about a Diadem?
Of Christ the Love and Meekness to recall,
Who bore the Sins and Suff'rings of us all,
And then directly, with unbearing Zeal,
One half the Sermon with one half repeal?
Here Gospel-Pity and Compassion shines;
Law, Death, and Judgment, fill succeeding Lines.
First is display'd the Doctrine of the Cross;
That of the Gibbet then supplies its Loss.
How Heav'n alone Men's Consciences can try,
And He Himself condemns them by-and-by.
Here in one Page the Living Saints are priz'd,

344

And in the next the Dead ones villainis'd.
One while Religion, to obtain its Ends,
On its own native Energy depends:
Worldly Dominion, and the Lust of Rule,
Reverse the Doctrine of the Christian School:
Our meek and holy Lord had no Intent
To found His Church on such Establishment;
The Force of Truth, persuasive of the Will,
Was, and must be, Religion's Armour still.
These Things the Preacher had no sooner spoke,
But thus his next immediate Words revoke:
“It is oblig'd, in order to enforce
It's own intrinsic Pow'rs, to have Recourse
To Civil Pow'r”—Adieu, then, Force Innate,
By which the Church did once convert the State;
By which blind Heathen, persecuting Jew,

345

And the great Antichrist, it overthrew;
By Beauty, Truth, and passive Virtue then,
Self-recommended to the Hearts of Men,
With its Blest Founder's Spirit once endued,
Firmness of Soul, and Christian Fortitude;
Spite of the World, it conquer'd worldly Pow'rs:
—Now free, thank God, from Danger under Ours!

Yes, to be sure—look round about, and name
The Civil Pow'r, that does not say the same;
The Bigot Priest, that does not thus maintain
His Church of Rome, Geneva, France, or Spain:
In Times and Places though they differ quite,
Pulpit-Possession makes all Doctrines right.

'Twas this that kindled the religious Blaze
Of Heretics, so call'd, in Marian Days;
And here, by one of Wording false afraid,
Martyrs without the Church's Office made;
By one, whose Pages after that refer,
For real Martyrs and their Lives to her;

346

Who bids us learn from her Injunctions too,
To whom the Honour of that Name is due.

Let Protestants attend then, as they ought,
To her Injunctions, and be better taught.
Whom has she so distinguish'd, and enjoin'd
Her Sons to call their Martyrdom to mind?
What canonisèd Villains, in the List
Of Romish Martyrs, has the Church dismist?
So often met with in a rambling Charge,
Brought against Martyrologies at large,—
Unprov'd—no matter!—'tis the taking Style:
Papists at random, right or wrong, revile!
Christianity itself in them is Fraud;
Bigots are pleas'd, and Infidels applaud.

347

For such rash Judgment, for such mean Abuse,
The Church affords her Children no Excuse.
She blames the Virulence of ev'ry Sect,
But pays all pious Characters Respect.
Whilst she endeavours, by all loving Arts,
To heal Divisions, and unite Men's Hearts,
They through the widen'd Breaches rush to storm,
And ruin what she labours to reform.
Her just Design their frantic Zeal supplants,
She left the Sinners, and they leave the Saints.

Of Saints so far from seeking the Disgrace,
'Twas their Example that she sought to trace.
She has, indeed, the Preacher might have shown,
Had he thought fit, a Martyr of her own,
A Royal Martyr—though his fatal Hour
Was fixt by those, who only could have Pow'r;
Though he, to use the Language of the Times,

348

By public Justice died for public Crimes,
When, bent against his Subjects to rebel,
On his own Head the just Resentment fell.
The Church, however, mov'd by other Laws,
Regarded not the Suff'ring, but the Cause;
Approv'd of his, unmindful of the Rights
Of all the Worthies whom our Author cites;
Of Marian Ancestors forgot to sing;
Her only Martyr was a Stuart King.

Had but our Friend, Sir, lent the Church his Voice,
And will'd, in earnest, to defend her Choice;
His Text had rather led him to expose
The real Falsehoods of Fanatic Foes;
Nor had he left her publicly defam'd
To talk of Claims that never had been claim'd.
With cool Formality, in gen'ral Terms,
The Church's Judgment feebly he affirms,
Waves her distinguish'd Act, and passes by
All those who give both Church and King the Lie;
Permits unnotic'd the Sectarian Crew
To urge her Falsehood, and her Martyrs too.

While for his own imagin'd Motto's sake,
What wild “Perhaps's” is he forc'd to make!
Of Honours that feign'd Advocates allot,
Of loading, gilding, colouring, and what not?

349

The Proof against these Nemo's, and their Traps,
And Reparations—is the poor “Perhaps.”

Had all been true, should a good-natur'd Man
Form of such posthumous Revenge the Plan?
And after Hangmen had perform'd their Parts,
Pronounce the Character, rip up the Hearts
Of those who suffer'd, guiltless they at least
Of what the Living say at the Deceas'd?

Admit, that “Martyrdom” is not the Case
Of them who suffer for a Martyr's Race;
For Prince and Country if they die, admit
“Hero” and “Patriot” to be Words more fit:
Must not a Clergyman be much at Ease
To ventilate such Niceties as these;
To play the Critic, when the poor Misled
—To answer all his Arguments—were dead?

But outward Rev'rence shewn to their Remains
Excites the Preacher's seasonable Pains.
Poor, weak Pretence, unworthy of the Gown!
The Fact is known to ev'ry Child in Town,
However cloak'd with disingenuous Hints,
The stupid Nonsense of the lying Prints.
Custom, that teaches how to treat dead Foes,

350

India to scalp, and Europe to expose,
The mildest Strokes of Justice to pursue,
Fixt up deluded Suff'rers Heads to view.
Some tender Persons the Remains so fixt
Behold with Horror and Compassion mixt.
A Widow or an Orphan, passing by,
Paid them the Honours of the weeping Eye;—
A Father, to sum up the whole Affair,
Put off his Hat, perhaps preferr'd a Pray'r.

351

From hence, the wond'rous second-sighted Ken
Of late Rebellion rising up again:
Hence, the strange Fancies of our Friend who hears
Unutter'd Notions sounding in his Ears.
The public Danger, from Attempts all quash'd,
Requires the slain Offenders to be lash'd;
Haunted by Rebel Ghosts, the Common-weal
Still hangs upon th' Assistant-Curate's Zeal.

Important Task! The Pulpit of St. Anne's
Never so flourish'd under Hooles and Bannes.

352

Poor aged Rectors They, whose utmost Speed
Seldom out-ran the common Christian's Creed!
True to their Office, but unskill'd to broach
The Secret of Political Reproach,
They took th' old-fashion'd Methods to increase
Of Social Life the Welfare and the Peace.
They did not end the Church's Common Pray'rs
With fierce Dispute of secular Affairs;
Not first the Saviour's Life and Words relate,
And then go preach the Bigotries of State;
Of Gospel-Love submissive to the Yoke,
They never sought their Hearers to provoke;
Whoe'er aspers'd them, they could bear it still
Nor ask the Type to justify the Quill.

May Age, Experience, and impartial Truth,
To reach their Mildness prompt succeeding Youth!
May he, whose Honesty I question not,
Though other Mens, too hasty, he forgot,
And forc'd a Friend's expostulating Lines,
See his Mistake, and match those meek Divines;
Leave to the low-bred O---ns of the Age
Sense to belie, and Loyalty to rage,—

353

Wit to make Treason of each Cry and Chat,
And Eyes to see false Worship in a Hat;
Wisdom and Love to construe Heart and Mien,
By the new Gospel of a Magazine!

To such Excess let wild Fanatics run,
And deeper Thought direct the Church's Son,—
Such as old Hammond, here before me, fir'd,
And pitying Love for Enemies inspir'd!
This learnèd Church-man, loyal and devout,
When told of Traitors that were put to Rout,

354

Found in his Charity for them a Share:
“Poor Souls! May God forgive them!” was his Pray'r.
His Charity nor Laws nor Rights confin'd,
Nor Politics unchristianis'd his Mind.
The faithful Subject his Allegiance kept;
The Christian Priest for routed Rebels wept.

Many the Instances of such-like Love,—
One, that, perhaps, if any can, may move:
If outward Rev'rence to a Father's Name
From one united to the Child may claim,
He will forbear hereafter to out-brave
The known Example which that Father gave.

Two Men, condemnèd for the self-same Crime,
Have suffer'd Death, though at a diff'rent Time.

355

Both their Remains distinguishèd alike,—
Father's and Son's—were stuck upon the Spike.
The first as guilty as the other, sure,
Whom filial Motives might perhaps allure!
Yet the good Rector, by whose pious Care
He was for Death instructed to prepare,
Pronounc'd him, though he never could repent
Of what he died for, a true Penitent;
Maintain'd his Credit, whom he saw refuse
The strong Temptation falsely to accuse,
To wrong his Neighbours by no Proffers brib'd.
His solemn Word who doubted, hear describ'd
“Of Christian Charity quite destitute:”—
Common Humanity disowns the Brute.

He thought, though Men as Malefactors died,
They might persist, where Conscience was the Guide;
The Marks of true Sincerity not want,
And unconvincèd safely not recant.
He did not see th' unpardonable Sin
Of that Opinion which the Man was in,—
Not held from obstinate perverse Despite,
But just Regard to what he thought was right.
Fruitless Attempts to change the constant Mind
Of one so full persuaded he declin'd;
All other Crimes right heartily confest,
He left that Point to God and his own Breast.

Great the Regard to Conscience, when sincere;
To this both Priest and Penitent adhere.
The Penitent, though in their Prince's Name

356

They differ'd, hop'd their Saviour was the same;
Begg'd that the Sacrament of Christian Love
Might be his Passport to the Realms above.
The Priest, believing that a legal Death
Forbade not Blessing from the Living Breath,
Will'd a declarèd Rebel to partake
Of His Who died for ev'ry Sinner's sake.
See here by Friendship of a closer Band,
Than what the World's Distinctions could command,
The Clergy's Office dignified throughout,
Nor unabsolv'd a dying Man devout!

This unexceptionable Instance, Sir,
To some Respect a Son-in-Law may stir.
To what sage Rectors have maturely writ,
Novicial Warmth in Curates may submit.
Worthy indeed th' Example to prevail,
And teach, at least, our Teachers not to rail;
Too oft descending into Civil Prate,
To make the Church a Fact'ress for the State!

O that the gen'rous Temper may descend
Along with outward Blessings to our Friend!
The Father's Judgment may the Son revere,
Be to his Fortune, and his Virtues, Heir:
And, ev'ry Prejudice worn off, be brought
To teach the Gospel, as it first was taught;
To breathe the Spirit which His Martyrs breath'd,
Whose Kingdom wants no civil Sword unsheath'd;
Whose Church from killing Sentences of Law
Her mitred Chiefs still teaches to withdraw,—
Not, sure, in sacred Places to maintain

357

That which forbade their Presence in profane!
They from the Prince of Peace should, sure, derive
The Meek, the Gentle, and the “Not to strive!”
From Him the Clergy's Mission and Employ,
Who came to save Men's Lives, not to destroy.

So may he learn, Sir, to possess entire
His hearty Wish, and his sincere Desire;
To be with Pleasure and Improvement heard,
When to rash Zeal true Candour is preferr'd,
And spread, without Exception or Offence,
Good Will to all, good Manners, and good Sense!

358

SIR LOWBRED O**N,

OR, THE HOTTENTOT KNIGHT.

363

I

When Lowbred of Rochdale, good People, sat down
To encounter the Faction at Manchester Town,

364

Like old Brother Quixote, he thought it but right,
That at first setting out they should dub him a Knight!
Derry down down, hey derry down.

II

Quoth he, “Master-Tool, it comes into my Head,
Of an Order of Knighthood I somewhere have read,
Which Hottentots—upon gladly embrace;
And so will I too, for—that's my very Case.
Derry down, &c.

III

“Then let the Nonjurors and Jacobites all,
The true British Hottentots, come and instal;
And when they have liquor'd me duly and greast,
I hope they will call me Sir Lowbred, at least.
Derry down, &c.

IV

“This done, Sir, I'll answer your Verses and Tricks
In Pages one Hundred and Fifty and Six;

365

Nor will I stand much upon Reason and Sense,
For without, it shall cost you—a good Eighteen Pence.
Derry down, &c.

V

“And, Sir, I must tell you that Lowbred is worse
Than impudent Puppy for me to impurse,
That Son of a ---, and that Son of a ---,
Would never have struck me—so quite to the Core.
Derry down, &c.

VI

“In your six Rebel Lines if that Word had been mute,
The rest I should never have gone to confute;
For I found that I could not, tho', since they came out,
Never Hottentot twisted his Guts so about.
Derry down, &c.

VII

“Pray why, Master-Tool, when you knew not my Person,
Would you venture my Works to entail such a Verse on?
And all, I beseech you, for what mighty Crimes?
—Because that I would not speak Truth at all Times!
Derry down, &c.

366

VIII

“Tho' I rail'd at your Townsmen without Fear or Wit,
And first abus'd you, Sir, for what you ne'er writ,
Yet ranting or raging, whoe'er I belied,
I must tell you, Sir, 'twas—on the Government Side.
Derry down, &c.

IX

“So since you provoke me, Sir, into the Field,
I dare let you know, that I never shall yield;

367

To your fugitive Hero I am not akin,
For I shall not endanger—one Inch of a Skin.
Derry down, &c.

X

“I dare let you know, too, my humble Opinion
Of a Person that went to Bologne, or Avígnon,
Or I cannot tell whither; but what he did there,
I took an Account of—from th' Old Chevalier.
Derry down, &c.

XI

“I dare let you know too, that Birds of a Feather,
Nonjurors and Jacobites, should flock together;
When in the same Centre I make them conjoint,
You cannot deny but—I speak to the Point.
Derry down, &c.

368

XII

“And now I have told you, Sir, what I dare do,
I'll attack your Friend D---c---n by writing to you;
So then, if you please, you may stand by and look,
And mark how I empty my Commonplace-Book.
Derry down, &c.

XIII

“I'll mention my Authors both Latin and Greek,
And all to what Purpose, I'll leave you to seek:
Paracelsus, Weigelius, and eke your Friend Behmen
You'll hear of, and wonder—for what I brought them in.
Derry down, &c.

XIV

“Both Oculist Taylor and Mountebank Green
Shall lend me a Query to humour the Spleen;

369

I'll quote from old Essays, Hicks, Boulter and Baddam,
And beyond all Exception will prove—that I had 'em.
Derry down, &c.

XV

“As my Book, Sir, your Principles freely examines,
I'll talk about Mussulmans, Hindoos, and Bramines;
At Pegu and Goa your Pranks I'll display,
And quite rout the Jacobites—of Paraguay.
Derry down, &c.

XVI

“I'll eke out my Pages with Stories and Tales,
To amuse the kind Reader when Argument fails,
And upon the Nonjurors so rarely will Joke,
I'll teach them to laugh—at a Man of my Cloak.
Derry down, &c.

370

XVII

“When I battle old Churches, and Fathers and Saints,
Who furnish your Friend with his primitive Rants;
I'll shew from their Doctrines, their Manners and Rites,
They were all Knaves and Fools, and in short—Jacobites.
Derry down, &c.

XVIII

“I'll prove, that old Christians could never say true;
That he who believes 'em, his Gospel is new;
I'll silence whatever Tradition he vaunts
With Legends, and Fables,—and Travellers Traunts.
Derry down, &c.

XIX

“On Sacraments, Mysteries, Miracles all
You'll see with what decent Expression I fall;
The High-flying Churchman altho' it should shock,
What signifies that—if it please my own Flock?
Derry down, &c.

371

XX

“Pray, what were these Fathers that make such a Fuss,
But the merest old Mothers and Children to us,
Who without a Succession have learnt to succeed,
And to save our new Converts without an old Creed?
Derry down, &c.

XXI

“An honest good Protestant freely will ask,
What Bus'ness the Church has to set him a Task,

372

Since he can be sav'd without so much ado,
Tho' a Stranger to her—and an Infidel too.
Derry down, &c.

XXII

“I'll prove that your Friend is the Pope's younger Brother,
Because they both militate one against t'other;
That, for the same Reason, your Church's best Friends
Are they that will fight for Non-Con. Reverénds.
Derry down, &c.

XXIII

“As I am of the Gospel a Minister made,
Of Smut and Profaneness he'll think I'm afraid;
But thro' my whole Book the blind Bigot shall see,
That under King George we are totally free.
Derry down, &c.

373

XXIV

“I'll print in great Letters his Majesty's Name,
And who then but Rebels can think me to blame?
He must be a Felton or French Ravaillac,
That falls upon such a prime Minister's Back.
Derry down, &c.

XXV

“To give to a Church or a Priest any Gift,
I'll prove is not saving or Protestant Thrift;

374

To give not at all is a Sign of good Sense;
True Sterling Devotion—ne'er parts with the Pence.
Derry down, &c.

XXVI

“Queen Anne for poor Clergy establish'd a Pension,
And the Consequence future I—dread, Sir, to mention;
For should it last always unto the World's End,
It will all come to you and your Catholic Friend.
Derry down, &c.

XXVII

“'Tis enough that amongst a huge fabulous Host.
I have brought in St. Grat to provide you a Post;
The Rats all around he exórcis'd away,
And furnish'd my Letter with—something to say.
Derry down, &c.

XXVIII

“I have made you preferr'd for your eminent Slyness
To be Ratcatcher Gen'ral to young Royal Highness:

375

You may teach your Old England this Trick of St. Grat's;
Oh! How she would clear us of Hanover Rats!
Derry down, &c.

XXIX

“Then Britain would bargain with France's old Dupe,
And we all should be ruin'd as round as a Hoop;
Our Wives, Money, Conscience, Estates they would rifle;
Were it but the Wives only—that is but a Trifle!
Derry down, &c.

XXX

“And now, Master-Tool, I'll begin to conclude
With a Touch on your Rimes, now your Friend is subdu'd;
To Prynne in the Dunciad I'll match you at once,
And give in my Notes all the Proofs—of a Dunce.
Derry down, &c.

