The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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JACK PAVY,
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
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JACK PAVY,
A SATYR.
TO The Right Honourable JAMES, Earl of ABINGDON, &c.
He that encreases Knowledge encreases Sorrow.
'Tis true, dear Jack, y'are of all Sense bereft,
Nor can the Right distinguish from the Left,
Observ'st no Seasons, Reason, Right, or Rule;
In short, thou art, indeed, a Nat'ral Fool:
And hence we some so inconsid'rate find
To think thee the most lost of Humankind:
But I who ever yet have took delight
To follow Truth, and vindicate the Right,
Must say thou art abus'd;—No Man can be
More the Immediate Care of Heaven than Thee.
Your Standard Fool, the Fool we shou'd despise,
Is the Vain Coxcomb that believes He's Wise.
Nor can the Right distinguish from the Left,
Observ'st no Seasons, Reason, Right, or Rule;
In short, thou art, indeed, a Nat'ral Fool:
And hence we some so inconsid'rate find
To think thee the most lost of Humankind:
But I who ever yet have took delight
To follow Truth, and vindicate the Right,
Must say thou art abus'd;—No Man can be
More the Immediate Care of Heaven than Thee.
Your Standard Fool, the Fool we shou'd despise,
Is the Vain Coxcomb that believes He's Wise.
And first, for a Foundation, I wou'd know
What Man can be Intirely Blest below
If not as Dull as Thou:—the Turns of Fate
(What e'er their Birth, Vocation, or Estate,)
Promiscuously on all the Wiser wait:
Grief, Disappointment, Shame, Distrust and Fear
Extend to all; each has so large a Share,
That who has least has more than He can bear.
Either his best Diversions quickly cloy,
Prey on themselves, and so themselves Destroy,
Or some sharp Cross dismounts his tow'ring Joy:
In vain He toils for Pleasure, 'twon't be found,
But flies the Searcher like Enchanted Ground,
And in a Maze of sorrow leads him round and round.
That Man must then be happiest who can here,
Amidst such Various Ills, live free from Care,
And, as He nothing Hopes, does nothing Future Fear:
This is the Point to which thy Fate aspires;
And Heav'n no more than what it gives, requires;
Lays on our Minds Restraints we well might bear,
Were we less Proud of being what we are:
For one that Errs, (Unjust to his Deserts,)
By a too low Conception of his Parts,
Ten thousand daily strike upon the Shelves
By thinking nothing Wiser than themselves:
In short, no Mortal we can happy Call
Whose Lot between the two Extremes does fall
Of Knowing Nothing, and of Knowing All.
What Man can be Intirely Blest below
301
(What e'er their Birth, Vocation, or Estate,)
Promiscuously on all the Wiser wait:
Grief, Disappointment, Shame, Distrust and Fear
Extend to all; each has so large a Share,
That who has least has more than He can bear.
Either his best Diversions quickly cloy,
Prey on themselves, and so themselves Destroy,
Or some sharp Cross dismounts his tow'ring Joy:
In vain He toils for Pleasure, 'twon't be found,
But flies the Searcher like Enchanted Ground,
And in a Maze of sorrow leads him round and round.
That Man must then be happiest who can here,
Amidst such Various Ills, live free from Care,
And, as He nothing Hopes, does nothing Future Fear:
This is the Point to which thy Fate aspires;
And Heav'n no more than what it gives, requires;
Lays on our Minds Restraints we well might bear,
Were we less Proud of being what we are:
For one that Errs, (Unjust to his Deserts,)
By a too low Conception of his Parts,
Ten thousand daily strike upon the Shelves
By thinking nothing Wiser than themselves:
In short, no Mortal we can happy Call
Whose Lot between the two Extremes does fall
Of Knowing Nothing, and of Knowing All.