376

XXXI

“Many different Cities disputed full hard
Which of them gave Birth to the Grecian blind Bard;
But this Poetaster one cannot disrank,
Whose plaguy Prose-Verses have made me look blank.
Derry down, &c.

XXXII

“O thrice happy Manchester, thou hast thy Homer,
Thy own Ballad-maker, without a Misnomer:
With Mince-pies and Jellies his Glory shall gee,
And mine—if he'll make but a Ballad on me.
Derry down, &c.

XXXIII

“I'll lend him an Engine to further his Fame,
That an old Friend of mine has just put in a Frame:
He may by this new and ingenious Machine,
Grind Verses by Dozens—two Millstones between.
Derry down, &c.

377

XXXIV

“Of all your poor Writers 'tis worth the Regard,
From the Chester Courant to your Twelvepenny Bard;
If he honours me then, as I hope that he will,
I'm resolv'd to write on—and bring Grist to the Mill.”
Derry down, &c.

XXXV

Now who could refuse such a Challenge as this?
The Mill it has ground, and the Verse here it is;
And the Zealot of Rochdale, whene'er he thinks proper,
May write on, and throw himself—into the Hopper.
Derry down, &c.

XXXVI

In spite of all Mischief that he can contrive,
Let Peace and good Neighbourhood flourish and thrive,
So—blest be the Hearts of all Manchester Men,
And adieu! the Knight Scribbler, Sir LOWBRED O**N.
Derry down, down, hey derry down!

378

AGAINST AN UNGALLANT MODERN ROUNDHEAD.

Well, Sirs! such a rimer, so horribly stupid,
Sure never bore quills against Venus and Cupid.
In his hints when the ladies no meaning could find,
Now at last in plain terms he has told 'em his mind.
“Down with th' Rump” is the business;—whereof the mere letter
Has robbed of all patience this impotent fretter.
How the spring and the stars make the maggots engender,
And wade through the wits of this shallow pretender!
'Tis the year forty-nine too,—so wonder no more
At the nonsense revolved of the Roundheads of yore!

379

TO THE EARL OF HARRINGTON: AN APPEAL FOR MERCY.

A Fragment.

I

Applauded Vicerory of Ierne's isle,
Spare, for your brother's sake, the poet's style,
If an extempore address like this
Should aught contain presumptuous or amiss!

380

II

Your courteous and obliging turn of mind,
With that of other candid nobles joined,
Has struck an eager Muse, who cannot yet
The joyous talk of yesterday forget.

III

Three brothers—I shall only speak the truth,—
Three brothers, hurried by mere dint of youth,
Incautious youth, were found in arms of late,
And rushing on to their approaching fate.

IV

One, in a fever, sent up to be tried,
From jail to jail delivered over, died;
Sick and distressed, he did not long sustain
The mortal shocks of motion and of pain.

V

The third was then a little boy at school,
That played the truant from the rod and rule;
The child, to join his brothers, left his book
And arms, alas! instead of apples took.

VI

Now lies confined the poor unhappy lad—
For death mere pity and mere shame forbad,—
Long time confined, and waiting Mercy's bail
Two years amidst the horrors of a jail.

381

VII

I spare to mention what, from fact appears,
The boy has suffered in these fatal years;
Pity, at least, becomes his iron lot;—
What ruin is there that a jail has not?

VIII

He is my countryman, my noble lords,
And room for hope your genius affords.
Be truly noble; hear a well-meant prayer,
And deign my fellow-citizen to spare!

IX

Think, what the Sovereign Lord of all demands,
The King of kings, from His vicegerent's hands;
His Will, as ages after ages run,
His Holy Will eternally be done!

X

God grant to every nation every bliss,
But, Britons, more especially to this;
Lastly, in health and wealth and peace and rest,
Thy people, parent Manchester, be blest!

382

TO LADY B--- W---,

Upon her presenting the Author with the Moiety of a Lottery-Ticket.

383

I

“This Ticket is to be divided”.—Well;
To Lady Betty let these Presents tell
How much I value, Chances all apart,
This gentle token of her friendly Heart!
Without regard to Prizes or to Blanks,
My Obligation is immediate Thanks;
And here they come as hearty and as free,
As this unlook'd-for Favour came to me.

384

II

“Five Thousand Pounds, perhaps, a handsome Sum!”
Ay, but in Specie Five may never come!
That, as you please, Dame Fortune! In my Mind
I have already taken it in kind;
Am quite contented with my present Lot,
Whether you're pleas'd to second it, or not.
Chance is but Chance, however great or small;
The Spirit of a loving Gift is all.

III

Three Tickets offer'd, to make choice of one,
And write the Memorandum thereupon,
Spread in successive order as they lie:—
“May all be Prizes, for her sake,” thought I.
That upon which my Fancy chose to fix,
Was (let me see) Four hundred fifty-six:
Four, five, and six—they are, if I can read,
Numbers that regularly should succeed.

IV

Thou backward Fortune, that in Days of Yore
Hast read from six to five, from five to four,
Once, for the Lady's sake, reverse thy Spite,
And trace a luckier Circle to the right!
If thou art angry that I should despise
Thy Gifts, which never dazzl'd much my Eyes;
Now speak me fair, nor let th' Occasion slip
Of such an honourable Partnership!

385

V

Stand still a Moment on thy Bridge's Pier,
And the Conditions of Success let's hear;
Say what the Bard shall offer at thy Shrine,—
Any thing less than Worship,—and 'tis thine!
If not so quite (as they relate thee) blind,
See both our Names, which thus together join'd,
I'd rather share Ten Thousand Pounds, I own,
Than court thee for ten Millions alone!

VI

“Thousands and Millions, Sir, are pompous Sounds
For Poets, seldom conversant in Pounds.”—
Yes; but I'm only looking on th' Event
As corresponding to a kind Intent.
Should it turn out its Thousands, more or less,
I should be somewhat puzzl'd, I profess,
And must upon a Case so new, so nice,
Fly to my Benefactress for Advice.

VII

“What shall I do with such a monstrous Prize?”
But we'll postpone the Question, till it rise;

386

Let its Tomorrow manage that!—Today,
Accept the Thanks which I am bound to pay:
Enrich'd, if you permit me still to share
Your wish of Welfare, and your gen'rous Care!
The greatest Bliss, if I have any Skill,
Of human Life is mutual Good-will.

VIII

This, without Question, has your Hand confest;
This, without Flatt'ry, warms a willing Breast;
So much good Nature shown with so much Ease,
Bestow your Sums, Dame Fortune, where you please!
That kind of Satisfaction which I feel,
Comes not within the Compass of your Wheel;
No Prize can heighten the unpurchas'd Grace,
Nor Blanks the grateful Sentiments efface.

387

THOUGHTS ON RIME AND BLANK VERSE.

388

I

What a deal of impertinent Stuff at this Time
Comes out about Verses in Blank or in Rime,
To determine their Merits by critical Prose,
And treat the two Parties, as if they were Foes!—
Its allotting so gravely, to settle their Rank,
All the Bondage to Rime, all the Freedom to Blank,
Has provok'd a few Rimes to step forth, and repress
The pedantical Whim, grown to such an excess;—

II

Not to hinder the Dupes of this fanciful Wit
From retailing its Maxims, whene'er they think fit;

389

But to caution young Bards, if in danger to waste
Any Genius for Verse on so partial a Taste,
That, allowing to Blank all the real Pretence
To what Freedom it has, if supported by Sense,
For Words without any, they may not neglect
Of as free flowing Rime the delightful Effect.

III

Here are two special Terms which the Sophisters mingle,
To be Sauce for the rest,—to wit, Fetters, and Jingle;
And, because a weak Writer may chance to expose
Very ill-chosen Words to such Phrases as those,
The unthinking Reflecters sit down to their Rote,
And pronounce against Rime th' undistinguishing Vote.
Sole Original this, in the petulant School,
Of its idle Objections to Metre and Rule!

IV

For to what other Fetters are Verses confin'd,
Whether made up of blank or of metrical Kind?

390

If a Man has not Taste for poetical Lines,
Can't he let them alone, and say what he designs
Upon some other Points in his unfetter'd Way,
And contemn, if he will, all numerical Lay?
But the Fashion, forsooth, must affect the Sublime,
The Grand, the Pathetic, and rail against Rime.

V

Blank Verse is the Thing;—tho', whoever tries both,
Will find of its Fetters a plentiful Growth;
Many Chains to be needful to measure his Ground
And keep the Sublime within requisite Bound.
If a laudable Product in Rime should, perhaps,
Extort an Applause from these exquisite Chaps,
They express it so shyly, for fear of a Fetter:
“Had the Rime been neglected, it would have been better.”

VI

And so they begin with their Jingle or Rattle
(As some of them call it) the delicate Battle;
“The Sense must be cramp'd,” they cry out, “to be sure,
By the Nature of Rime, and be render'd obscure.”
As if Blank, by its Grandeur and magnified Pause,
Was secure in its Freedom from any such Flaws;
Tho' so apt in bad Hands to give Readers Offence,
By the rattling of Sound and the darkness of Sense!

391

VII

All the Arguments form'd, as they prose it along,
And twist them and twine against metrical Song,
Presuppose the poor Maker to be but a Dunce;
For, if that be not true, they all vanish at once.
If it be, what Advantage has Blank in the Case
From counting bad Verses by Unit or Brace?
Nothing else can result from the critical Rout,
But “A Blockhead's a Blockhead, with Rime or without.”

VIII

It came, as they tell us, from ignorant Moors,
And by Growth of fine Taste will be turn'd out o'Doors;—
Two insipid Conceits, at a Venture entwin'd,
And void of all Proof both before and behind!
Too old its Reception to tell of its Age;
Its Downfall, if Taste could but fairly presage,
When the Bees of the Country make Honey no more,
Will then certainly come,—not a Moment before.

392

IX

Till then it will reign;—and while, here and there spread,
Blank Verse, like an Aloë, rears up its Head,
And, fresh from the Hot-house, successfully tow'rs
To make People stare at the Height of its Flow'rs,
The Variety, Sweetness, and Smoothness of Rime
Will flourish, bedeck'd by its natural Clime
With numberless Beauties, and frequently shoot,
If cherish'd aright, into Blossom and Fruit.

X

But stuffing their Heads, in these classical Days,
Full of Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, and Plays,
And finding that Rime is in none of the four,
'Tis enough; the Fine-tasters have gotten their Lore.
And away they run on with their Words in a String,
Which they throw up at Rime with a finical Fling;
But to reach its full Sweetness nor willing, nor able,
They talk about Taste like the Fox in the Fable.

XI

To the Praise of old Metre, it quitted the Stage,
In Abhorrence of tragical Ranting and Rage,
Which, with Heights and with Depths of Distresses enrich'd,
Verse and Prose, Art and Nature, and Morals bewitch'd;

393

All the native Agreements of Language disgrac'd,
That theatrical Pomp might intoxicate Taste;
Still retaining poor Blank, in its Fetters held fast,
To bemoan its hard Fate in romantic Bombast.

XII

'Tis the Subject, in fine, in the Matter of Song,
That makes a blank Verse or a Rime to be wrong.
If unjust or improper, unchaste or profane,
It disgraces alike all poetical Strain;
If not, the Possessor of tunable Skill
Unfetter'd, unjingled, may take which he will,—
Any Plan, to which Freedom and Judgment impel,—
All the Bus'ness he knows, is to execute well.

394

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

On the Art of English Poetry.

I. Part I.

The Art of English Poetry, I find,
At present, Jenkins, occupies your Mind;
You have a vast Desire to it, you say,
And want my Help to put you in the Way;

395

Want me to tell what Books you are to read;
How to begin, at first, and how proceed.

Now, tho' in Short-hand I may well pretend
To give Directions, my Salopian Friend,
As having had the Honour to impart
Its full Perfection to that English Art,—

396

Which you, and many a sagacious Youth,
By sure Experience, know to be the Truth;—
Yet how in Matters of poetic Reach,
Untaught myself, shall I pretend to teach?
Well I remember, that my younger Breast
The same Desire, that reigns in yours, possess'd.
Me, Numbers flowing to a measur'd Time,—
Me, sweetest Grace of English Verse, the Rime,—
Choice Epithet, and smooth descriptive Line,
Conspiring all to finish one Design,
Smit with Delight, full negligent of Prose,
And, thro' mere liking, tempted to compose;
To rate, according to my Schoolboy Schemes,
Ten Lines in Verse worth half a hundred Themes.

Without one living Person to consult,
The Years went on, from tender to adult;
And, as for poring to consult the dead,
Truly, that never came into my Head.
“Not Homer, Virgil, Horace?” if you ask,
Why, yes, the Rod would send me to the Task.
But all the Consultation that came out,
Had its own End: to scape the whipping Bout.

397

Beside, if Subject wanted to be sung,
The Muse was question'd in the vulgar Tongue:
Who, if she could not answer well in that,
Would hardly mend herself in Greek or Lat.

But poor Encouragement for you to hope,
That my Instructions will attain the Scope!
Yet, since the Help which you are pleas'd to seek,
Does not concern the Latin or the Greek,—
In ancient Classics tho' but little read,
I know, and care as little, what they said—
In plain, familiar English for your sake
This untried Province I will undertake,
And Rules for Verse as readily instil,
As if Ability had equall'd Will;
Fair Stipulation first on either Side,
In Form, and Manner, here annex'd, implied.

Conditions are: that, if the Muse should err,
You gave th' Occasion, and must pardon her,
If aught occur, on sitting down to try,
That may deserve the casting of your Eye;
If Hint arise, in any Sort, to suit
With your Intent—you shall be welcome to't.

You may remember, when you first began
To learn the truly tachygraphic Plan,
How tracing, Step by Step, the simplest Line,
We grounded, rais'd, and finish'd our Design;

398

How we examin'd Language and its Pow'rs,
And then adjusted ev'ry Stroke to ours;
Whilst the same Method, follow'd in the main,
Made other Matters more concisely plain;
Made English, French, Italian, Hebrew too,
Appear the clearest in a Short-hand View,—
Which, in all Points where Language was concern'd,
Explain'd how best, and soonest, they were learn'd;
Shew'd where to end, as well as to commence:
At that one, central, point of View—Good Sense.

There fix your Eye, then, if you mean to write
Verse that is fit to read or to recite!
A Poet, slighting this initial Rule,
Is but, at best, an artificial Fool;
Of learning Verse quite needless the Expense:
Plain Prose might serve to show his want of Sense.

But you who have it, and would give to Prose
The Grace that English Poetry bestows,
Consider how the Short-hand Scheme, in Part,
May be applied to the poetic Art.
To write or read in that, you understood,
There must be Sense, and Sense that must be good;

399

The more that Words were proper and exact
In Book or Speech, the more we could contract.
The Hand, you know, became a kind of Test,
In this Respect, what Writings were the best.
If incorrect the Language or absurd,
It cost the fuller noting of each Word;
But, when more apt, grammatical, and true,
Full oft a Letter for a Word would do.

Form to yourself, directly, the Design
Of so constructing a poetic Line,
That it may cost in writing it our Way
The least Expense of Ink, as one may say;
That Word, or Phrase, in Measure that you please,
May come the nearest to prosaic Ease!
You'll see the Cases from the Rule exempt,
Whilst it directs, in gen'ral, your Attempt,
How Word or Sentence you may oft transpose,
And Verse be still as natural as Prose.

“As natural”: for, tho' we call it Art,
The Worth in Poetry is Nature's Part.
Here “Artis est celare artem”; here

400

Art must be hid, that Nature may appear;
So lie conceal'd behind the shining Glass,
That Nature's Image may the best repass;
All o'er, indeed, must Quicksilver be spread,
And all its useless Motion must lie dead.

The Art of Swimming—next, that comes to Mind—
Perhaps may show you what is here design'd.
A young Beginner struggling you may see
With all his Might—'twas so at least with me—
With all the Splutter of his Limbs to swim,
And keep his Brains and Breath above the Brim;
Whilst, the more eager he to gain his Art,
The sooner ev'ry Limb is thrown athwart;
Till by Degrees he learns with less Ado
And gentler Stroke the Purpose to pursue.
To Nature's Motions poising he conforms,
Nor puts th' unwilling Element in Storms;
Taught, as the smoother Wave shall yield, to yield,
And rule the Surface of the wat'ry Field.

Soon as you can, then, learn to lay aside
All wild Endeavours against Nature's Tide;
Which Way she bends take Notice, and comply;
The Verse that will not, burn, or throw it by!
Maybe, the Subject does not suit your Skill,—
Dismiss, dismiss, till one comes up that will!
If Sense, if Nature succour not the Theme,
All Art and Skill is Strife against the Stream;

401

If they assist to waft your Verses o'er,
Stretch forward, and possess the wish'd-for Shore.

'Twas from a certain native Sense and Wit
That came “Poeta nascitur, non fit,”—
Adage forbidding any riming Blade,
That was not born a Poet, to be made.
For, if to sing, in Music, or to hear,
Require a natural good Voice or Ear,—
If Art and Rule but awkwardly advance,
Without a previous, pliant Shape, to dance:
Well may the Muse, before she can inspire,
Versatile Force of supple Wit require.

Of this if Critics should demand a Sign,
Strong Inclination should be one of mine.
A fair Desire is seldom known to spring,
But where there is some Fitness for the Thing.
Tho' by untoward Circumstances check'd,
There lies a Genius, but without Effect.
Many a fine Plant, uncultivated, dies,
And worse, with more Encouragement, may rise.
“Des Mecænates,”—what had Maro been,
Had not Mecænas rais'd the Muse within?

Yours, honest Pupil, when you are inclin'd,
May versify, according to your Mind.

402

She has no Reason, to no Patron tied,
To prostitute her Favours to a Side;
Nor to false Taste, if any such the Age
Shall run into, to sacrifice her Page;
Much less, with any vicious Topic vile,
An Art of chaster Offspring to defile.
All Verse unworthy of an English Muse
Of Short-hand Race she may, and must, refuse.

Ancient and modern Aptitude to run
Into some Errors, which you ought to shun,
Will now and then occasion, I foresee,
In Place or out, a Præcipe from me.
When this shall happen, never stand to try
The Where of its Appearance, but the Why:
Lest by Authorities, or old or new,
You should be tempted to incur them too;
Since the most celebrated Names infer
No Sort of Privilege in you to err,—
Far from it! Even, where they may excel,
Barely to imitate is not so well.
Much less should their Authority prevail,
Or warrant you to follow, where they fail.

'Tis not to search for Precedents alone,
But how to form a Judgment of your own.
In writing Verse, that is your main Affair,
Main End of all my monitory Care,—
Who hate Servility to Common Law
That keeps an equitable Right in Awe;
By Use and Custom justifies its Lot,
Its Modes and Fashions, whether right or not;
Cramps the free Genius, clips the Muse's Wing,

403

And to one Poet ties another's String;
Producing, from their hardly various Lines,
So many Copies and so few Designs.

By neither Names nor Numbers be deterr'd;
Nor yield to mix amongst the servile Herd;
Exert the Liberty which all avow,
Tho' Slaves in Practice, and begin just now!
Begin with me, and construe what I write,
Not to preclude your Judgment, but excite;
Just as you once examin'd what I taught,
From First to last, with unaddicted Thought:
So, while at your Request I venture here
To play the Master, see that all be clear;
Preserve the Freedom which you always took,
Nor, if it teach amiss, regard the Book!

Thus, unencumber'd, let us move along,
As Road shall lead us, to the Mount of Song;
Still keeping, so far by Agreement tied,
Good Verse in Prospect, and good Sense for Guide!

II. Part II.

Sense presuppos'd, and resolute Intent,
To regulate thereby poetic Bent,
Let us examine Language once again,
As erst we did to regulate the Pen;
And then observe how the peculiar Frame
Of Words in English may assist your Aim!

404

The End of Speech, vouchsaf'd to human Kind,
Is to express Conceptions of the Mind.
By painted Speech, or Writing's wond'rous Aid,
The Lines of Thought are legibly display'd;
In any Place, at any Time, appear,
And silent Figure speaks to mental Ear;
Surprising Permanence of Meaning found
For distant Voice and momentary Sound.
Whether by Heav'n at first the huge Effect
Reveal'd, or by inventive Wit,—reflect
What good may follow, if a Man exert
The Talent right, what Ill, if he pervert;
And to Exertion, whether good, or bad,
What Strength engaging Poetry may add;
That, if successful in your present Drift,
You may not risk to desecrate the Gift!

You see, in speaking, or by Sound or Ink,
The grand inceptive Caution is—to think;
To measure, ponder, ruminate, digest,—
Or Phrase whatever that betokens best
A due Attention to make Art and Skill
Turn all to Good, or least of all to Ill;
Never to give, on any warm Pretence,
To just Observers Cause of just Offence.

405

To Truth, to Good, undoubtedly belong
The Skill of Poets and the Charms of Song.

In Verse or Prose, in Nature or in Art,
The Head begins the Movement, or the Heart.
If both unite, if both be clear and sound,
Then may Perfection in a Work be found;
Then does the Preacher, then the Poet shine,
And justly take the Title of Divine.
By common Sense the World has been all led
To make Distinction of the Heart and Head,—
Distinction worthy of your keenest Ken
In passing Judgment upon Books and Men,—
Upon Yourself, before you shall submit
To other Judges what Yourself has writ.

The Heart, the Head, it may suffice to note,
Two diff'rent Kinds of Poetry promote:
One, more sublime, more sacred, and severe,
That shines in Poetry's celestial Sphere;
One, of an useful, tho' an humbler, Birth,
That ornaments its lower Globe of Earth.
These we shall here ascribe, if you think fit,
One to good Sense, the other to good Wit,
And grant, that, whichsoever be display'd,
It must have something of the other's Aid.
Without some Wit, Solidity is dull;
As bad the sprightly Nonsense, to the full.

To clothe them both in Language, and by Rule,
Let us again revise the Short-hand School,
And trace the branching Stamens of Discourse
From their most plain and primerly Resource!

406

Four Parts of Speech, you know, we us'd to make
The best Arrangement, for Enquiry's Sake;
And how spontaneous, to determine those,
The Noun, the Adnoun, Verb, and Adverb rose!
Occurring Hints, but to no Stiffness tied
Of formal Method, let these four divide!
They do, in Fact, partition out, you know,
The Sense of Words, as far as Words can go;
For, of a Thing the clear ideal Sense,—
The Properties that really spring from thence,
Actions, and Modes of Action, that ensue,
Must all unite to make the Language true.
If false, some one or other of these four
Unveils Delusion ent'ring at its Door.—
But wonted Lessons I shall here pass by,
Trusting to your Remembrance,—and apply.

The Noun, the Name, the Substantive, the Thing,
Let represent the Subject that you sing,—
The main essential Matter, whereupon
You mean to set the Muse at Work anon!
Ere you begin the Verse that you intend,
“Respice finem,”—think upon its End!
One single Point, on which you are to fix,
Must govern all that you shall intermix;
Before you quest for Circumstances round,
Peg down, at first, the Centre of your Ground;
Each periodic Incident when past,
Examine gently whether that be fast!

407

How can you help, if it should e'er come out,
Mistaking quite the Point you are about;
How, with no Tether fix'd to your Designs,
Help incoherent, loose, unmeaning Lines?

You need not ask of classic Rome or Greece
Whether your Work should all be of a Piece.
The Thing is plain, and all that Rule can tell
Is—Memorandum to observe it well:
To frame, whatever you shall intersperse
Of Decoration, well-connected Verse,
That shall, whatever may across be spread,
From End to End maintain an equal Thread;
That Botch, or Patch, or clumsy, awkward Seam
Mar not poetic Unity of Theme.

This Theme, or Subject, for your English Muse
Belongs of right to you and her to choose.
Your own unbiass'd Inclinations best
The freeer Topics for a Verse suggest.
All within Bound of Innocence is free,
And you may range, without consulting me,
The just, delightful, and extensive Sphere;
All else,—what need of Caution to forbear?
None;—if the Bards, and some of them renown'd,
Had not transgrest and overleapt the Bound.
This may indeed bid you to have a Care,—

408

Me, to renew the Warning to beware.
While unrestrain'd you set yourself the Task,
Let it be harmless, and 'tis all I ask.

Some, to be sure, more excellent and grand,
Your practic'd Genius may in Time demand.
To these in View, no Doubt, you may, in Will,
Devote at present your completer Skill;
And whilst in little Essays you express,
Or clothe a Thought in versifying Dress,
On fair Idéas they may turn, and just,
And pave the Way to something more august.
If well your earlier Specimens intend,
From small Beginnings you may greatly end,
Write what the Good may praise, as they peruse,
And bless, with no unfruitful Fame, the Muse.

A youthful Muse, a sprightly one, may crave
To intermix the Cheerful with the Grave.
Indulge her Choice, nor stop the flowing Stream,
Where Verse adorns an inoffensive Theme!
Unwill'd Endeavour is the same as faint,
And Brisk will languish, if it feel Constraint.
From Task impos'd, from any Kind of Force,
A stiff, and starch'd Production comes, of course;
Unless it suit, as it may chance to do,
The present Humour of the Muse, and you,—
Sooner, so ask'd, that willing Numbers flow,
The more acceptable and àpropos.
Tho' prompt, if proper the Occasion rise,
Her nimbler Aid no gen'rous Muse denies;
But, if a fair and friendly Call invite,

409

Speeds on the Verse to opportune Delight;
Cuts all Delays to Satisfaction short,
When Friends and Seasons are in Temper for't:
As by this present Writing one may see,
Dear Muse of mine, is just the Case with thee.

A gen'rous Muse, I must again repeat,
Disdains the poor, poetical Conceit
Of poaching Verse for personal Repute,
And writing only to be thought to do't,
Without regarding one of its chief Ends,—
At once to profit and to pleasure Friends.
Tho' to the Bard she dictate first the Line,
The Readers Benefit is her Design.
Mistaken Poets seek for private Fame;
'Tis gen'ral Use that sanctifies the Name.

Be free, and choose what Subject, then, you will,
But keep your Readers in Remembrance still,—
Your future Judges, tho' 'tis in your Choice
In what Committees who shall have a Voice!
Their Satisfaction if the Muse prefers,
And their Esteem, who justly merit hers,
They who do not, however prompt of Throat,
Stand all excluded from the legal Vote.
Verse, any Readers for whom Verse is writ,
May to the Press or to the Flames commit.
A Poet signs the Judgment on his Verse,
If Readers worthy to be pleas'd rehearse;
But, when the Blockheads meddle in the Cause,
Laughs at their Blame, and smiles at their Applause.

'Twill add to future versifying Ease
To think on Judges whom you ought to please;

410

To fancy some of your selected Friends
Discussing Points to which a Subject tends;
By whom you guess it would be well discuss'd,
And Judgment form'd that you might safely trust.
If you conceive them sitting on the Bench,
Hints, what is fit to add or to retrench,
Anticipating Fancy may supply,
And save the Trouble to the real Eye;
Judgment awaken'd may improve the Theme
With righter Verdict,—tho' the Court's a Dream.

THE ORIGIN OF POETRY.

------Poetry at first began
And with God's power exhilarated man.

411

A DEFENCE OF RIME.

412

Dear Sir,

Tho' friend to rime which you explode,
Nevertheless I thank you for your Ode,
And Preface also. For my part I choose

413

A plain, familiar, honest, riming Muse,
And prize her members far beyond all blanks.
Excuse the freedom, and accept the thanks!

Musing, moreover, on your printed sheet,
Respect suggested that it was but meet,
In rime's defence, a rime or two to write,—
Lest haply silence should be deem'd a slight:
Not with a captious, critical design,—
That, Sir, is far from any thought of mine;
But in a print of this poetic kind
You may expect a man to speak his mind;
To own the Justice of the reasons, why
You would extirpate rime,—or else reply.

'Tis your permission, then, that I invoke,
To guard the Muse from such a fatal stroke.
Her aid invok'd in any other task,
In this—'tis mine that she is pleas'd to ask;
The poet now must lend the Muse an aid
And save the right of the melodious maid.

You send me here an elegance quite new,
A plan from Horace, and well copied too,—
As far as chosen epithet and pause
Harmonious modulate the lyric clause;
As far as native scene thro' ev'ry line
Of Roman or of British bard can shine;
As far in short as ev'ry grace but one
Bedecks the theme that either writes upon,—
The Country Life: which Horace in his way,
And you in yours, so lyricly display.

That one, however, is a special Grace,
Tho' Roman Horace could not give it place.
His Latin language, fill'd with many more,

414

Wanted not Rime to grace its ample store.
But in our own—tho' one should dare to match
With Roman Horace British C---,—
It would be too too partial to the tongue
To say that Rime was needless in the song;
Which, tho' in pompous buskin verse declin'd,
Is quite essential to the oral kind.

Your own attempt—and if another man
Thinks he can better your Horatian plan,
Let him attempt it!—you, I say, have shewn
That lyric pause will hardly do alone,
With all the force of emphasis and choice
Of word and stop, to pre-engage the voice.
Still they who read, and they who hear it read,
Hang in suspense—if to be sung or said?
Some that I show'd it to, intent to read,
Have well begun, but could not well proceed.
Well they begun; but, as they went along,

415

They found their prejudice to Rime too strong;
Each other grace, when that did not appear,
Displeas'd the long-habituated ear;
All varied rests, and all descriptions pat
Could not compénsate them for want of that.

With prefatory page to introduce
The new endeavour to correct old use:
I doubt you cannot Britishly exempt
Lyrics from Rime—tho' welcome the attempt.
To old improvements one may give their due,
Yet like a genius that but hints at new,
In verse or prose to hint one now-a-days
I count a matter of no servile praise;
Tho' for the reasons that you urge in print
I cannot yield to your ingenious hint.
The leading maxim which is here embrac'd,—
To wit, that rime is certainly false taste,—
Is one, to which, if you appeal to me,
I cannot yet by any means agree.
To this, reserving all the due respect
For better information, I object.

“Rime is false taste”; and then you add beside:
“And what the learnèd ancients all avoid.”
What “learnèd ancients”? Let me ask, what “all”
Into this taste were so afraid to fall?
For, as to those of Greek and Roman stem
Avoiding rime,—why, rime avoided them!
Nature of language upon riming feet
Forbad the two antagonists to meet.

416

This is no more a reason to defame
Our rimes in English, than for us to blame
The several idioms which those tongues have got
And we avoid,—that is, we have them not.

“Sameness of measure constantly pursued,
And close of periods that still conclude
With the same sound, is irksome to the ear,”—
This is the reason next asserted here.
But are not measures in our Common verse
The very same which you yourself rehearse:
The soft Iambic—in your phrase—and these
The English language falls into with ease.
Give, then, to measure, whilst you take the same,
Its easy, natural, unirksome claim;
Make fair appeal, nor guiltless rime assault
For measur'd sameness of Iambic fault;
And then let ears decide this single doubt:
“Are lyrics irksome with them—or without?”

“With them,” you think, “blank metre far excels,”
And bring a plain comparison from bells.
“Rimes are extremely irksome,”—so you say,—
“As bells are irksome, rung the common way;
From which, in changes if the ringers ring,
Variety and harmony would spring.”

Now, bells, when rung in changes, if you will
May show in ringers a superior skill;
But for the music of their various change
Give me the simple tuneful octave range,—
Of steepled sounds the plain harmonious part!

417

The rest is all but janglement of art,—
Less apt, as hearers I have heard complain,
To please an ear, than to disturb a brain.
Of this allusion one may then admit,
And Rime not suffer, I conceive, a bit.

Why recommend, for reasons of this kind,
To men of genius, and of vacant mind,
To banish rimes in General—to decree
The British muse “from Gothic fetters free?”

These Gothic fetters all the muses seek
In all the tongues but Latin and but Greek:
Where verse excels, because they both are blest
With fetters more than any of the rest;
Can yield to more and stricter rules, in fine,
That grace and strengthen the poetic line.

418

Our too neglected language has too few;
Yet, as if more were in it than enow,
You banish rime,—bid vacant minds provide
To lay its chief prerogative aside;
That one peculiar beauty you decry
Which modern muses are distinguish'd by.
Poets, for their encouragement, you paint
Less subject now to quantity's restraint
Than were the ancients: “to be thus untied
Is our advantage on the modern side.”
Whereas, in all poetical respect,
This one advantage is one great defect,—
One source of ruin to the minor clan,
Who think verse good verse when they words can scan:
By this “advantage” they run hobbling on,—
Yea, men of sense sometimes, like Dr. Donne,—
With woeful proof what benefit is gain'd
By being less to quantity restrain'd.
Of all restraints the justest heretofore

419

Less tied the modern bards,—at present more;
More ev'ry harsher freedom they coerce,
And consequently write much better verse.
'Tis true, they don't in Greek and Latin sort
Fix by unvaried rules the long and short
Of syllables; but a judicious bard
Pays to their quantities the same regard,
In length and brevity exact and clear;
He wants no precepts, while he has an ear;
Wants no advantage, having no complaint
Of being subject to the same restraint,
Which they who are not subject to, I doubt,
For muse and metre, will suppose too stout.
What poet, then, would any rime dismiss
For such a blank advantage, Sir, as this?

You add another, not at all confin'd
To hasty dactyle of ignoble kind;—
So Dionysius and so Mason term
Poor Dactyle's measure, and so you confirm.

420

Severe enough! Imagine he that lists,
Wherein its ignobility consists!
What I would ask is, why of ancient folks
Impose on us their freedoms or their yokes,—
Of ancient folks, whose language and its pow'rs
Must have so oft a diff'rent turn from ours?
'Tis our own language, Sir, when understood,
That tells what freedom, what restraint, is good.
'Tis Mason's task ignobly to asperse
The British Muse, who in her dactyle verse,
Subjects and measures properly applied,
Exerts a grace to Greece and Rome denied.
Or inattentive he, or injudicious,
To blame her dactyle from his Dionysius!
Or say—of metre that you please prefer!—
What Dionysius had to do with her?
He knew her not; and 'tis a learnèd whim
To think that she knew anything of him;
Or, if she did, that she would go to seek
The rules for English, that he wrote in Greek.
Young bards that write most promisingly well,
And might in native sense and sound excel,
Are oft by ancient pedantry, at last,
Lost in the blank of tragical bombast.
Who would not wish that they might take in time

421

The grand preservative, the British Rime?—
Not to forbid excursion such as this
Which you present, nor takes the Muse amiss;
But, when you chain her lyrics to your laws,
Then she looks blank, and there she makes a pause;
As well she may,—if all her stock you vest
In blank Iambic, and its varied rest!
One edict further if your preface goes,
Adieu to poetry, and all is prose;
Nor Goth nor Vandal has the muse undone,
But you, alas, her rime-distasting son!
By fetters, as you call them, Goths design'd
Not to enslave, but to relieve the mind;
By due recurrence of a kindred sound
To give their verse its true harmonious bound;
Or, in their sacred or historic rimes,
Best to record the work of ancient times;
Best to instruct and edify the throng,
Or cheer their hearts with memorable song.
Tho' rough their speech, and its improvement small,
It gave them Rimes, and made amends for all.

What language, Sir, in European Sphere,
Does not this Gothic force of sound revere?
What poet is there whom this critic's haste,
Does not condemn for certainly bad taste?
Not that I plead prescription, but excuse
For not consenting to destroy its use,—
Secure of candour in you to dispense
With what occurs in honest rime's defence.

422

The vacant minds that come into your views,
And think to rescue, will but rob the Muse;
If what you call a fashionable chain
Is no encumbrance, as you here maintain,
But an advantage, which the muse must teach,—
A varied rest that ancients could not reach.

By your account of Rime one would suppose
That the same sound all periods must close.
This may be irksome,—but 'tis not the case;
For varied rime affords a varied grace.
No need of sameness to recur so oft,
As does the pause of your Iambic soft;
Which tho' you ring no artful changes thro'
(The bells for lyric measures are too few);
Tho' justly quite and pausingly belyr'd,—
The rime is wanting and the ear is tir'd,
Tho' tied to quantity,—as if it saw
No dispensation for so just a law.