But grant there are some Men Divinely Good,
(As Gracious Heav'n avert but that we shou'd;)
Grant Vertue is alone their strictest Care,
And that they've all a Human Frame can bear;
Nay grant from ev'ry Anxious Thought they're free,
(Which yet is an Impossibility,)
They in this World can be but blest like Thee;
But in the next thy Joys will far Transcend
What they can hope, or by Good Deeds pretend;
For since by Merit Heav'n can ne'er be gain'd,
Happiest, by whom 'tis with least Sin attain'd:
Then Happiest Thou! whose Lot it will befall
To reach that State without being Criminal:
A Fate the wisest never cou'd attain
With all the Reading, all their Stretch of Brain;
Th'Attempt shall be Rewarded, but th'Attempt it self is vain.
(As Gracious Heav'n avert but that we shou'd;)
Grant Vertue is alone their strictest Care,
And that they've all a Human Frame can bear;
Nay grant from ev'ry Anxious Thought they're free,
(Which yet is an Impossibility,)
They in this World can be but blest like Thee;
But in the next thy Joys will far Transcend
What they can hope, or by Good Deeds pretend;
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Happiest, by whom 'tis with least Sin attain'd:
Then Happiest Thou! whose Lot it will befall
To reach that State without being Criminal:
A Fate the wisest never cou'd attain
With all the Reading, all their Stretch of Brain;
Th'Attempt shall be Rewarded, but th'Attempt it self is vain.
Our Parent, Jack, the first Created Man,
(If Mysteries Divine we ought to Scan,)
While yet in Perfect Innocence He stood,
Cou'd not, perhaps, boast so Entire a Good
As is on Thee, (Heav'ns Greater Care,) bestow'd.
His State of Sweetness soon was dash'd with Gall;
Thou Stand'st, and art not liable to Fall:
In Solid Dullness fixt, no Charms, no Art
Of Beauty makes Impression on thy Heart:
The Faithless Sex cou'd ne'er thy Fancy move,
For ever Proof against the Shafts of Love:
Who at their Feet e'er saw Thee Prostrate ly,
And sigh, and Grieve, and Weep, and Bleed and dy?
As some, who, like the Heathen World of Yore,
First make the Diety, and then adore;
A Light Demeanour and a Painted Face,
No Wit, no Vertue, with much Silks and Lace,
Pass with such Fops for a Resistless Grace;
But reach not Thee;—so Strongly You retain
Your Native Ply, were Eve to live again,
And Labour to Seduce Thee, 'twere in vain.
Ah! had old Adam been as dull, as Good,
Eden had not been lost, and Man had stood.
(If Mysteries Divine we ought to Scan,)
While yet in Perfect Innocence He stood,
Cou'd not, perhaps, boast so Entire a Good
As is on Thee, (Heav'ns Greater Care,) bestow'd.
His State of Sweetness soon was dash'd with Gall;
Thou Stand'st, and art not liable to Fall:
In Solid Dullness fixt, no Charms, no Art
Of Beauty makes Impression on thy Heart:
The Faithless Sex cou'd ne'er thy Fancy move,
For ever Proof against the Shafts of Love:
Who at their Feet e'er saw Thee Prostrate ly,
And sigh, and Grieve, and Weep, and Bleed and dy?
As some, who, like the Heathen World of Yore,
First make the Diety, and then adore;
A Light Demeanour and a Painted Face,
No Wit, no Vertue, with much Silks and Lace,
Pass with such Fops for a Resistless Grace;
But reach not Thee;—so Strongly You retain
Your Native Ply, were Eve to live again,
And Labour to Seduce Thee, 'twere in vain.
Ah! had old Adam been as dull, as Good,
Eden had not been lost, and Man had stood.
Ambition, which destroys the Statesman's Rest,
Ne'er gains the least Admittance to thy Breast.
Without a Pang thou dost see Others rise,
And take their Glorious Station in the Skies;
See 'em look back with a Disdainful Eye
On those whose Bounty gave 'em Wings to fly.
Without Concern again You see 'em come
From their vast height to an Ignoble Doom,
Like Stars they Glitter, and as swift decline;
But ne'er, like them, must rise again to shine!