Your Country Life will suffer no neglect
But that of Rime; yet what is the effect?
Why, that without it all the arts beside
Cannot resist the torrent of the tide.
Descriptive beauties that with Horace vie
In British lyrics, want the British tie;
All are dispers'd without this tie across,
And ev'ry scatter'd beauty mourns its loss,—
A loss which, if you think it worth your care,

423

A skill like yours can easily repair.
(Distaste of rime if you can once get o'er,
And then retract, to “certify” no more,)
Can leave to plays and fictions blank sublime,
And take your Virgil's glowing warmth and rime.

If still averse, consider, Sir, how hard
From rime it is to wean a riming bard;
The danger too that partly you foretell
Of an affected pomp and painful swell,—
Too plain at present, and too likely lot
Of future blank attempters;—but, if not,
Who will assist the poor Goth-fetter'd muse,
If you yourself cry rescue—and refuse?
Who will support your sentiment, if true,
Or give a fairer sample than you do?
Or true or false, whatever one may say,
Fairly proposed, it ought to have fair play.
One thing, in fine, we both of us may think:
“Let rime, if reason be against it, sink.
But, if on reason rime bestows a grace,
Flourish the verse that gives them both a place!”

Thus, Sir, with freedom and without disguise,
I speak my simple notions as they rise,—

424

Less willing to object against your plan,
Than to receive conviction, if I can.
But where a friend requires, I think it just
To play the critic and fulfil the trust;
And then, for fear of being prepossest,
I leave the judgment to my friend's own breast.

P.S.—

Since this, as yours, induced me on the book
Of ancient Horace to bestow a look,—
Led like a packhorse by preceding chimes,
To tread the tract, the beaten tract, of rimes,—
I pick'd up such as lay upon the road,
To fit the gen'ral topics of his Ode,
To please the sense, while in her riming cue,
Not with intent to vie with him or you;
For you may find much greater fault in this,
Than I in yours.—However, here it is.

I

Happy the mortal who can now,
Like men of ancient set,
With his own oxen acres plough
Paternal, clear of Debt!

II

He neither hears the trump of war,
Nor dreads the raging main,
The clamours of the noisy Bar,
Nor haughty Cit's disdain.

III

Shoots of his own luxuriant vine
With poplars pleas'd to wed,

425

Useless to lop, or, if they pine,
Plant happier in their stead;

IV

To view his lowing herds that roam
Around the valley deep;
To press the honey from the comb,
Or shear his languid sheep.

V

Now, stretch'd some agèd oak beside,
Now, in th' imprinted grass,
While from the rocks the waters glide,
He hears the feather'd class.

VI

Woods echo still their plaintive song;
Brooks murmur through the fields;
To gentle slumbers, laid along,
The happy rustic yields.

VII

Soon as th' autumnal Year prepares
The weather's wint'ry store,
With many a dog to destin'd snares
He drives the bristly boar;

VIII

Or net suspends in slender poles,
To catch delightful game:
The tim'rous hare, or bird that prowls
Voracious, wild or tame.

426

IX

While thus amus'd, and thus employ'd,
Who is there that would heed,
Would all the mischiefs dire abide,
That love is wont to breed?

X

Or, if a chaste, endearing wife
His rural bliss shall share,
She cheers the neat domestic life,
Sweet prattling babes her care.

XI

With smoth'ring warmth prepared to burn,
The dry old log she lays,
And, if her weary spouse return,
Revives the focal blaze.

XII

Of folded flocks, from dales and hills,
The milky treasure stor'd,
Fresh clean-brew'd wine she draws, and fills
With cheer unbought the board.

427

And here, the Muse, retiring, bid me note,
The rural Epode ends that Horace wrote.
This, Sir, to me, I must confess, was new,
Strange at first thought, but upon second true.
“Non me Lucrina juverint conchylia,”
Looks of his muse so like another filia,
That, if you turn to Horace, you may find
Sufficient reasons to be of my mind.
Another verse, tho' both for measure twins,
On “fenerator Alfius” begins.
“Beatus ille” had completed quite,
The rural day's description with its night;
Too late, too botching on a fair survey,
The forc'd and stiff transition to—“Non me”;
Where Horace paints an usurer grown warm
About his own, and not another's form.
His “oves, boves, vernae, lares,” all
Bespeak the landlord at his country hall,
Struck with a sudden sense of homely bliss,
That avarice soon taught him to dismiss.

428

Another topic and another style
Begins your own: “Great Britain, plenteous isle!”
Just imitator, fairly you forbore
To force coherence with what went before;
“My fleecy care,” as rightly you explain,
“My wearied oxen,” and “my vassal train,”
Give a distinctive hint, from whence to date
The speech relating to the miser's fate.

More likely, then, that to a diff'rent song
“Beatus ille” and “Non me” belong.
In one, the poet on description bent,
The country life exhausted his intent:
A fair sufficient and well finish'd theme,
Take it without the “fenerator” seam.
Another subjeet was the money'd squire,
When gentle satire touch'd the poet's lyre,
Play'd off a speech more suitably concise
To a short fruitless interval of vice.

And yet, in length (for here, one may forebode
Objection) equal to the following Ode;
Same measure too, or, if insisted on,
Some other reasons why the Ode is one.
They best account for the mistake, who threw
Into one Ode what Horace meant for two.
Brief,—to the miser his “Non me” award,
His own “Beatus ille” to the bard!

429

VERSES ON THE ATTACK UPON ADMIRAL BYNG IN THE “MONITOR.”

431

Wednesday, March 16th, 1757.

I

What Monitor's here! What a British Freeholder!
Of judgment and death what a merciless moulder!
Whether Admiral Byng has been guilty or not,
Has deserv'd to be spar'd or deserv'd to be shot,
No British freeholder who holds himself free,
Is oblig'd to determine before he can see,
And pursue him with keen British foxhunter's hurry,
Who, when he gives law, is determin'd to worry.

II

To soften law's rigours by equity's plan
Humanity often admonishes man;
Too apt to forget his own shortness of breath,
And to hasten, for others, the sentence of death,—
Very seldom oppos'd, when the crime is so plain
That the known to be guilty deserve to be slain;
But when it is doubtful, all freedom and sense
Will, before execution, choose proper suspense.

III

If the name of a paper can make a man wiser,
Of “British Freeholder,” or “Night Advertiser,”

432

Byng must be dispatch'd; and it does mighty well,
For the mob to be pleas'd, and the paper to sell.
But, if justice, and wisdom, and value for laws
Whose sounds are so urg'd in so killing a cause,
Are to have their true meaning, the Monitor's haste
In the British freeholders will raise a distaste.

IV

What sense in his motto? Though, choosing of that,
To be sure Overshooter would seek the most pat.
“'Tis a sample of wisdom that guarded the King
And secur'd his good subjects”;—apply it to Byng!
“Our laws,” says the motto, “shall suffer no change.”
Now, if Byng must be shot, sure the logic is strange;
For nothing condemn'd him, his judges all saw,
But a change that had lately been made in the law.

V

Though oblig'd to interpret the article thus
By “Summum” (or “Summa injuria”) “jus,”

433

Their notion of justice (which ought to be, still,
The intent of the law, though its letter should kill)
Which conscience inspir'd in so hard an affair,
Occasion'd from them an unanimous pray'r,
That a mercy so just in his case might be shown,
And themselves be reliev'd by the voice of the Throne.

VI

Will the treating of conscience, and of the Court-martial,
In the Monitor's strain, as if all had been partial,
Forbid one to see, in this Admiral's case,
A reason sufficient for respiting grace?
How oft does an object, whom judges report
Who yet have condemn'd him, find mercy at court?
“A comméndable attribute this, to be sure!”—
Why, then, when a Court so desires, it abjure?

VII

If not to be shown to so strong a request,
When must it prevail in monarchical breast?
A King, it should seem, has express'd a desire,
On the fairest occasion, for time to enquire,—
And a Monitor comes, with his duty turn'd sour,
To talk to freeholders of absolute pow'r;
That mercy may yield to the voice of the crowd,
Not because it is right, but because it is loud.

VIII

And what proof has he brought for the merciless side?
“Why, the people condemn'd him, before he was tried!

434

Their resentment was just at the very first brunt;
But the Court, if it durst have acquitted, had done't,
For private acquaintance,” the Monitor knows,
“They proceeded to hazard the public repose,
And the union of King and of subjects so good”:
Whose cement, as it seems, was the Admiral's blood.—

IX

Now, had it been true that this laudable nation
Was never misled by misrépresentation,
It were something; or else, why should Admirals die
To secure the repose of a popular cry?
The one single fact for which mercy's denier
Can quote this harangue of a popular cryer,
Who measures the wisdom of nation and throne
By cruel conceits which he has of his own!

X

Whether sailors condemn'd an unfortunate brother,
Because, as he hints it, they durst do no other;
Whether urging of conscience was wrong, or was right,
Though, according to him, it had reason to smite;
Whether twenty surmises that readers may meet,
When a man must amuse them and fill up his sheet,
Have a ground or no ground whereupon to believe:
What chance for the knowing, without a reprieve?

XI

Should mercy rekindle so gentle a spark
Will the man run away, thinks he, from the Monarque?
Or will justice be hurt, if a proper delay
Should banish all doubt that he had not fair play?
“But a merciful turn will be thought somewhat worse
In the ages to come.”—What a notion to nurse!

435

Of human condemners all history's pages
Secure, to the slow, the applause of all ages.

XII

So much for the Monitor, sent yesterday,
And reflexions upon it that fell in one's way!
As a servant came for it this morning, perhaps,
It has pass'd through the hands of more politic chaps;
Who change not their laws, but will hear the man teach
How to snatch at a sentence—but just within reach;
Though the freehold belongs, of so legal a snatch,
No none but the race of—Johannes de Catch!

436

REMARKS ON DR. BROWN'S ESTIMATE.

Written in the Character of a Lady.

441

I

The Book appears, to my perusing Sight,
So rambling, scrambling, florid, and polite,
That, tho' a manly skill may trace the Clue,
A simple Female knows not what to do:—

442

Where to begin Remark, or where to close,
Lost in a thousand—Beauties, I suppose.

II

One seeming Proof of such a Coalition
Of num'rous Beauties is—a fifth Edition;
As, reading Authors, I have just now found
In the Whitehall: “Price Three and Six-pence, bound.”
Many a good Book, but less of Print concise,
Less clean of Margin, sells for half the Price.

III

So that the Nation grows in Books, 'tis plain,
“Luxurious, effeminate and vain”:
That is, the Purchasers,—or, if I durst,
I would have said the Writers of 'em first;

443

And the “luxuriant” Framer of this Plan,
First of the first, should be the leading Man.

IV

Somewhere, before the Middle of the Book,
It seems, the Author, whom I really took
But for a Politician, was in fine,
To my Surprise, a Protestant Divine,—
A Protestant Divine, in whose high Flight
The “Question capital” is: “Who shall fight?”

444

V

Not, “Who shall pay?”—as some Divines have plann'd,
One has heard tell, “the capital Demand”;—
Both needless Questions, when Divines arose
Who neither sued their Friends, nor fought their Foes.
Now, what more “vain, effeminate, luxurious,”
Than Parson's Talk, so “capitally” furious?

VI

Truly, the Works of Distaff and of Needle
Are worth whole Volumes of courageous Tweedle,
With the Sum total: “Britons! all be free;
“Take the Brown Musket up, and follow me;
Let us be strong, be hardy, sturdy, rough;
Till we are all beatified in Buff.”

VII

With Manners just the same, as we are told,
Men are effeminate, and Women bold.

445

If aught like Satire, or like Ridicule,
Should seem to rise, we must apply this Rule
To solve the Case—and so, I think, we may—
“It comes from Folly's natural Display.”

VIII

Person and Dress is left us to apply,
And little else, to know the Sexes by.
Characteristics, formerly made out,
Are now confounded by a present Rout:
All would be lost, if, as the Cassock warm,
With Rage as just the Petticoat should arm.

IX

But while Men fight, both clergyfied and lay,
Who left but Women to cry: “Let us pray!”
While Men are marshalling in Prose Pindaric
Religion, Virtue, Warburton, and Garrick,

446

Women must pray, that Heav'n would yet annex
Some little Grace to the Talk-valiant Sex.

X

“Love of our Country” is the manly Sound
That clads in Armour all the Virtues round.

447

Where is this lovely Country to be sought?
Why, 'tis Great Britain in their little Thought;
And the two States, which these Divines advance,
The Heav'n of England, and the Hell of France.

XI

Women must pray; and,—if Divines can reach
No higher a Theology,—must preach.
This World—this Sea-bound Spot of it—may seem
The central Paradise, in Men's Esteem,
Who have great Souls; but Women, who have none,
Have other Realms to fix their Hearts upon.

XII

If such there be, the only certain Scheme
To guard against each possible Extreme
Is to put on, amidst the World's Alarms.
With a good Heart, our real Country's Arms:
Faith, Hope, and Patience, from the Tow'rs above,
All-bearing Meekness, and all-conqu'ring Love.

448

REMARKS ON A PAMPHLET ENTITLED EPISTLES TO THE GREAT, FROM ARISTIPPUS IN RETIREMENT

In a Letter to Dr. S---.

452

Doctor , this new poetic Species
Semel may do, but never decies:
For a Chapelle, or a Chaulieu,
The new-devis'd Conceit may do;

453

In rambling Rimes La Farre and Gresset,
And easy Diction, may express it;

454

Or Madam's Muse, Deshoulières,
Improve it farther still than theirs;
But, in the Name of all the Nine,
Will an epistolary Line
In English Verse and English Sense
Admit, to give them both Offence,
The Gaul-bred Insipiditee
Of this new fangl'd Melodee?
Indeed, it won't.—If Gallic Phrase
Can bear with such enervate Lays,
Nor “Pleasure,” nor “Pain-pinion'd Hours”
Can ever suffer them in ours,
Or, “Ivy-crown'd,” endure a Theme
“Silver'd with Moonshine's Maiden Gleam;”
Not tho' so “garlanded,” and “flow'ry,”
So “soft,” so “sweet,” so “Myrtle-bow'ry,”

455

So “balmy,” “palmy,”—and so on,—
As is the Theme here writ upon;
Writ in a Species that, if taking,
Portends sad future Verse-unmaking.
Brown's “Estimate of Times and Manners,”
That paints Effeminacy's Banners,
Has not a Proof in its Detail
More plain than this, if this prevail.
Forbid it sense, forbid it Rime,
Whether familiar, or sublime;
Whether ye guide the Poet's Hand
To easy Diction or to grand;
Forbid the Gallic Namby-Pamby
Here to repeat its crazy Crambe!
One Instance of such special Stuff,
To see the Way on't, is enough,—
Excus'd for once; if Aristippus
Has any more within his Cippus,
Let him suppress, or sing 'em, He,
With “gentle Muse, sweet Euterpee;”

456

Free to salute her, while they chirp,
For easier Riming “sweet Euterp.”
It is allow'd, that Verse, to please,
Should move along with perfect Ease;
But this coxcombically mingling
Of Rimes unriming, interjingling,
For Numbers genuinely British,
Is quite too finical and skittish,
But for the masculiner Belles,
And the polite He Me'moiselles;
Whom “Dryads,” “Naiads,” “Nymphs,” and “Fauns,”
“Meads,” “Woods,” and “Groves,” and “Lakes,” and “Lawns,”
And “Loves,” and “Doves,”—and fifty more
Such jaded Terms, besprinkl'd o'er
With compound Epithets uncouth,
Prompt to pronounce 'em Verse, forsooth!
Verse let 'em be; tho', I suppose,
Some Verse as well might have been Prose,
That “England's common Courtesy
Politely calls good Poetry.”
For, if the Poetry be good,

457

Accent at least is understood:
Number of Syllables alone,
Without the proper Stress of Tone,
Will make our Metre flat and bare,
As Hebrew Verse of Bishop Hare.
Add, that Regard to Rime is gone,
And Verse and Prose will be all one;
Or, what is worse, create a Pother,
By Species neither one nor t'other;
A Case, which there is Room to fear
From Dupes of Aristippus here.
The fancied Sage, in feign'd Retreat,
Laughs at the Follies of the Great,
With Wit, Invention, Fancy, Humour
Enough to gain the Thing a Rumour.
But if he writes, resolv'd to shine
In unconfin'd and motley Line,
Let him pindaric it away,
And quit the lazy labour'd Lay;
Leave to La Farre, and to La France,
The warbling, soothing Nonchalance!—

458

When will our Bards unlearn, at last,
The puny Stile, and the Bombast;
Nor let the pitiful Extremes
Disgrace the Verse of English Themes;
Matter no more in Manner paint
Foppish, affected, queer, and quaint;
Nor bounce above Parnassian Ground,
To drop the Sense, and catch the Sound,—
Except in writing for the Stage,
Where Sound is best for buskin'd Rage;
Except in Operas, where Sense
Is but superfluous Expense?
Be then the Bards of sounding Pitch
Consign'd to Garrick and to Rich;
To Tweedledums and Tweedledees
The singy-songing “Euterpees!”

459

REMARKS UPON DR. AKENSIDE'S AND MR. WHITEHEAD'S VERSES,

WHICH WERE PUBLISHED AND ADDRESSED TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND, IN THE YEAR 1758.

461

I

“ Whither is Europe's ancient Spirit fled?”
How came this Query in the Doctor's Head?
“Whither is Britain's?”—one had sooner guess'd,
In Ode to his own Countrymen address'd;

462

But, as outlandish Rivers soon infer it,
(Six, in three Lines) it must be Europe's Spirit.

II

Of “valiant Tenants of her Shore,” 'tis said,
“Who from the warrior Bow the strong Dart sped;”—
Let Bow be “Warrior,” and let Dart be “strong,”
Verse does not “speed” so speedily along;
“The strong Dart sped”—does but go thump, thump, thump,
That quick as thrown should pierce the Liver plump.

III

“And with firm Hand the rapid Poleaxe bore.”—
If it had been “the rapid Dart” before,
And “the strong Poleaxe, here, it had agreed
With a firm Hold as well, and darting speed.
Whither are fled from Ode-Versification
The ancient “Pleasures of Imagination?”

IV

Really these fighting Poets want a Tutor
To teach them “Ultra crepidam ne Sutor;”

463

To teach the Doctor, and to teach the Laureate,
“Ex Helicone sanguinem ne hauriat;”
Tho' Blood and Wounds infect its limpid Stream,
It should run clear before they sing a Theme.

V

Ye “Britons rouse to Deeds of Death!”—says one;
“Whither,” the next, “is Europe's Spirit gone?”
While real Warriors think it all a Farce
For them to bounce of either Mors or Mars;
Safe as one sacks it under bloodless Bay,
And sure as t'other even Death must pay.

VI

But you shall hear what Captain ***** said,
When he had heard both Ode and Verses read:
On Mottos “Versibus exacuit”
And “Proles militum” he mus'd a bit;
Then, having cast his hunting Wits about,
In quest of Rimes, he thus, at last, broke out:

464

VII

“Poh! Let my Serjeant, when his Dose is taken,
“Britons strike Home!” with moisten'd Pipe rehearse:
To “Deeds of Death” 'twill sooner much awaken,
Than a Cart-Load full of such Ode and Verse.
“If these two Bards will by a tuneful Labour
Show, without sham, their Love to killing Life,
Let Akenside go thump upon the Tabor,
And Whitehead grasp th' exacuating Fife!”

465

ON THE PATRON OF ENGLAND;

In a Letter to Lord Willoughby, President of the Antiquarian Society.

470

I

Will you please to permit me, my very good Lord,
Some Night when you meet upon ancient Record,
Full worthily filling Antiquity's Throne
To propose to your Sages a Doubt of my own,—
A certain moot Point of a national Kind?
For it touches all England to have it defin'd
With a little more Fact, by what Kind of a Right
Her Patron, her Saint, is a Cappadox Knight?

471

II

I know what our Songs and our Stories advance,
That St. George is for England, St. Denys for France;
But the French, tho' uncertain what Denys it was.
All own he converted and taught 'em their Mass;
And most other Nations, I fancy, remount
To a Saint, whom they chose upon some such Account,
But I never could learn, that for any like Notion,
The English made Choice of a Knight Cappadocian.

III

Their Conversion was owing (Event, one would hope,
Worth rememb'ring at least) to a Saint and a Pope,—

472

To a Gregory known by the First, and the Great,
Who sent, to relieve them from Pagan Deceit,
St. Austin the Monk; and both Sender and Sent
Had their Days in old Fasti that noted th' Event.
Now, my Lord, I would ask of the Learn'd and Laborious,
If Ge-orgius ben't a Mistake for Gregorius.

IV

In Names so like-letter'd it would be no Wonder
If hasty Transcribers had made such a Blunder;
And Mistake in the Names, by a Slip of their Pen,
May perhaps have occasion'd Mistake in the Men.
That this has been made, to omit all the rest,
Let a Champion of yours, your own Selden, attest:
See his Book upon Titles of Honour, that Quarter
Where he treats of St. George and the Knights of the Garter.

V

There he quotes from Froissart, how at first, on the Plan
Of a Lady's blue Garter, blue Order began,
In one thousand three hundred and forty and four.
But the Name of the Saint in Froissart is Gregore:
So the Chronicle Writer or printed or wrote
For George, without Doubt, says the marginal Note.
Be it there a mistake!—But, my Lord, I'm afraid
That the same, vice-versâ, was anciently made.

VI

For tho' much has been said by the great Antiquarian
Of an Orthodox George, Cappadocian and Arian:

473

“How the Soldiers first came to be Patron of old,
I have not,” says he, “Light enough to behold.”
A Soldier-like Nation, he guesses (for want
Of a Proof that it did so) would choose him for Saint;
For in all his old Writings no Fragment occurr'd
That saluted him Patron, 'till Edward the Third.

VII

His Reign he had guess'd to have been the first Time,
But for old Saxon Prose and for old English Rime,
Which mention a George, a great Martyr and Saint,
Tho' they say not a Word of the Thing that we want.
They tell of his Tortures, his Death, and his Pray'r,
Without the least Hint of the question'd Affair:
That Light, I should guess, with Submission to Selden,
As he was not the Patron, he was not beheld in.

474

VIII

The Name in French, Latin, and Saxon, 'tis hinted,
Some three or four Times, is mis-writ or mis-printed;
He renders it George;—but, allowing the Hint,
And the Justice of Change both in Writing and Print,
Some George by like Error (it adds to the Doubt)
Has turn'd our Converter St. Gregory out.
He, or Austin the Monk, bid the fairest by far
To be Patron of England, till Garter and Star.

IX

In the old Saxon Custom of crowning our Kings,
As Selden has told us, amongst other Things
They nam'd in the Pray'rs which his Pages transplant,
The Virgin, St. Peter, and one other Saint,
Whose Connection with England is also exprest,
And yields in this Case such a probable Test,
That, a Patron suppos'd, we may fairly agree
Such a Saint is the Person, whoever it be.

475

X

Now, with Mary and Peter, when Monarchs are crown'd,
There is only a Sanctus Gregorius found;
And his Title Anglorum Apostolus too,
With which a St. George can have nothing to do.
While Scotland and Ireland and France and Spain claims
A St. Andrew, St. Patrick, St. Denys, St. James,
Both Apostle and Patron—for Saint so unknown
Why should England reject an Apostle her own?

XI

This, my Lord, is the Matter. The plain simple Rimes
Lay no Fault, you perceive, upon Protestant Times.
I impute the Mistake, if it should be one, solely
To the Pontiffs succeeding, who christen'd Wars holy,—
To Monarchs, who madding around their round Tables,
Preferr'd to Conversion their Fighting and Fables.
When Soldiers were many, good Christians but few,
St. George was advanc'd to St. Gregory's Due.

476

XII

One may be mistaken, and therefore would beg
That a Willis, a Stukeley, an Ames, or a Pegge,—
In short, that your Lordship and all the fam'd Set
Who are under your Auspices happily met,
In perfect good Humour—which you can inspire,
As I know by Experience—would please to enquire,
To search this one Question, and settle, I hope:
“Was Old England's Old Patron a Knight, or a Pope?”

477

AN EPISTLE TO J. BL---K---N, ESQ.,

Occasioned by a Dispute concerning the Food of St. John the Baptist.

I

The Point, Mr. Bl---k---n, disputed upon,—
“Whether Insects, or Herbs, were the Food of St John,”—
Is a singular Proof how a learnèd Pretence
Can prevail with some Folks over natural Sense,—

478

So consistent with Herbs, as you know was allow'd.
But the Dust that is rais'd by a critical crowd
Has so blinded their Eyes, that plain, simple Truth
Is obscur'd by a Posse of Classics, forsooth!

II

Diodorus and Strabo, Solinus and Ælian,
And Authorities down from the Aristotelian,
Have mention'd whole Clans that were wont to subsist,
In the East, upon Locusts as big as your Fist.
“Ergo, so did the Baptist.”—Now, were it all true
That Reporters affirm (but not one of them knew),—
What follows but Hear-say how Savages eat,
And how Locusts sometimes are Necessity's Meat?

III

If, amongst their old Tales, they had chanc'd to determine
That the Jews were accustom'd to feed on these Vermin,
It would have been something; or, did they produce
Any one single Hermit that stor'd them for Use,
Having pick'd 'em and dried 'em, and smok'd in the Sun,
(For this, before eating, they tell us was done),

479

The Example were patter than any they bring
To support such an awkward, improbable Thing,

IV

Hermitical Food the poetical Tribe
Of Classics have happen'd sometimes to describe:
And their native Descriptions are constantly found
To relate, in some Shape, to the Fruits of the Ground.
If exception occurs, one may venture to say,
That the Locust Conceit never came in their Way,—
Or let its Defender declare, if he knows,
Any one single Instance, in Verse or in Prose!

V

“But the Word which the Text has made Use of,” 'tis said,
“Means the animal Locust, wherever 'tis read,—
Of a Species which Jews were permitted to eat.
There is therefore no Need of a plantal Conceit,
Of Tops, Summits, or Buds, Pods, or Berries of Trees;
For to this,” the sole Proof is, “no Classic agrees;
And the Latin ‘Locustæ’ came only from want
Of Attention to signify ‘Tops of a Plant.’”

VI

It would take up a Volume to clear the Mistakes
Which, in this single Case, classic Prejudice makes,
Thro' Attachment to Writers who pass a Relation
Which others had sign'd without Examination;—
As the Authors have done who have read and have writ
That Locusts are Food which the Law did permit;

480

And the Place which they quote for a Proof that it did,
Is one that will prove them expressly forbid.

VII

I appeal to the Hebrew, and for the Greek Word
To the twenty-first Iliad, where once it occurr'd,
And where the old Prince of the Classics, one sees,
Never once thought of Insects, but Branches of Trees,
As the Context evinces; tho', all to a Man,
Translators adopt the Locustical Plan.
How the Latin “Locustæ” should get a wrong Sense
Is their Business to prove who object the Pretence.

481

VIII

But the classical Greek, tho' it often confirm,
Cannot always explain, a New Testament Term,
Any more than an Old one; and, therefore (to pass
All Authorities by of a paganish Class)
Let them ask the Greek Fathers, who full as well knew
Their own Tongue and the Gospel, which Meaning is true?
But for “Insects” to find a plain Proof in their Greek
Will cut a Librarian out Work for a Week.

IX

For “Herbs” here is one, which, unless it is match'd,
Ought to carry this Question as fairly dispatch'd.
Isidorus, Greek Father of critical Fame,
Has a Letter concerning this very Greek Name,
Dismissing the Doubt which a Querist had got,
“If the Baptist did eat Animalcules or not?”
“God Forbid,” says the Father, “a Thing so absurd!
‘The Summits of Plants’ is the Sense of the Word.”

X

Such an ancient Decision, so quite à propos,
Disperses at once all the Classical Show
Of a Learning that builds upon Africa's East
And the Traunts, how wild People were fabl'd to feast

482

Upon fancied huge Locusts, which never appear—
Or huge or unhuge—but five Months in the Year,
To be hoarded, and pickled in Salt and in Smoke.—
How Saint John is employ'd by these critical Folk!

XI

Where the Locust could feed, such an abstinent Saint
Of Food for his Purpose could never have Want.
If the Desert was sandy and made such a Need,
How account for the Locusts descending to feed?
In short, Mr. Bl---k---n, they cannot escape
The Charge of “absurd,” in all Manner of Shape.
If they can, let them do it! Meanwhile, I conclude
That St. John's was the plantal, not animal, Food.

XII

Thus, Sir, I have stated, as brief as I'm able,
The friendly Debate that we had at your Table;
Where the kind Entertainer, I found, was inclin'd,—
And acknowledge the Pleasure,—to be of my Mind;
Having only to add, now I make my Report,
That, howe'er we may differ in Points of this Sort,
Our Reception at Orford all pleas'd we review,
And rejoice in the Health of its Master.—

Adieu!

483

THREE EPISTLES TO G. LLOYD, ESQ., ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN HOMER:

Ουρηας μεν πρωτον επωχετο, και κυνας αργους.
Αυταρ επειτ' αυτοισι βελος εχεπευκες εφιεις
Βαλλ', αιει δε πυραι νεκυων καιοντο θαμειαι.
Iliad. A, vv. 50–52.

He first attacked (with his darts) the mules and the swift-footed dogs. But next sending forth against (the men) themselves his piercing missile he smote them, and frequent pyres were constantly being lit for the dead.

486

EPISTLE I.

I

Thus Homer, describing the pestilent Lot
That among the Greek Forces Apollo had shot,
Tells how it began, and who suffer'd the first,
When his ill-treated Priest the whole Army had curst,—
Or rather, what suffer'd; for Custom computes
That Apollo's first Shafts fell amongst the poor Brutes,

487

Instructing both Critics to construe and Schools
“Κυνας αργουσ'” “the Dogs,” and “ουρηας” “the Mules.”

II

Now, observing old Homer's poetical Features,
I would put in one Word for the guiltless dumb Creatures,—
And the Famous blind Bard; for, as far as I see,
The learn'd in this Case are much blinder than he.
At the Mules and the Dogs, in his versified Greek,
Nor Phœbus nor Priest had conceiv'd any Pique;
And I doubt, notwithstanding the common Consent,
That the Meaning is miss'd which Mæonides meant.

III

Why the Brutes were first plagu'd, an Eustathius and others
Have made a great Rout, with their physical Pothers
Of the Nature, and Causes, and Progress of Plague,—
And all to the Purpose quite foreign, and vague.
But be medical Symptoms whatever they will,
Such Matters I leave to Friend Heberden's Skill,
And propose a plain Fact to all cunninger Ken:
“That the ‘Mules,’ and the ‘Dogs,’ in this Passage, are ‘Men.’”

IV

Just then, as they rise, to explain my Ideas:—
Let the Lexicon tell what is meant by ουρηας;

488

In plain common-Sense, without physical Routs,
“The Grecian Outguards, the Custodes, or Scouts.”
The Word may be “Mules” too, for aught that I know,
For my Scapula says, “'tis, Ionicè, so;”
And refers to the Lines above quoted from Homer,
Where “Mules,” I conceive, is an arrant Misnomer.

V

If a Word has two Meanings, to critical Test
That which makes the Sense better is certainly best.
The Plague is here plainly describ'd to begin
In the Skirts of the Camp, then to enter within,
To rage, and occasion what Iliad styles
“Incessantly burning their funeral Piles;”
Which the Greeks, I conjecture, were hardly such Fools
As to burn, or erect, for the Dogs and the Mules.

VI

The common Greek Word, the Homerical too,
For “Mules” is “‘Ημιονος,” where it will do;
And there was, as it happened, no Cause to coerce
Its Use in this Place, for it suited the Verse.
Whereas a plain Reason oblig'd to discard,
If this was the Point to be shown by the Bard,
That first to the Parties about the main Camp
Apollo despatch'd the vindicative Damp.

489

VII

Thus much for “Ουρηας.”—The meaning of “Κυνες”
Is attended, I own, with a little more Newness;
For the Sense, in this Place, will oblige us to plant
A meaning for “Κυνες” which Lexicons want.
And, if that be a Reason for some to reject,
'Tis no more than Correction, tho' just, may expect;
“But if it be just,” the true Critics will add,
“'Tis a Meaning that Lexicons ought to have had.”

VIII

Both “Canes” in Latin, and “Κυνες” in Greek,
And the Hebrew Word for them, if Critics would seek,
Should be rendered, sometimes, in Prose-writers or Bards,
By “Slaves,” or by “Servants,” “Attendants,” or “Guards:”
“Ουρηας” and “Κυνας” have here, in my Thought,
Much a like Kind of meaning, as really they ought;
The Diff'rence, perhaps, that, for Camp-Preservation,
One mov'd, or patroll'd, while the other kept Station.

IX

“Αργους,” which is “white,” in the commonest Sense,
To describe the Dogs here has no Sort of Pretence;
Nor here will the Lexicons help a dead Lift,
That allow the odd Choice too of “slow,” or of “swift.”

490

If the Dogs were demolish'd, 'twill certainly follow
That “white, slow,” or “swift,” was all one to Apollo;
Whose fam'd Penetration was rather too deep
Than to take Dogs for Soldiers, as Ajax did Sheep.

X

Why them, or why “Mules”? For Description allows
That he shot at no Horses, Bulls, Oxen, or Cows,
With a Vengeance selecting, from all other Classes,
Poor Dogs of some Sort, and impeccant Half-Asses.
Now, granting, what Poem shows plainly enough,
That Homer abounds with nonsensical Stuff,
Yet it should, for his Sake, if it can, be confin'd
To the Pagan, and not the Poetical, Kind.

XI

The “Mules” and the “Dogs,” being shot at, coheres
No better with Sense, than the Bulls and the Bears.
To excúlpate old Homer, my worthy Friend Lloyd,
Some Sort of Correction should here be employ'd;
And, for Languages' Sake,—in which Matters are spread
Of a greater Concern, if old Writers are read,—
Where it seems to be wanting, the Critics should seek
To make out fair English for Latin or Greek.

491

XII

If the Words have a Meaning both human and brute,
Where Homer describes his Apollo to shoot,
Tho' “brute” in the Latin possesses the Letter,
I take it for granted that human is better.
Do you think this a fair Postulatum?—“I do;
“But you only affirm that the ‘human’ is true.”—
That's all that I want in this present Epistle;
In the next I shall prove it, as clear as a Whistle.

EPISTLE II.

I.

Your Consent, I made bold to suppose, in my last,
To a fair Postulatum had readily pass'd:
“That a mulish Distemper, or that a caníne,
Neither suited Apollo's nor Homer's Design,
Like making the Subjects who felt its first Shock,
To be Men like their Masters, tho' baser of Stock.”
Now, Proof at the present comes under the Pen,
That “ουρηες,” and “Κυνες,” may signify “Men.”

II.

You'll draw the Conclusion so fair and so just,
That if they may do it, they certainly must.

492

It would look with an unphilosophical Face,
And anti-Rawthmelian, to question the Case.
Tho' the Proofs of this Point, which I formerly noted,
Have slipt my Remembrance and cannot be quoted,
From Homer himself it may chance to appear,
As I promis'd to make it, no Whistle more clear.

III.

That ουρηες are “Guards” in Iliadal Lore,
You may see in Book Kappa, Line eighty-and-four;
Where the wise Commentators confess in their Rules,
That “Here it is ‘Guards,’” not “Ημιονοι,” “Mules.”
Being join'd with “εταιροι,” “Companions,” they knew
As “εταιροι” were Men, that ουρηες were too.
Now let us illústrate the combated Place,
As near as we can, by a Parallel Case.

IV.

Plain Sense as I take it, if once it is shown
That Homer opposes to “being alone”
Having two “Κυνες αργοι” along with an Hero,
Will call 'em “Companions,” not “Dogs,” in Homero.
Turn then to his Odyssey, Beta, Line ten,

493

Where “Dogs,” as they call 'em, are certainly “Men,”
Attended by whom (he will second who seeks)
Telemachus went to a Council of Greeks.

V.