What Man from low Beginnings ever grew
Mighty and Rich, without being Vitious, too?
With what Derision they the Poor behold!
How fond to have their Tinsell pass for Gold!
Pride is a thing too obvious to conceal;
It puffs the Heart as Butchers do their Veal;
Looks fair without, but probe the hidden Mind
Th'Impostume breaks, and mixing with the Wind,
Just like a blazing Taper (which Inspires
Bends threat'ning round, and it's own Glare Admires)
Turns all to Snuff, and in a stench Expires.
Ne'er gains the least Admittance to thy Breast.
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And take their Glorious Station in the Skies;
See 'em look back with a Disdainful Eye
On those whose Bounty gave 'em Wings to fly.
Without Concern again You see 'em come
From their vast height to an Ignoble Doom,
Like Stars they Glitter, and as swift decline;
But ne'er, like them, must rise again to shine!
What Man from low Beginnings ever grew
Mighty and Rich, without being Vitious, too?
With what Derision they the Poor behold!
How fond to have their Tinsell pass for Gold!
Pride is a thing too obvious to conceal;
It puffs the Heart as Butchers do their Veal;
Looks fair without, but probe the hidden Mind
Th'Impostume breaks, and mixing with the Wind,
Just like a blazing Taper (which Inspires
Bends threat'ning round, and it's own Glare Admires)
Turns all to Snuff, and in a stench Expires.
Nor in the War You labour for a Name
By cutting Throats;—the Hero's way to Fame.
Search thro' the Race of Brutes, and You will find
There's nothing preys so much upon his Kind
As we, that boast of an Immortal Mind.
Cities are tumbl'd down and Temples rac'd
The sooner, as they're Sacred Piles, defac'd;
Nor is there any Hope these Feuds shou'd cease
Till we are all like Thee; then all wou'd be at Peace.
By cutting Throats;—the Hero's way to Fame.
Search thro' the Race of Brutes, and You will find
There's nothing preys so much upon his Kind
As we, that boast of an Immortal Mind.
Cities are tumbl'd down and Temples rac'd
The sooner, as they're Sacred Piles, defac'd;
Nor is there any Hope these Feuds shou'd cease
Till we are all like Thee; then all wou'd be at Peace.
In Thee no Covetous Desires we find,
That Griping, Restless Colick of the Mind:
Here One, bewitch'd with the base Itch of Gain,
Can his Pursuits within no Bounds contain,
Against nought else but want of Cash does pray,
Dreams on't all Night, and hugs it all the Day,
Yet Conscious He can carry none away:
Nay tho' so large a Mass He does receive,
No Devil can in Flames more restless live
Than he to see a Generous Neighbour thrive;
Wond'ring the Partial Pow'rs shou'd bless his Store,
And see it so Imbezzel'd on the Poor.
This Plague for ever is to Thee unknown;
Rich in thy Badge of Cloath, and Parish Gown,
In Peace, You let each Man enjoy his Own.
That Griping, Restless Colick of the Mind:
Here One, bewitch'd with the base Itch of Gain,
Can his Pursuits within no Bounds contain,
304
Dreams on't all Night, and hugs it all the Day,
Yet Conscious He can carry none away:
Nay tho' so large a Mass He does receive,
No Devil can in Flames more restless live
Than he to see a Generous Neighbour thrive;
Wond'ring the Partial Pow'rs shou'd bless his Store,
And see it so Imbezzel'd on the Poor.
This Plague for ever is to Thee unknown;
Rich in thy Badge of Cloath, and Parish Gown,
In Peace, You let each Man enjoy his Own.
Envy in vain thy Quiet wou'd devour,
Not that She's short in Will, but wanting in her Pow'r:
She finds the Foe too fearless to attack,
Goes cursing off, and grins as she looks back.
The silly Sex, indeed, She does Entice;
For Envy chiefly is a Female Vice:
Rather than not Revenge they'll Witches grow;
But while around their Hurtful Charms they throw
They're curst above, and double damn'd below.