With his Sword buckl'd on, and a Spear in his Hand,
He went (having summon'd) to meet the whole Band;
So bravely set forth, so equipt, and so shod,
That, as Homer has phras'd it, “he look'd like a God:”
“Not alone”—to enhance the Description of Song,—
“But he took with him two ‘Κυνας αργους’ along,”—
“Two swift-footed Dogs?” Yes! Two Puppies, no Doubt,
That Apollo had sav'd from the general Rout!

VI.

One can but reflect how we live in an Age
That scruples the Sense of all sensible Page,
Any Kind of old Nonsense more pleas'd to admit,
If in Homer, or Virgil, or Horace 'tis writ.
But yet, to do Justice to these, and the rest
Of the poor pagan Poets, it must be confess'd,
That Time, and Transcribing, and critical Note
Have father'd much on them, which they never wrote.

VII.

This Place is a Proof, how the Critics made bold
To foist their own Sense into Verses of old;

494

For instead of two Greeks here, attending their Master,
And footing a Pace neither slower nor faster,
They have made in some Places to follow his Track
Of their swift-footed Dogs an indefinite Pack;
The Son of Ulysses unskilfully forcing
To go to a Council, as Men go a-Coursing.

VIII.

“Ουκ οιος, ουκ οιη,” for Master and Dame,
“Not alone,” to interpret by Homer's true Aim:
There are Places enow to evince that Attendants
Were Men or were Maidens, were Friends or Dependants.
Thus Achilles “ουκ οιος,” Omega rehearses,
Had two “Θεραποντες,” both nam'd in the Verses
“Automedon, Alcimus;” whom, it is said,
“He valued the most, for Patroclus was dead.”

IX.

Penelope thus, in First Odyssey Strain,
Two “Αμφιπολοι” follow'd,—two Women, 'tis plain,—
When the Dame was “ουκ οιη,” and mention'd anon,
How they stood to attend her, on either Side one.
Had “Αμφιπολοι” signified “Cats” in the Greek,
Would not Sense have oblig'd us new Meaning to seek?
And two Dogs as unfit as two Cats you will own,
To describe Man or Woman “not being alone.”

X.

To close the plain Reasons that rise in one's Mind,
Take an Instance from Virgil of similar Kind:

495

Where in fair Imitation of Homer, no doubt,
He describes King Evander to dress and march out;
And discern, by the Help of his Mantuan Pen,
How “Custodes” and “Canes” were both the same Men,
Where “Canes” are “Dogs,” as all Custom opines.
See Virgil's eighth Book;—come, I'll copy the Lines:
“Nec non et gemini custodes limine ab alto
Procedunt, gressumque canes comitantur herilem.”

XI.

“Κυνες αργοι” in Homer were then in his View,
When Virgil in Latin thus painted the two,
And the “Canes” in him are the very “Custodes,”
Most aptly repeated, dignissime Sodes.
Did ever Verse yet, or Prose ever, record
Any literal Dogs that kept Pace with their Lord?
“Proceeding,” “attending”: how plain the Suggestion
That “Dogs,” in the Case, are quite out of the Question!

XII.

And now I appeal to all critical Candour,
If Homer's young Hero, or senior Evander,
Had Dogs for Companions, to honour their Gressus,
As Translators in Verse and in Prose would possess us?
The Moderns, I think (tho' a Lover of Metre),
Should manage with Judgment a little discreeter,
Than to gape and admire what old Poets have sung
If it will not make Sense in their own Mother-Tongue!

496

EPISTLE III.

I

Having shown you the Passage, one cannot avoid
An Appendix so proper, kind Visitant Lloyd,
To the Mules and the Dogs, which a little while since
Were Guards and Piquets, as Verse sought to evince.
Whether “Κυνες” attended, two-footed or four,
Upon Heroes and Kings, let the Critics explore;
But “ουρηας” for “Mules,” in old Homer's Intent,
I suspect that his Rhapsodies never once meant.

II

The Word is twice us'd, in the twenty-third Book,
In the Space of five Lines, where I made you to look.
I'll refresh your Attention.—Achilles, know then,
Had desir'd Agamemnon, the Monarch of Men,
To exhort 'em to bring, when the Morning appear'd,
And prepare proper Wood, for a Pile to be rear'd
For the Purpose of burning, as Custom instill'd,
The Remains of Patroclus, whom Hector had kill'd.

III

When the Morning appear'd with her rosyfied Fingers,
Agamemnon obey'd, and exhorted the Bringers,

497

“The Mules and the Men,”—as Translation presents,—
Exhorted them all to come out of their Tents.
So the “Men” and the “Mules” lay amongst one another,
If this be the Case, in some Hammocks or other;
And the “Men,” taking with 'em Ropes, Hatchets, and Tools,
Were conducted, it seems, to the Wood by the “Mules!”

IV

For “the Mules went before 'em,” the Latinists say:
Which, a Man may presume, was to show 'em the Way;
Or, since there was Danger, the Mules going first
Might, perhaps, be because the Men none of 'em durst.
For they all were to pass, in their present Employ,
To the Woods of Mount Ida, belonging to Troy;
And if Trojans fell on them, for stealing their Fire,
The Men, in the Rear, might the sooner retire.

V

However, both mulish and well-booted Folks
Came safe to the Mountain, and cut down its Oaks,
And with more bulky Pieces of Timber cut out
They loaded such Mules, as were Mules without doubt.
When you found in the Latin so certain a Place,
Where the loading Description show'd Mules in the Case,
Your Eyes to the left I saw rolling, to seek
If the Word for these “Mules” was “ουρηων” in Greek?

498

VI

And had they discover'd that really it was,
Conjecture had come to more difficult Pass;
But since it was not, since “Ημιονων” came,
What else but the Meaning could vary the Name?
Why should Homer, so fond (as you very well noted),
Of repeating the Words which his Muse had once quoted,
Make so awkward a Change, without any Pretence
Of a Reason suggested by Metre or Sense?

VII

“Ημιονοι,” “Mules,” tho' a masculine Ender,
Is always in Greek of the feminine Gender;
But “ουρηες,” you'll find, let it mean what it will,
Never is of that Gender, but masculine still.
How ridiculous then, that “ουρηες,” the He's,
Should become by their Loading “Ημιονοι,” She's!
In a Latin Description would Poetry pass,
That should call 'em “Mulós,” and then load 'em “Mulás?”

VIII

Both the Word and the Sense, which is really the Bard's,
Show the Masculine “Mules” to be certainly “Guards.”
Any Mules I desire any Critic to name,
If Jacks in the Gender, that are not the same.
One Place, which I hinted at, over our Tea,
May be offer'd, perhaps, as a masculine Plea;
But, if Folks were unbiass'd, they quickly would find
A Mistake to be there of the very same Kind.

499

IX

The Trojans met Priam at one of their Gates,
With the Corps of his Hector, Omega relates;
Whom they would have lamented there all the Day long,
Had not Priam, addressing himself to the Throng,
Made a Speech: “Let me pass with the Mules,”—and so on;
For Mules drew the Hearse which the Corpse lay upon.
Now, the Words that he said at the Entrance of Troy
Were: “Ουρευσι διελθεμεν ειξατε μοι.”

X

Priam said to the People still hurrying down:
“Let me pass thro' the Guards,”—to go into the Town.
This is much better Sense, by the Leave of the Schools,
Than for Priam to say: “Let me pass with the Mules.”
For Idæus directed the Mulish Machine,
While Horses drew that in which Priam was seen;
Who thought of no Mules, but of reaching the Dome,
Where they all might lament over Hector at Home.

XI

The Mules had been nam'd very often before
In the very same Book, Times a Dozen or more;
And the proper Term for 'em had always occurr'd;
It is only this once that we meet with this Word.
That it signifies “Guards,” it is granted, sometimes,
As I instanc'd, you know, in the Baguley Rhimes;
And will Critics suppose that the Poet would make
Variation for mere Ambiguity's Sake?

500

XII

That Apollo should plague, Agamemnon exhort,
These irrational Creatures is stupid, in short;
Where no Metamorphosis, Fable, or Fiction,
Can defend such Abuse of plain, narrative Diction.—
Perchance, as a Doctor, you'll think me unwise,
For poring on Homer, with present sore Eyes;
But a Glance the most transient may see, in his Plan,
That a Mule is a Mule, and a Man is a Man.

501

CRITICAL REMARKS IN ENGLISH AND LATIN UPON SEVERAL PASSAGES IN HORACE.

502

I. AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, PROPOSING A CORRECTION IN THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE

“Si non Acrisium Virginis abditæ
Custodem pavidum, Jupiter et Venus
Risissent.
—Lib. iii., Od. 16, vv. 5–7.

If Jupiter and Venus had not laughed at Acrisius, the affrighted keeper of the concealed virgin.”

503

So then, you think Acrisius really sold
His Daughter Danae, himself, for Gold;
When the whole Story of the Grecian King
Makes such a Bargain so absurd a Thing,
That neither Poetry nor Sense could make
The Poet guilty of the vile Mistake!

No, Sir; her Father, here, was rich enough;
Satire on him, for selling her, is Stuff.
Fear was his Motive to a vast Expense
Of Gates and Guards to keep her in a Fence;
But some dull Blockhead, happ'ning to transcribe
When half asleep, has made Him take the Bribe,
Which Jupiter and Venus, as the Bard
Had writ, made use of to corrupt the Guard.

504

All the Remarks on Avarice are just,
But 'twas the Keeper that betray'd his Trust.

Passage from Virgil which you here select us,
How Gold is “cogent of mortale pectus,”
And from Euripides, that “Gold can ope
Gates”—unattempted even by the Pope—
Show Money's Force on Subjects that are vicious;
But what has this to do with King Acrisius,
Who spar'd no Money to secure his Life,
Lost, if his Daughter once became a Wife?
He shut her up for fear of Death, and then
Sold her himself?—All Stuff! I say again.
Death was his dread; nor was it in the Pow'r
Of Love's Bewitchment, or of Money'd Show'r,
Of Venus, Jupiter, or all the Fry
Of Homer's Heav'n, to hire the Man to die.

Where is his Avarice, of any Kind,
Noted in all the Fables that you find,
Except in those of your inventing Fashion
That make him old, and Avarice his Passion,—

505

To hide the Blunder of Amanuenses,
Who, writing Words, full oft unwrit the Senses?
Fact that in Horace, in a World of Places,
Appears by irrecoverable Traces;
On which the Critics raise a learned Dust,
And, still adjusting, never can adjust;
Having but one of all the Roman Lyrics
To feed their Taste for slavish Panegyrics;
The more absurd the Manuscriptal Letter,
They paint from thence some fancied Beauty better;
Hunting for all the Colours, round about,
To make the Nonsense beautifully out;
Adorning richly, for the Poet's Sake,
Some poor hallucinating Scribe's Mistake.

Now, I would have a Short-hand Son of mine
Be less obsequious to the Classic Line,
Than, right or wrong, to yield his Approbation,
Because Homeric, or because Horatian;
Or not to see, when it is fairly hinted,
Either original Defect or printed.
Not that it matters Two-pence, in Regard
Of either Grecian or of Roman Bard,

506

If Schools were wise enough to introduce
Much better Books for Education's Use!
But since, by force of Custom or of Lash,
The Boys must wade thro' so much Traunt and Trash
To gain their Greek and Latin, they should learn
True Greek, at least, and Latin to discern;
Nor, for the sake of Custom, to admit
The Faults of Language, Metre, Sense, or Wit.
Because this blind Attachment by Command
To what their Masters do not understand,
Makes Reading servile, in the younger Flock,
Of riming Horace down to prosing Locke;
Knowledge is all mechanically known,
And no innate Idéas of their own.

But, while I'm riming to you what comes next,
I shall forget th' Acrisius of the Text.
Your Reasons, then, why this “Custodem pavidum”
Should not be chang'd to “Custodemque avidum,”
Turn upon Avarice. You think the Father,
Fond of the Bribe,—I think, the Keeper rather,
Who had no Fear from Danaë, the Wife
Who could receive the Gold and lose no Life,—
Must needs be he; and that, without the Change,
The Verse is unpoetically strange.

You make Acrisius to have been the Guard,
And to be “Pavidus.”—Extremely hard

507

To make out either! For what other Place
Shows that the King was Jailer in the Case?
And is not “Pavidus” a dictum gratis?
Was not his Danaë, “munita satis,”
“Safe kept enough?” If “pavidus” come after,
The “Dear Joy” Horace must provoke one's Laughter,
Plain common Sense suggesting, all the while:
“Not Fear, but fancied Safety gave the Smile.”
Safe as Acrisius thought himself to be,
The “Custos avidus” would take a Fee;
A golden shower, they knew, would break his Oath,
And Jupiter and Venus laugh'd at both.

II. A DIALOGUE.

““Sume Mæcenas Cyathos Amici
Sospitis centum.
—Lib. iii., Od. 8, vv. 13–14.

Take Mæcenas, a hundred cups with thy friend who is now in safety.”

508

I

What! must Mæcenas, when he sups
With Horace, drink a Hundred Cups?
A Hundred Cups Mæcenas drink!
Where must he put them all, d'ye think?
Pray, have the Critics all so blunder'd,
That none of 'em correct this “Hundred?”

II

“Not that I know has any one
“Had any Scruple thereupon;
“And for what Reason, pray, should you?
“The Reading, to be sure, is true;
“‘A hundred Cups:’ that is to say:
“‘Mæcenas! come, and drink away!’”

III

If that was all the Poet meant,
It is express'd without the “Cent.”
“Sume, Mæcenas, Cyathos”
Does it full well without the Dose,—
The monst'rous Dose in Cup or Can,
That suits with neither Bard nor Man!

509

IV

“Nay, why so monst'rous? Is it told
“How much the ‘Cyathus’ would hold?
“You think perhaps it was a Mug,
“As round as any Johnian Jug.
“They drank all Night; if small the Glass,
“Would ‘Centum’ mount to such a Mass?”

V

Small as you will, if 'twas a Bumper,
“Centum” for One would be a Thumper.
Its Bulk Horatian Terms define:
“Vates attonitus” with nine;
“Gratia” forbidding more than three.
They were no Thimbles, you may see.

VI

“Not in that Ode; in this they might
“Intend a more diminish'd Plight;
“And, then, Mæcenas and the Bard
“That Night, I warrant ye, drank hard;

510

“‘Perfer in Lucem,’ Horace cries;
“To what a Pitch might Numbers rise!”

VII

A desperate long Night, my Friend,
Before their hundred Cups could end!
Nor does the Verse invite, throughout,
Mæcenas to a drunken Bout:
“Perfer in Lucem” comes in View
With “procul omnis clamor” too.

VIII

“Was it no Bout, because no Noise
“Should interrupt their Midnight Joys?
“Horace, you read, with annual Tap,
“Notes his escape from dire Mishap:
“Must he, and Friends conven'd, be sober,
“Because 'twas March, and not October?

IX

“Sober or drunk” is not the Case,
But Word and Meaning to replace,
Both here demolish'd. Did they, pray,
Do nothing else but drink away?
For Friends conven'd had Horace got
No Entertainment but to sot?

511

X

“Yes, to be sure; he might rehearse
“Some new or entertaining Verse;
“Might touch the Lyre, invoke the Muse,
“Or twenty Things that he might choose.
“No doubt but he would mix along
“With Cup and Talk the joyous Song.”

XI

Doubtless, he would; and that's the Word,
For which a “Centum” so absurd
Has been inserted, by Mistake
Of his Transcribers, scarce awake;
Which all the Critics when they keep,
Are, quoad hoc, quite fast asleep;

XII

For that's the Word!—“What Word d'ye mean?
“For Song does ‘Centum’ intervene?
“Song would be—O, I take your Hint:
“‘Cantum,’ not ‘Centum,’ you would print,
“‘Sospitis Cantum,’—but the Clause
“Can have no Sense with such a Pause.”

XIII

Pause then at “Sospitis,” nor strike
The three Cæsuras all alike;

512

One Cup of Helicon but quaff,
The Point is plain as a Pikestaff:
“The Wine, the Song, the Lustre's Light,”—
The Verse, the Pause, the Sense is right.

XIV

“Stay, let me read the Sapphic out
“Both Ways, and then resolve the Doubt:
“Sume Mæcenas cyathos Amici
Sospitis centum, et vigiles Lucernas
Perfer in Lucem; procul omnis esto
Clamor et Ira!”
“Sume Mæcenas cyathos Amici
Sospitis; Cantum, et vigiles Lucernas
Perfer in Lucem; procul omnis esto
Clamor et Ira!”
“Well, I confess, now I have read,
“The Thing is right that you have said;
“One Vowel rectified, how plain
“Does Horace's Intent remain!”

III. [Ye Poets, and Critics, and Men of the Schools]

“Nonumque prematur in Annum.
—De Art. Poët. v. 388.

And let it be suppressed till the ninth year.”

513

I

Ye Poets, and Critics, and Men of the Schools,
Who talk about Horace and Horace's Rules,
Ye learned Admirers, how comes it, I wonder,
That none of you touch a most tangible Blunder?
I speak not to servile and sturdy Logicians,
Who will, right or wrong, follow printed Editions;
But you that are Judges, come, rub up your Eyes,
And unshackle your Wits,—and I'll show where it lies!

II

Amongst other Rules which your Horace has writ
To make his young Piso for Poetry fit,
He tells him, that Verses should not be pursued
When the Muse (or Minerva) was not in the Mood;
That, whate'er he should wish, “he should let it descend
To the Ears of his Father, his Master, his Friend,
And let it lie by him,”—now prick up your Ears!—
“Nonumque prematur in Annum,”—“nine years.”

III

“Nine Years,” I repeat; for the Sound is enough,
With the Help of plain Sense, to discover the Stuff.
If the Rule had been new, what a Figure would “nine”
Have made with your Piso's, ye Masters of mine?

514

Must a Youth of quick Parts, for his Verse's Perfection,
Let it lie for “nine Years” in the House of Correction?
Nine Years if his Verses must lie in the Leaven,
Take the young Rogue himself, and transport him for seven!

IV

To make this a Maxim that Horace infuses,
Must provoke all the Laughter of all the nine Muses.
How the Wits of old Rome, in a Case so facetious,
Would have jok'd upon Horace, and Piso, and Metius,
If they all could not make a poetical Line
Ripe enough to be read, till the Year had struck nine!
Had the Boy been possest of nine Lives, like a Cat,
Yet surely he'd ne'er have submitted to that!

V

“Vah!” says an old Critic, “Indefinite Number
To denote many Years”—(which is just the same Lumber);

515

Quotes a Length of Quintilian for Time to retouch;
But wisely stops short at his blaming too much.
“Some took many Years”; he can instance, in fine,
“Isocrates ten, Poet Cinna just nine;”—
Rare Instance of taking, which, had he been cool,
Th' old Critic had seen, never could be a Rule.

VI

“Indeed,” says a young one, “nine Years, I confess,
Is a desperate While for a Youth to suppress.
I can hardly think Horace would make it a Point;
The Word, to be sure, must be out of its Joint;
Lie by with a ‘Nonum’!—Had I been his Piso,
I'd have told little Fatty, mine never should lie so.
Had he said for nine Months, I should think them enow.
This Reading is false, Sir; pray, tell us the True!”

VII

Why, you are not far off it, if present Conjecture
May furnish the Place with a probable Lecture;
For by Copies, I doubt, either printed or written,
The Hundreds of Editors all have been bitten.
Nine Months you allow?—“Yes.”—Well, let us, for fear

516

Of affronting Quintilian, e'en make it a Year:
Give the Critics their “numque,” but as to their “no”—
You have one in plain English more fit to bestow.

VIII

I take the Correction: “unumque prematur”
“Let it lie for one Twelvemonth.”—“Ay, that may hold Water;
And Time enough too for consulting about
Master Piso's Performance, before it came out!
What! Would Horace insist, that a Sketch of a Boy
Should take as much Time, as the taking of Troy?
They that bind out the young one, say, when the old Fellow
Took any Time like it, to make a Thing mellow.

IX

Tho' correct in his Trifles”!—Young Man, you say right,
And to them that will see, it is plain at first Sight;
But Critics that will not, they hunt all around
For something of sameness, in Sense or in Sound;
It is all one to them so attach'd to the Letter,
That to make better Sense makes it never the better.
Nay, the more Sense in Readings, the less they will own 'em;
You must leave to these Sages their mumpsimus “Nonum.”

X

“Do you think,” they cry out, “that with so little Wit
Such a World of great Critics on Horace have writ?
That the Poets themselves, were the Blunder so plain,
In a Point of their Art too, would let it remain?”
For you are to consider, these critical Chaps
Do not like to be snubb'd; you may venture, perhaps,
An Amendment, where they can see somewhat amiss;
But may raise their ill Blood, if you circulate this.

517

XI

“It will circulate, this, Sir, as sure as their Blood,
Or, if not, it will stand, as in Horace it stood.
They may wrangle and jangle, unwilling to see;
But the Thing is as clear as a Whistle to me.
This “Nonum” of theirs no Defence will admit,
Except that a Blot is no Blot, till it's hit;
And now you have hit it, if “Nonum” content 'em,
So would, if the Verse had so had it, “Nongentum.”

XII

You'll say, “this is painting of Characters”;—true;
But really, good Sirs, I have met with these two:—
The first, in all Comments quite down to the Delphin,
A Man, if he likes it, may look at himself in;
The last, if you like, and, along with the Youth,
Prefer to “Nonumque” poetical Truth,
Then blot out the Blunder, now here it is hinted,
And by all future Printers “Unumque” be printed!

IV. [By “Campus,” and by “Areæ,” my Friends]

“Nunc et Campus et Areæ,
Lenesque sub noctem susurri
Compositâ repetantur horâ.
—Lib. i. Od. 9, vv. 18–20.

Now let both the Campus Martius, and the open squares, and soft whispers be resorted to again, at the hour of assignation.”

518

I

By “Campus,” and by “Areæ,” my Friends,
The Question is, what Horace here intends?
For such Expression with the current Style
Of this whole Ode is hard to reconcile;
Nay, notwithstanding critical Pretence,
Or I mistake, or it can have no Sense.

II

The Ode, you find, proceeding to relate
A Winter's Frost in its severest State,
Calls out for Fire, and Wine, and Loves, and Dance,
And all that Horace rambles to enhance;
But how can this fair-Weather Phrase belong
To such a wintry, saturnalian Song?

III

A learned Frenchman quotes these very Lines
As really difficult; and thus refines:
“We use these Words,” says Monsieur Sanadon,

519

“For nightly Meetings, hors de la Maison;
“But 'tis ridiculous, in Frost and Snow
“Of keenest Kind, that Horace should do so.”

IV

Right, Monsieur, right; such incoherent Stuff
Is here, no Doubt, ridiculous enough.
The Campus Martius, and its active Scenes,
Which Commentators say th' Expression means,
Have here no Place; nor can they be akin
To Scenes not laid without Doors, but within.

V

“‘Nunc’ must refer,” proceeds the French Remark,
“To ‘Donec—Puer,’ Age of Taliarque;
“Not to the Frost, for which the Bard, before,
“Design'd the two first Strophes, and no more;
“As Commentators rightly should have taught,
“Or inattentive Readers else are caught.”

VI

Now “inattentive” Critics too, I say,
Are caught, sometimes, in their dogmatic Way.
United here, we must divide, forsooth,
The Time of Winter from the Time of Youth,
When all Expressions of Horatian Growth
Do, in this Ode, 'tis plain, refer to both!

520

VII

Youthful th' Amusements, and for frosty Week;
From drinking, dancing, down to hide and seek;
But “Campus” comes, and “Areæ,” between,
By a Mistake too big for any Screen;
And how nonsensically join'd with Lispers,
“By Assignation met,” of “nightly Whispers”!

VIII

Strange, how Interpreters retail the Farce,
That “Campus” here should mean “the Field of Mars”!
When in their Task they must have just read o'er
Contrast to this, the very Ode before;
Where ev'ry manly Exercise disclos'd
To Love's Effeminacy stands oppos'd.

IX

In this, no thought of any Field on Earth,
But warm Fire-side and Roman Winter's Mirth;
No thought of any but domestic “Ring,”
Where all Decembrian Customs took their Swing,
And where—but come, that Matter we'll suppress;
There should be something for Cantábs to guess!

X

I'll ask anon, from what has now been said,
If Emendation pops into your Head;

521

Or if you'll teach me how to comprehend
That all is right, and Nothing here to mend.—
Come, sharpen up your Latin Wits a bit;
What are they good for else, these Odes that Horace writ?

V. [This Phrase of “Riches built on high”]

“Cedes coëmptis saltibus, et domo;
Villâque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit,
Cedes; et exstructis in altum
Divitiis potietur heres.
—Lib. ii. Od. 3, vv. 17–20.

You shall leave your purchased lawns, and your house; you shall retire from the villa, which is washed by the yellow Tiber; and an heir shall enjoy your riches high piled up.”

I

This Phrase of “Riches built on high”
Has something in it, at first Sight,
Which, if the Latin Language try,
Must needs appear not to be right.

522

Produce an Instance, where before
'Twas ever us'd,—I'll say no more!

II

Talk not of “Riches pil'd on Heaps,”
To justify the Latin Phrase;
For if you take such critic Leaps,
You jump into Dog-Latin Days;
And I shall answer to that Trick:
“In meâ mente non est sic.”

III

That “Lands” were here the Poet's Thought,
And “House along the River's Side,”
And “lofty Villa,” built or bought,
Is much too plain to be denied.
These “high-extructed Spires” he writ
That mortal Dellius must quit.

IV

“Well, Sir, supposing this the Case,
“And ‘Structures’ what the Poet meant:
“How will you fill the faulty Place
“With Phrase that suited his Intent;
“Meaning and Metre both arrange,
“And small, if possible, the Change?”

523

V

Smaller and better, to be sure,
Into their Place Amendments fall;
What first occurs will here secure
Meaning and Meter, Change and all.
May it not be that for “Divitiis”
Th' Original had “Æ-dificiis?”

VI

If you object that sep'rate “Æ”
Makes in one Word an odd Division,
Horace, I answer to that Plea,
Has more than once the like Elision.
In short, upon Correction's Plan,
Give us a better, if you can.

VI. [This Passage, Sirs, may put ye, one would think]

“Non est meum, si mugiat Africis
Malus procellis, ad miseras preces
Decurrere, et votis pacisci,
Ne Cypriæ Tyriæque merces
Addant avaro divitias mari.
Tum me biremis præsidio scaphæ
Tutum per Ægæos tumultus
Aura feret geminusque Pollux.
—Lib. iii. Od. 29, vv. 57–64.

524

It is no part of my concern, if the mast be cracked by African storms, to descend to piteous entreaties, and by my vows to make an agreement that my Cyprian and Tyrian wares shall not augment the treasures of the greedy ocean. Then, under the safe-guard of a two-oared skiff, the breeze and the twin-brother Pollux will waft me safely through the Ægean tempests.”

I

This Passage, Sirs, may put ye, one would think,
In mind of him, who, in a furious Storm
Told that the Vessel certainly would sink,
Made a Reply in the Horatian Form:
“Why, let it sink then, if it will!” quoth he;
“I'm but a Passenger,—what is't to me?”

II

So, “non est meum,” Horace here cries out,
To purchase Calm with wretched Vows and Pray'rs;
“Let them who freight the Ship be thus devout,—
I'm not concern'd in any of its Wares!”
May not one ask, if common-Sense will read,
Was ever Jest and Earnest more agreed?

525

III

Nay but you see the Reason, 'tis replied,
Why he rejects the Bargaining of Pray'r:
His little Skiff will stem the raging Tide
With double Pollux, and with gentler Air.
“This is his Moral,” say his Under-pullers:
“The Poor and Innocent are safe in Scullers.”

IV

Why, so they may be, if they coast along,
And shun the Winds that make “a Mast to moan!”
But here, according to the critic Throng,
Horace was in the Ship, tho' not his own.
Suppose a Sculler just contriv'd for him,
When the Ship sunk, would his “Biremis” swim?

V

Can you by any construing Pretence,—
If you suppose, as Commentators do,
Him in the Ship,—make tolerable Sense
Of his surviving all the sinking Crew?
With Winds so boist'rous, by what cunning Twist
Can his clear Stars and gentle Air resist?

VI

“The Gifts of Fortune Horace had resign'd,
“And poor and honest his just fancied Case:
“Nothing to do had he with ‘stormy Wind,’
“Nor in ‘Ægæan Seas’ to seek a Place.

526

“How is it likely then, that he should mean
“To paint himself in such an awkward Scene?”

VII

Why, but “Tum me biremis” must suppose,
By “then” escaping, that he sure was in't;
And “feret,” too, that comes into the close
In all the Books that we have here in Print.—
Both Words are wrong, tho', notwithstanding that;
“Tum” should be “Cum,” and “feret” be “ferat.”

VIII

The Sense, or Moral, if you please, is this:
“Henceforth be Probity, tho' poor, my Lot!
“The Love of Riches is but an Abyss
“Of dangerous Cares, that now concern me not.
“Caught in its Storms, let Avarice implore;
“I thank my Stars, I'm rowing safe to Shore.”

VII. [Whene'er this Horace comes into one's Hand]

“Ludit herboso pecus omne campo
Cum tibi Nonæ redeunt Decembres;
Festus in pratis vacat otioso
Cum bove pagus;
Inter audaces lupus errat agnos;
Spargit agrestes tibi silva frondes;
Gaudet invisam pepulisse fossor
Ter pede terram.
—Lib. iii. Od. 18, vv. 9–16.

527

All the cattle play upon the grassy plain, when the Nones of December to thee return; the festive village is at leisure in the meadows with the idle ox; the wolf wanders among the dauntless lambs; for thee the wood scatters small leaves; the digger rejoices to have beaten the hated ground in a triple dance.”

I

Whene'er this Horace comes into one's Hand,
One meets with Words full hard to understand.
If one consult the Critics thereupon,
Some Places have a Note, some others none;
And, when they take interpretating Pains,
Sometimes the Difficulty still remains.

II

To you that see, good Friends, where I am blind,
Let me propose a Case of either Kind:
Premising first,—for both relate to Weather,—
That Winter and December come together;
The Romans, too, as far as I remember,
Have join'd together Winter and December.

III

In Book the Third of Horace, Ode Eighteen,
“Ad Faunum,” these two Sapphics here are seen:
“Ludit HERBOSO pecus omne campo,

528

Cum tibi Nonæ redeunt Decembres;
Festus in Pratis vacat otioso
Cum bove Pagus.
Inter audaces lupus errat Agnos;
Spargit agrestes tibi Silva Frondes;
Gaudet invisam pepulisse fossor
Ter pede terram.”
Now, in December, if we reason close,
Are Fields poetically call'd “herbose?”
Is that the Month, tho' Faunus kept the Fold,
For “daring Lambs” to frisk about so bold?

IV

“Leaves,” I would add too; but the learn'd Dacier
Has made this Point elaborately clear,
As one that artful Horace interweaves:
“The Trees in Italy then shed their Leaves;
“And this the Poet's Artifice profound:
“The Trees themselves for Faunus strew'd the Ground.”

V

It is, we'll say, a fine Horatian Flight;
But is the Herbage,—are the Lambs, so right?
Is there in all the Ode a single Thing
That makes the Winter differ from the Spring?
Nones of December are indeed hibernal,
But all the rest is absolutely vernal.

VI

“Lenis incedis per APRICA rura”—
Does this begin like Winter?—But quid plura?

529

Read how it all begins, goes on, or ends:
Nothing but “Nones” is winterly, my Friends;
Neither in human nor in brutal Creatures
One Trace observ'd of Winter's stormy Features.

VII

May not there be, then, tho' the Critic make
No Hesitation at it, a Mistake?
The Digger's Dancing, too, has somewhat spissy:
“Gaudet INVISAM terram pepulisse.”
“He in Revenge” (say Comments) “beats the Soil,
Hated,” because it gave him so much Toil.

VIII

As oft the Diggers, whom we chance to meet,
Turn up the Ground, and press it with their Feet,
Horace himself, perhaps we may admit,
“Inversam terram,” not “INVISAM” writ.
But this at Present our Demand postpones:—
Pray, solve the Doubt on these “Decembrian Nones”!

VIII. [Horace, “an Infant” (here he interweaves]

“Ut tuto ab atris corpore viperis
Dormirem et Ursis.
—Lib. iii. Od. 4, vv. 17–18.

How I could sleep with my body secured from black vipers and bears.”

530

I

Horace, “an Infant” (here he interweaves
In rambling Ode, where no Design coheres),
“By fabled Stock-Doves cover'd up with Leaves,
“Kept safe from black skinn'd Vipers, and from Bears;”—
But, passing by the incoherent Ode,
I ask the Critics where the “Bears” abode?

II

The Leaves indeed, that Stock-Doves could convey,
Would be but poor Defence against the Snakes,
And sleeping Boy be still an easy Prey
To black Pervaders of the thorny Brakes;
The Bears, I doubt too, would have smelt him out,
If there had been such Creatures thereabout!

III

The Snakes were black; the Bears, I guess, were white,
(Or what the Vulgar commonly call Bulls)
Bears had there been; another Word is right
That has escap'd the criticising Skulls,
Who suffer Bears as quietly to pass,
As if the Bard had been of Lapland Class.

531

IV

A Word, where Sense and Sound do so agree,
That I shall spare to speak in its Defence,
And leave Absurdity, so plain to see,
With due Correction, to your own good Sense.
'Tis this in short in these Horatian Verses:
For “Bears” read “Goats”: pro “Ursis,” lege “Hyrcis!”

IX. [This is one Ode, and much the best of two]

“Romæ, principis urbium,
Dignatur soboles inter amabiles
Vates ponere me choros.
—Lib. iv. Od. 3, vv. 13–15

The children (inhabitants) of Rome, the queen of cities, deign to place me among the amiable band of poets.”

I

This is one Ode, and much the best of two,
Fam'd above all for Scaliger's Ado.
“I rather would have writ so good a Thing
“Than reign,” quoth he, “an Aragonian King.”

532

Had he been King, and Master of the Vote,
I doubt, the Monarch would have chang'd his Note,
And, loading Verses with an huge Renown,
Would still have kept his Aragonian Crown.

II

This Ode, howe'er, tho' short of such a Rout,
He show'd some Judgment when he singled out.
Compar'd with others, one is at a Stand
To think how those should come from the same Hand.
For, if they did, 'tis marvellous enough,
That such a Muse with such a Breath should puff,—
That such a delicate harmonious Muse
Should catch the Clouds, or sink into the Stews.

III

But Fame has sold them to us in a Lot,
And all is Horace, whether his, or not.
For his, or whose you will, then, let them pass;
What signifies it who the Author was?

533

“Dunghill of Ennius,” as we are told
By ancient Proverb, “might afford some Gold;”
And that's the Case of what this Horace sung:
Some Grains of Gold with Tinsel mix'd, and Dung.

IV

We'll say this Ode, allowing for the Age
That Horace writ in, was a golden Page,—
The Words well chosen, easy, free, and pat,
The Lyric Claim so manag'd,—and all that;—
What I would note is, that no Critic yet,
Of them, I mean, whose Notes my Eyes have met,
Has seen a Blemish in this finish'd Piece,
Outdone, they say, by neither Rome nor Greece.

V

Yet there is one, which it is somewhat strange,
That none of 'em should see a Cause to change,
But let a great Indelicacy stand,
As if it came from Horace's own Hand:
To “vatum choros” join'd “Amabiles,”
When, what he meant was “lovely soboles.”
Meo periculo, Sirs, alter this:
If Taste be in you, read “amabilis.”

534

VI

If ye refuse, I have no more to say;
Keep to flat Print, and read it your own Way;
Let Fear to change a Vowel's Rote dispense
With jingling sound, and unpoliter Sense!
I don't expect that Critics, with their Skill,
Will take the Hint,—but all true Poets will.
Be it a Test, at Present, who has got
The nicer Taste of liquid Verse, who not!

541

[_]

Latin verse has been omitted.