Not that She's short in Will, but wanting in her Pow'r:
She finds the Foe too fearless to attack,
Goes cursing off, and grins as she looks back.
The silly Sex, indeed, She does Entice;
For Envy chiefly is a Female Vice:
Rather than not Revenge they'll Witches grow;
But while around their Hurtful Charms they throw
They're curst above, and double damn'd below.
Mark but the Course of things, and You must own
Most Men do that they'd rather let alone:
Thinks on his Present State with Watry Eyes,
And, prone to Change, with ev'ry Wish complies;
And fain wou'd be the Thing his Fate denies.
Roving Desires perplex his Labouring thought,
Still seeking, and still Missing what is sought:
Against the Stream of Disappointment strives,
In vain—for back th'Impet'ous Torrent drives,
And makes Him, to his Lasting Anguish, see
His Expectations all Incertainty:
Toss'd like a Bubble, to and fro he rouls,
And ev'ry Trifle his Resolve controuls:
Alike a Slave tho' Fortune-frown or Smile,
Fond of his Cares, and Wedded to his Toil:
And all, alas! to have his Bantlings fed;
But 'tis a Fate that ever yet has sped,
The less the Slav'ry still the more the Bread.
The Trading Cit, Smooth-Tongu'd, Demure, and sly,
Who never Swears, unless 'tis to a Lie,
Gets more a Day by Perjur'ing off his Ware,
Than serves the Needy Labourer a Year:
He gets,—but curst is his Ill gotten Store;
Rather than so be Rich, let me, Ye Pow'rs be poor.
Most Men do that they'd rather let alone:
Thinks on his Present State with Watry Eyes,
And, prone to Change, with ev'ry Wish complies;
And fain wou'd be the Thing his Fate denies.
Roving Desires perplex his Labouring thought,
Still seeking, and still Missing what is sought:
Against the Stream of Disappointment strives,
In vain—for back th'Impet'ous Torrent drives,
And makes Him, to his Lasting Anguish, see
His Expectations all Incertainty:
Toss'd like a Bubble, to and fro he rouls,
And ev'ry Trifle his Resolve controuls:
305
Fond of his Cares, and Wedded to his Toil:
And all, alas! to have his Bantlings fed;
But 'tis a Fate that ever yet has sped,
The less the Slav'ry still the more the Bread.
The Trading Cit, Smooth-Tongu'd, Demure, and sly,
Who never Swears, unless 'tis to a Lie,
Gets more a Day by Perjur'ing off his Ware,
Than serves the Needy Labourer a Year:
He gets,—but curst is his Ill gotten Store;
Rather than so be Rich, let me, Ye Pow'rs be poor.
Here One his dozen Voiages performs,
Ploughs the rough Waves, and Combates Winds and Storms;
And thus he Drudges many tedious Years;
The Merchant, wreck'd at Home with Wretched Fears,
Thinks on the Winds, the Rocks, the Sands, and Pirates of Argiers:
Expects 'em long; at last, perchance, they come
Without their Lading, Tempest-beaten, home.
Thus for a Bootless Voiage he is hurl'd
From East to West, and Bandy'd thro' the World.
But say he gains (as many, we confess,
Succeed, that don't deserve the least Success;)
What lasting what Substantial Pleasure can
Attend this Wealthy, Careful, Restless Man?
What Satisfaction can he compass here
That's truely Temp'erate, Real, and sincere,
Not to be had for Fifty Pounds a year?
What tho' he takes from a Luxurious Store?
Let Nature be suffic'd, I'll ask no more.
Tho' his Vault's cram'd with Chios and Moselle,
And of a Hundred Names too long to tell,
I have my Bottle, and that does as well.
But after all his Outward Pomp and show,
Tho' high his Pride, his Credit may be low:
Nay many of 'em (found too sadly true)
Have dy'd in Debt, and many Thousands too;
Which (tho' a Poet) I wou'd scorn to do.