XIII. [The whole Design of this Horatian Strain]

“------Thure placaris et hornâ
Fruge Lares avidâque porcâ.
—Lib. iii. Od. 23, vv. 3–4.

And thou shalt have appeased the household Gods, by an offering of frankincense, and fruits of this year's growth, and a greedy swine.”

543

THE FOREGOING CRITICISM, IN ENGLISH VERSE.

[_]

Latin verse has been omitted.

I

The whole Design of this Horatian Strain
Is so exceeding obvious and plain,
That one would wonder how correcting Eyes
Could overlook a Blot of such a Size
As “avidâque Porcâ,” when the Line,
So read, quite ruins Horace's Design.

II

He, as the Verse begins, and as it ends,
This Point to rustic Phydile commends:
That Innocence to Gifts the Gods prefer,
And frugal Off'rings would suffice from her;
That want of Victims was in her no Fault;
She might present Fruit, Incense, Cake, and Salt.

III

With what Connexion could he add to these
A “greedy Swine” in order to appease
Those very Deities, whom Ode is meant
To paint with cheap and bloodless Gifts content,
From pious Hands receiv'd, tho' e'er so small?
But “avidâque Porcâ” spoils it all.

IV

What Moral meant, if they requir'd, in fine,
From rustic Phidyle, a great fat Swine?
Why little Gods and little Matters nam'd,
If such a Sacrifice as this was claim'd?
“Porcâ” is wrong, Sirs, whether we regard
The Gods, the Countrywoman, or the Bard.

544

V

What must be done in such a Case as this?
One must amend, tho' one should do't amiss.
I'll tell you the Correction, frank and free,
That upon reading first occurr'd to me,
And seem'd to suit the Bard's Intention better,
With small Mutation of the printed Letter.

VI

Tho' “avidâque Porcâ” runs along
With Verb, and Case, and Measure of the Song,
Yet, if the Poet is to be renown'd
For something more than mere Italian Sound,—
For Life and Sense, as well as Shell and Carcass,
Read: “Fruge Lares, avidasque Parcas.”

XIV. [Have ye no Scruple, Sirs, when ye rehearse]

“Vile potabis modicis Sabinum
Cantharis.
—Lib. i. Od. 20, vv. 1–2.

Thou shalt drink weak Sabine wine in little cups.”

545

I

Have ye no Scruple, Sirs, when ye rehearse
This hissing Kind of an Horatian Verse?
To me, I own, at Sight of triple “is,”
Suspicion said that something was amiss;
And, when one reads the triple Sapphic thro',
'Tis plain that what Suspicion said was true.

II

Critics, as Custom goes, if one shall bring
The plainest Reason for the plainest Thing,
Will stick to Horace, as he sticks to Print,
And say, sometimes, that there is Nothing in't.—
Or, here, Mistake perhaps, may be my Lot;
Now, tell me, Neighbours, if 'tis so or not?

III

This Ode, or (since apparently Mishap
Has lost the true Beginning of it) Scrap,
Informs Mæcenas that poor Sabine Wine
Shall be his Drink, in Horace's Design,—
Wine which the Poet had incask'd, the Day
That People shouted for the Knight away.

546

IV

This is the first Thing that it says. The next,
Without one Word of intervening Text,
Says, he shall drink (and in poetic Shape
Wine is describ'd) the very richest Grape:
“My Cups Falernian Vintage, Formian Hill,”
(Is all that follows after) “never fill.”

V

These, and these only, in the printed Code,
Are the two Periods of this pygmy Ode;
And how they stand in Contradiction flat,
Whoe'er can construe Latin must see that!
The Critics saw it, but forsook their Sight,
And set their Wits at work, to make it right.

VI

How they have done it, such as have a Mind
To know their Fetches, if they look, may find,
And smile thereat. One Ounce, that but coheres,
Of Mother Wit, is worth a Pound of theirs;
Who having, by their Dint of Learning, seen
That Moon is Cheese, soon prove it to be green.

VII

'Twill be enough to give ye just a Taste,
From Delphin here, of criticising Haste:
“Mæcenas, setting on some Journey out,
“Sent Horace word, before he took his Rout,—

547

“As Cruquius, Lubin, Codex too pretend,—
“That he would sup with his assured Friend.

VIII

“Horace writes back—and this, it seems, the Ode:—
“‘'Tis mighty kind to take me in your Road;
“But you must be content with slender Fare,
“Such as my poor Tenuity can spare:
“Vile potabis,—Sabine wine the best—
“As learnedly Theod. Marcil. has guess'd.’”

IX

So far, so good.—But why should Horace, slap,
Say: “You shall drink the Wines of richest Tap?”
“That is,” quoth Margin of the Delphin Tome,
“‘Domi potabis’—‘you shall drink at Home;’
‘Hæc vina quidem bibes apud te,’
Says Note; ‘non ita vero apud me.’”

X

“Certè,” it adds, “as Pliny understood,
“The Knight's own Wine was exquisitely good;”—
Good, to be sure, tho' Pliny had been dumb;
But how does all that has been said o'ercome
The Contradiction?—Why, with this Assistance:
'Tis plain they supp'd together—at a Distance!

548

XI

One easy Hint, without such awkward Stirs,
Dissolves at once the Difficulty, Sirs:
Let Horace drink himself of his own Vinum:
“Vile POTABO modicis Sabinum
“Cantharis, and Mæcenas do so too;—
“Tu bibes Cæcubum;” and all is true.

XII

No verbal Hissing spoils poetic Grace,
Nor Contradiction stares ye in the Face;
But Verse-Intention, without further Tours:
“I'll drink my Wine, Mæcenas, and you yours.”
Should not all Judges of Horatian Letter
Or take this Reading, or propose a better?

549

LINES ON A CONTESTED ELECTION TO A FELLOWSHIP OF THE MANCHESTER COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

550

I

Sirs, I've no Taste for a contesting Pother
The Church on one Side, and the Town o' th' other.
If any Meeting on one Side could bring
Both to agree, it were another Thing;
But I'm afraid that Zeal, in a One-sider,
Will only tend to make the Diff'rence wider.

II

You would have Clayton carry this Election.
So would I too, if there be no Objection,—
None strong enough, in Justice, to cashier
A Chaplain serving in his eighteenth year,
Who should succeed, if “cæteris” be “paribus”
By all the Laws of “Propria quæ maribus.”

III

If any Doubts arise about the Matter
Apply Solution, but without a Clatter!
Urge all the Reasons that you have, but still
With proper Temper and down-right Good-will!
For Pow'r to think, as far as I can see,
Belongs to all, as well as you and me.

551

IV

“They don't think right, if they reject his Claim.”—
That may be true; but Choice is still the same,
When once 'tis past,—the same to all Intent,
Tho' they themselves should happen to repent.
Since what is vacant is a Fellow's Stall,
The Fellows must supply it, after all.

V

As to their Taste,—if one may here disclose
The Secrets, Sirs, which ev'ry Body knows:
Put Ashton heartily desirous down
To serve the Church, and to oblige the Town;
And hope that him two Fellows, whom he chose,
Will not be fond of Reasons to oppose.

VI

Moss is for Parker, as you all agree;
I tell you this, because you told it me.

552

But, whether Youth, with an ingenuous Fame,
Will change for Heats of a contested Claim
An Independence likely to do well,—
That I don't know; because you did not tell.

VII

Foxley is disengag'd, entirely free
But to the right, that right appears to be.
Your Jealousy supposes that the Two
Have laid their Scheme;—perhaps, it is not true.
Do not proceed, as if the Town or Church
Were really hurt by an imagin'd Lurch!

VIII

Perhaps both Foxley, in this Case, and Moss
Really and honestly are at a Loss;
Have certain Matters fairly to discuss
Not quite so proper to be told to us.
“Why can't they tell 'em?”—Why, perhaps they may;
But 'tis their Time that you and I must stay.

IX

Your End, methinks, is sooner brought about
By friendly Force, by Reason, than by Rout,
On such an offer'd Season to begin
And bring the ancient, constant Custom in;

553

For, till of Late, the Chaplains (as they tell us)
From the Foundation have been chosen Fellows.

X

If they regard experienc'd Ashton's Voice,
As Griffith was their own applauded Choice,
Good-natur'd Warden, Fellows all agreed,
Chaplains that do their Duty to succeed,
The People to be pleas'd, and Peace ensue.—
This I conceive to be the Point in View.

554

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM.

557

Here William lies, of Wykeham by Surname,
This Church's Bishop, who repair'd its Frame.
How great in Bounty, rich and poor depose;
How wise in Council, all the Kingdom knows;
By founded Colleges his pious Breast
Oxford and Winchester will both attest.
Pray for such Worth, ye who behold his Tomb,
And wish Eternal Life to be its Doom!

558

PLURAL AND SINGULAR.

“We are the Men,” is the contentious Cry.
Now, give the Quakers and each Sect the Lie:
With any Person of a plural Clan
Prefer your Singular: “I am the Man.”

AN ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING LETTER, .

Requesting the Author's Solution of a Rebus, commonly ascribed to Lord Chesterfield

[_]

Letter and Chesterfield's “Rebus” have been omitted.

561

I

Paucis , Friend Aphanus, abhinc Diebus,
With no small Pleasure, I receiv'd a Rebus.
Not that the Rebus gave it, understand,
But old Acquaintance Benjamin's own Hand!
For all the Blessings due to mortal Men,
Rebus in omnibus, I wish to Ben.

II

At his Request I sought for ancient City,
That lay conceal'd in cabalistic Ditty.
So did we all,—for, when his Letter came,
Some Friends were chair'd around the focal Flame,—
But Rebus out not one of all could make;
Diaphanus himself was quite opaque.

III

Tho' pleas'd with pleasing, when he can do so,
His Ingenuity he loves to show;
If such a Thing falls out to be his Lot,
He is as free to own when it does not.
Here he had none, nor any Succedaneum,
That could discover this same Herculaneum.

IV

Altho' it seem'd to ask, when it appear'd,
No great Herculean Labour to be clear'd;

562

So many different Wits at work, no doubt,
The City's Name would quickly be found out.
But, notwithstanding variorum Lecture,
The Name lay snug without the least Detecture.

V

You stand entitl'd, hereupon, to laugh
At hapless Genius in your Friend Diaph.
But in excuse for what he must confess,
Nor Men, nor even Ladies here could guess;
To Variorum seen, or Variarum,
No more of ancient City than old Sarum.

VI

One Thing, however, rose from this Occasion:
It put an End to Fears of French Invasion;
And Wits, quite frighten'd out of Dames, and Men,
When Rebus came, came into 'em again.
Tho' little skill'd to judge of either Matter,
Yet the more pleasing Puzzle was the latter.

VII

You'll think, I'm thinking, upon second Thought,
That, tho' we miss'd of City that was sought,
We might have told you somewhat of the Guesses
Of luckless Neighbours, and of Neighbouresses.
So, let us try to give you just an Item;
For it would take a Volume to recite 'em.

563

VIII

“I can't divine,” said Chloe, “for my Part,
What the Man means by ‘noblest Work of Art:’
From Clock to Temple, Pyramid, and Ship,
And twenty diff'rent Handiworks you skip.
Now, I dare say, when all your Votes are past,
City, or Work,—'tis Dresden at the last.”

IX

“Nor I,” said Phillis, “what the Man can mean
By his next Hint of ‘Nature's brightest Scene.’
Amongst so many of her Scenes so bright
Who can devise which of 'em is the right?
To name a Word where brightest Scene must lie,
And speak my own Opinion, Sirs,—'tis Eye.”

X

“Peace,” said a Third, of I forget what Sex,
“Has ‘well known Signal’ that may well perplex.
It should be Olive-Branch, to be well known,
But Rebus, unconfin'd to that alone,
May mean Abundance, Plenty, Riches, Trade;—
Who knows the Signal that is here display'd?”

XI

Thus they went on; but, tho' I stir its Embers,
It is not much that Memory remembers.

564

Two Ladies had a long disputing Match,
Whether “Charm-adding Spot” was Mole or Patch;
While none would venture to decide the Vole:—
One had a Patch and t'other had a Mole.

XII

So, “Wife's Ambition” made a parted School;
Some said “to please her Husband;” some, “to rule.”
On this moot point, too, Rebus would create,
As you may guess, a pretty smart Debate;
Till one propos'd to end it thus with Ease:
“The only way to rule him—is to please.”

XIII

Hold! I forgot:—One said, “a Parson's Dues”
Was the same Thing with riming “Badge of Jews,”—
And “Tithe” was it,—but “Corn,” or “Pig,” or “Goose,”
What Earth, or Animals of Earth produce,
From Calf and Lamb to Turnip and Potatoe,
Might be the Word;—which he had nought to say to.

565

XIV

Made for Excuse, you see, upon the whole,
The too great Number of the Words, that poll
For Correspondency to ev'ry Line,
And make the meant one tedious to divine!
But we suspect that other Points ambiguous,
And eke unfair, contribute to fatigue us.

XV

For, first, with due Submission to our Betters,
What ancient City could have eighteen Letters?
Or more,—for, in the latter Lines, the Clue
May have one correspondent Word, or two?
Clue should have said, if only one occurr'd,
Not “correspondent Words” to each, but “Word.”

XVI

From some Suspicions of a Bite, we guess
The Number of the Letters to be less;
And, from Expression of a certain Cast,
Some Joke, unequal to the Pains at last.
Could you have said that all was right and clever,
We should have tried more fortunate Endeavour.

566

XVII

“It should contain, should this same Jeu de Mots,
Clean-pointed Turn, short, fair, and à Propos,—
Wit without Straining, Neatness without Starch,
Hinted tho' hid, and decent tho' 'tis arch;
No vile Idea should disgrace a Rebus.”
Sic dicunt Musæ, sic edicit Phœbus.

XVIII

This, Aphanus, tho' short of Satisfaction,
Is what Account occurs of the Transaction,—
Impertinent enough; but you'll excuse
What your own Postcript half enjoin'd the Muse.
She, when she took the sudden Task upon her,
Believe me, did it to “oblige” your Honour.

567

TIME PAST, FUTURE, AND PRESENT.

Time that is past thou never can'st recall;
Of time to come thou art not sure at all;
Time present only is within thy Pow'r:
Now, now, improve, then, whilst thou can'st, the Hour!

LOOK AT HOME!

Set not the Faults of other Folks in View;
But rather mind what thou thyself should'st do;
For twenty Errors of thy Neighbour known
Will tend but little to reform thy own!

568

DISARMING AN ENEMY.

Safer to reconcile a Foe, than make
A Conquest of him for the Conquest's Sake;
This tames his Pow'r of doing present Ill,
But That disarms him of the very Will.

ANGRY REPROOF.

To give Reproof in Anger, to be sure,
Whate'er the Fault, is not the Way to cure.
Would a wise Doctor offer, dost thou think,
The Sick his Potion scalding-hot to drink?

THE EFFECTS OF MANNER.

A Graceful Manner and a friendly Ease
Will give a “No,” and not at all displease;
And an ill-natur'd or ungraceful “Yes,”
When it is giv'n, is taken much amiss.

569

THE WICKEDNESS OF REVENGE.

But small the Diff'rence, if Tertullian's right,
To do an Injury, or to requite:
“He is,” said he, “who does it to the other,
But somewhat sooner wicked than his Brother.”

THE SELF-SUBORDINATION OF REASON.

My Reason is I, and your Reason is You,
And, if we shall differ, both cannot be true;
If Reason must judge, and we two must agree,
Another, third Reason must give the Decree,
Superior to ours, and to which it is fit
That both, being weaker, should freely submit.
Now, in Reason submitting is plainly implied
That it does not pretend, of itself, to decide.

THE QUID AND THE QUIS.

In Truths that Nobody can miss,
It is the Quid that makes the Quis;
In such as lie more deeply hid,
It is the Quis that makes the Quid.

570

A QUERY.

Should a good Angel and a bad between
Th' Infirmary and Theatre be seen,—
One going to be present at the Play,
The other where the sick and wounded lay:
Quære, were your Conjecture to be had,
Which would the good one go to, which the bad?

571

VERSES DESIGNED FOR A WATCH-CASE.

Could but our Tempers move like this Machine,
Not urg'd by Passion, nor delay'd by Spleen,
But, true to Nature's regulating Pow'r,
By virtuous Acts distinguish ev'ry Hour:
Then Health and Joy would follow, as they ought,
The Laws of Motion and the Laws of Thought,—
Sweet Health, to pass the present Moments o'er,
And everlasting Joy, when Time shall be no more.

AN ADMONITION AGAINST SWEARING.

Addressed to an Officer in the Army.

Oh! That the Muse might call, without offence,
The gallant Soldier back to his good Sense,—
His temp'ral Field so cautious not to lose,
So careless quite of his eternal Foes!
Soldier, so tender of thy Prince's Fame,
Why so profuse of a Superior Name?
For the King's Sake, the Brunt of Battles bear,
But, for the King of Kings' Sake, do not Swear!

572

TO THE SAME, EXTEMPORE.

Intended to allay the Violence of Party-Spirit.

574

God bless the King,—I mean the Faith's Defender;
God bless—no Harm in blessing—the Pretender!
But who Pretender is, or who is King—
God bless us all! that's quite another Thing.

ON PRIOR'S SOLOMON.

An Epigram.

575

Wise Solomon, with all his rambling Doubts,
Might talk two Hours, I guess, or thereabouts;
“And yet,” quoth he, “my Elders, to their Shame,
Kept Silence all, nor Answer did they frame.”—
Dear me! what else but Silence should they keep?
He, to be sure, had talk'd them all asleep.

576

AN ANECDOTE.

The French Ambassador had been to wait
On James the First, in Equipage of State.
Bacon was by; to whom the King began:
“Well now, my Lord, what think you of the Man?”
“He's a tall, proper Person, Sir,” said he.
“Aye,” said the King; “that anyone may see.
But what d'ye think of Head-piece in the Case?
Is he a ‘proper Person’ for his Place?”
My Lord, who thought he was not, I suppose,
Gave him this Answer, as the Story goes:
“Tall Men are oft like Houses that are tall:
The upper Rooms are furnish'd worst of all.”

602

END OF VOL. I.