Ploughs the rough Waves, and Combates Winds and Storms;
And thus he Drudges many tedious Years;
The Merchant, wreck'd at Home with Wretched Fears,
Thinks on the Winds, the Rocks, the Sands, and Pirates of Argiers:
Expects 'em long; at last, perchance, they come
Without their Lading, Tempest-beaten, home.
Thus for a Bootless Voiage he is hurl'd
From East to West, and Bandy'd thro' the World.
But say he gains (as many, we confess,
Succeed, that don't deserve the least Success;)
What lasting what Substantial Pleasure can
Attend this Wealthy, Careful, Restless Man?
What Satisfaction can he compass here
That's truely Temp'erate, Real, and sincere,
Not to be had for Fifty Pounds a year?
What tho' he takes from a Luxurious Store?
Let Nature be suffic'd, I'll ask no more.
Tho' his Vault's cram'd with Chios and Moselle,
And of a Hundred Names too long to tell,
I have my Bottle, and that does as well.
But after all his Outward Pomp and show,
Tho' high his Pride, his Credit may be low:
306
Have dy'd in Debt, and many Thousands too;
Which (tho' a Poet) I wou'd scorn to do.
For Rents here Spendall to the Country goes,
And when Receiv'd, thinks all He meets are Foes;
Fears his own Shadow dogs him with Design
To cut his Throat, and Rob him of his Coin:
And 'twou'd be well some Charitable Thief
This way, or that, wou'd give the Fop Relief:
Much better so, than 'tis to wast his Days
In Drinking, Whoring, Gaming, Balls and Plays.
And when Receiv'd, thinks all He meets are Foes;
Fears his own Shadow dogs him with Design
To cut his Throat, and Rob him of his Coin:
And 'twou'd be well some Charitable Thief
This way, or that, wou'd give the Fop Relief:
Much better so, than 'tis to wast his Days
In Drinking, Whoring, Gaming, Balls and Plays.
In the Mean time the Rich Litigious Clown
Hies up as fast as t'other hurries Down:
'Tis Term, and He has Business at the Hall;
Stingy at Home, but there He parts with all.
Long Rueful Scrawls his Lawyers bring him in,
With Lines so wide a Coach might drive between
But flatter'd with the Justice of his Cause,
He draws his Purse, and yet again he draws,
Till all the Cash is in the Harpies Claws:
Then back Returns his Pocket to recruit,
And knows not Money does prolong the Suit.
So when y'are Feeing your Physician still,
You do but bribe the Brute to keep you Ill.
Hies up as fast as t'other hurries Down:
'Tis Term, and He has Business at the Hall;
Stingy at Home, but there He parts with all.
Long Rueful Scrawls his Lawyers bring him in,
With Lines so wide a Coach might drive between
But flatter'd with the Justice of his Cause,
He draws his Purse, and yet again he draws,
Till all the Cash is in the Harpies Claws:
Then back Returns his Pocket to recruit,
And knows not Money does prolong the Suit.
So when y'are Feeing your Physician still,
You do but bribe the Brute to keep you Ill.
Another's to be Marry'd all in speed;
But first there must be drawn some tedious Deed,
In which more Caution's us'd than if he were
Making his Will, or Naming of an Heir.
A Jointure's settl'd, (let her Laugh that Wins,)
A Thousand Pound a Year to buy her Pins,
Unthinking Wretch! or one might say possess'd!
To pay so much for Parting with his Rest!
For say, at first, she were both Chast and True,
What Mischief can't so much Per-Annum do?
Many, that have been thought Divinely Good,
For less have dipt their Hands in Husband's Blood.
This Thought at last Works busie in his Brain;
Drudge on, fond Ass, You now but grieve in vain;
Be still Obsequious, give her no Offence,
Lest she takes Pet, and sends thee Packing hence.
But first there must be drawn some tedious Deed,
In which more Caution's us'd than if he were
Making his Will, or Naming of an Heir.
A Jointure's settl'd, (let her Laugh that Wins,)
A Thousand Pound a Year to buy her Pins,
Unthinking Wretch! or one might say possess'd!
To pay so much for Parting with his Rest!
307
What Mischief can't so much Per-Annum do?
Many, that have been thought Divinely Good,
For less have dipt their Hands in Husband's Blood.
This Thought at last Works busie in his Brain;
Drudge on, fond Ass, You now but grieve in vain;
Be still Obsequious, give her no Offence,
Lest she takes Pet, and sends thee Packing hence.
There an Attendance-Dancer of the Court
To the Levee's and Couchee's makes resort;
Where in more Shapes He does his Body Screw
Than those that Dance thro' Hoops, or Smithfield Tumblers do:
Yet all the while has Sense enough to tell
Flatt'ry's a Crime, and that he does not well.
Now to a Bishop he devoutly bends,
Next to an Atheist the same Zeal pretends;
Now to a Beef-eater he cringes low,
Now to some Wealthy Bawd, or Tawdry Beau,
And to ten Thousand he can never know:
And all this while so Talkative, you'll see
His Tongue is quite as pliant as his Knee:
Coward thro'out; for were his Soul at all
With Fire endu'd, what does he at White-hall?
Where there has never been advanc'd of late
Truth in the Church, or Valour in the State.
Thus a Precarious Life he vilely spends,
Begun with Fawning, and in Beggary ends.
To the Levee's and Couchee's makes resort;
Where in more Shapes He does his Body Screw
Than those that Dance thro' Hoops, or Smithfield Tumblers do:
Yet all the while has Sense enough to tell
Flatt'ry's a Crime, and that he does not well.
Now to a Bishop he devoutly bends,
Next to an Atheist the same Zeal pretends;
Now to a Beef-eater he cringes low,
Now to some Wealthy Bawd, or Tawdry Beau,
And to ten Thousand he can never know:
And all this while so Talkative, you'll see
His Tongue is quite as pliant as his Knee:
Coward thro'out; for were his Soul at all
With Fire endu'd, what does he at White-hall?
Where there has never been advanc'd of late
Truth in the Church, or Valour in the State.
Thus a Precarious Life he vilely spends,
Begun with Fawning, and in Beggary ends.
Here to the Park an Am'rous Coxcomb hies
To meet his Love among the Butterflies,
Which there abound, and swell into a Crowd,
Pert, Pocky, Poor, Impertinent and Loud:
Coming, He finds his Rival in her Hand,
Her Smiles, her Looks, her—all at his Command:
Then Sighs and Raves he ever shou'd believe
A Perjur'd thing, whose Nature's to deceive:
Nor sits he down contented with his Wrongs,
Till with cold Steel the other probes his Lungs.
To meet his Love among the Butterflies,
Which there abound, and swell into a Crowd,
Pert, Pocky, Poor, Impertinent and Loud:
Coming, He finds his Rival in her Hand,
Her Smiles, her Looks, her—all at his Command:
308
A Perjur'd thing, whose Nature's to deceive:
Nor sits he down contented with his Wrongs,
Till with cold Steel the other probes his Lungs.
Another Buffoon, cherish'd by the Great,
Burlesques the Scriptures, and Blasphemes to eat:
Nor is this Court-bred Humour strange, or new,
For who knows Fan---hw, knows it to be true:
Thus he drives on, unmindful of the Foe,
Nor sees the brandish'd Sword above, or dreadful Steep below.
Burlesques the Scriptures, and Blasphemes to eat:
Nor is this Court-bred Humour strange, or new,
For who knows Fan---hw, knows it to be true:
Thus he drives on, unmindful of the Foe,
Nor sees the brandish'd Sword above, or dreadful Steep below.
Thus go, and thus have ever gone the Times,
Each Age Improving on their Father's Crimes:
And we, on whom the Dregs of Time are come,
Are casting up the horrid Total Sum.
As Poesie shou'd in no Medium fall,
But be Divinely Good, or not at all,
Nothing of late for Wickedness will go,
But what, indeed, Transcendently is so!
The Man that cannot now to Blood proceed
Without the least Compunction for the Deed,
Blaspheme, Betray, tho' Kindred of his Own,
Is Banish'd from the Publick Hive a Drone.
The very Courts that shou'd our Wrongs redress
Are Fraud, Extortion, Bribery to Excess:
Ev'n Innocence we there shall Censur'd see,
While some abandon'd to dark Villany,
Are gentl'y dealt with, if not let go free!
A safe Retreat from Injury none can know;
Abroad, at Home, w'are of certain the Foe:
Or black Detraction blasts our Credit there,
Or a shrill Tongue confounds our quiet here.
There in our View are spread the Baits for Sin,
Nor less the Passions Storm our Souls within.
Or Envy robs us of the Sweets of Rest,
Or Jealousie does Triumph in his Breast;
Unhappy Mortal! with that Fiend Possess'd!
Distended on the Rack, there to remain
Whole Ages, is a yet more moderate Pain:
O horrid Doom! O worse than Hellish Life!—
Yet who wou'd have a Fool without a Wife?
Each Age Improving on their Father's Crimes:
And we, on whom the Dregs of Time are come,
Are casting up the horrid Total Sum.
As Poesie shou'd in no Medium fall,
But be Divinely Good, or not at all,
Nothing of late for Wickedness will go,
But what, indeed, Transcendently is so!
The Man that cannot now to Blood proceed
Without the least Compunction for the Deed,
Blaspheme, Betray, tho' Kindred of his Own,
Is Banish'd from the Publick Hive a Drone.
The very Courts that shou'd our Wrongs redress
Are Fraud, Extortion, Bribery to Excess:
Ev'n Innocence we there shall Censur'd see,
While some abandon'd to dark Villany,
Are gentl'y dealt with, if not let go free!
A safe Retreat from Injury none can know;
Abroad, at Home, w'are of certain the Foe:
Or black Detraction blasts our Credit there,
Or a shrill Tongue confounds our quiet here.
There in our View are spread the Baits for Sin,
Nor less the Passions Storm our Souls within.
309
Or Jealousie does Triumph in his Breast;
Unhappy Mortal! with that Fiend Possess'd!
Distended on the Rack, there to remain
Whole Ages, is a yet more moderate Pain:
O horrid Doom! O worse than Hellish Life!—
Yet who wou'd have a Fool without a Wife?
But Thou Supine, in Pleasure's easie Arms
Dost lye Intranc'd, and tast of all her Charms,
If some by Pleasure what I mean enquire,
I Answer—that which comes to Thee entire,
Without the Previous Trouble of Desire:
What others want, they're restless till they have,
So 'tis by Consequence a Pain to Crave.
Nor yet alone in This thou art supply'd
Above us, but in every Good beside.
Tho' the wide World with Blood and Ruin's vext,
Thou'rt Easie, Free, Secure, and Unperplext.
When Dreadful Comets in the Skies ascend,
You're not Concern'd what Changes they portend.
Nay shou'd You live, (co-equal with your Fame,)
Till the last Gene'ral Conflagration came,
Thou wou'dst but laugh, and warm Thee at the Flame.
Thou for to Morrow never dost prepare,
Like servile Slaves that earn their Bread with Care.
By Certain Instinct taught, you Drink and Eat,
And, tho', but coarsely Cook'd, dost crave no better Meat;
While we who Nicely do that Knowledge boast,
Shou'd have less Guilt if Totally 'twere lost:
For once, at Meals, that Temperance over-awes,
A Thousand times we Violate her Laws:
The Happiest Station Human Life propounds,
Is there, where Nothing's wanting, or abounds.
There is no doubting His Condition best,
Whose Peace and Vertue are expos'd the least.
Nor art thou, with the Crowd of Formal Fools,
Ty'd vainly up to Ceremonious Rules:
Free from that empty Custom thou dost live;
You pay no Visits, and You none Receive:
While we Impertinently waste the Day
In Trifling Chat, and Squander Life away.
Dost lye Intranc'd, and tast of all her Charms,
If some by Pleasure what I mean enquire,
I Answer—that which comes to Thee entire,
Without the Previous Trouble of Desire:
What others want, they're restless till they have,
So 'tis by Consequence a Pain to Crave.
Nor yet alone in This thou art supply'd
Above us, but in every Good beside.
Tho' the wide World with Blood and Ruin's vext,
Thou'rt Easie, Free, Secure, and Unperplext.
When Dreadful Comets in the Skies ascend,
You're not Concern'd what Changes they portend.
Nay shou'd You live, (co-equal with your Fame,)
Till the last Gene'ral Conflagration came,
Thou wou'dst but laugh, and warm Thee at the Flame.
Thou for to Morrow never dost prepare,
Like servile Slaves that earn their Bread with Care.
By Certain Instinct taught, you Drink and Eat,
And, tho', but coarsely Cook'd, dost crave no better Meat;
While we who Nicely do that Knowledge boast,
Shou'd have less Guilt if Totally 'twere lost:
For once, at Meals, that Temperance over-awes,
A Thousand times we Violate her Laws:
The Happiest Station Human Life propounds,
Is there, where Nothing's wanting, or abounds.
310
Whose Peace and Vertue are expos'd the least.
Nor art thou, with the Crowd of Formal Fools,
Ty'd vainly up to Ceremonious Rules:
Free from that empty Custom thou dost live;
You pay no Visits, and You none Receive:
While we Impertinently waste the Day
In Trifling Chat, and Squander Life away.
See here a Mother mourning for her Boy,
Late all her Future Hope, and Earthly Joy:
Tearing her Hair, and with Affliction wild.
She'll not be Comforted, or Reconcil'd;
Unhappy Mother! but O happy Child!
Free from the Woes with which thy Parents strive,
Whose Cruel Kindness wish thee still alive.
Another there for his poor Father mourns,
In vain—alas! the Grave makes no Returns;
Thinks Heav'n Unkind the Good old Man has past
Some Fourscore Winters, and must Dye at last;
When, if we own Age weak and Sorrow strong,
'Twas half a Miracle he liv'd so long.
A Third you'll see sit whining for his Wife
Farewell (he cries) the Sweets and Joys of Life!—
Yet, Living, he ne'er knew an Hour but Strife.
This touches not thy Breast; thy Father's gone,
And Mother, yet who ever heard thee Moan?
Thy Resignation such, so free from Blame,
It does deserve a more Exalted Name;
Ev'n Saints have less, and Angels but the same.
Late all her Future Hope, and Earthly Joy:
Tearing her Hair, and with Affliction wild.
She'll not be Comforted, or Reconcil'd;
Unhappy Mother! but O happy Child!
Free from the Woes with which thy Parents strive,
Whose Cruel Kindness wish thee still alive.
Another there for his poor Father mourns,
In vain—alas! the Grave makes no Returns;
Thinks Heav'n Unkind the Good old Man has past
Some Fourscore Winters, and must Dye at last;
When, if we own Age weak and Sorrow strong,
'Twas half a Miracle he liv'd so long.
A Third you'll see sit whining for his Wife
Farewell (he cries) the Sweets and Joys of Life!—
Yet, Living, he ne'er knew an Hour but Strife.
This touches not thy Breast; thy Father's gone,
And Mother, yet who ever heard thee Moan?
Thy Resignation such, so free from Blame,
It does deserve a more Exalted Name;
Ev'n Saints have less, and Angels but the same.
Observe the Man who has all Sin engrost,
And see if He is not the Man who most
Aspires to Wit; but any Fool may see,
(So plain, it must be Visible to Thee)
How the Pretence and Conduct disagree:
So eager all that's Wicked to retain,
You'd think He wou'd not spare the Fools a Grain:
A very Bugbear! so Licentious grown,
He is the Standard-Scandal of the Town.
Who more a Fop? and, which is worse, who more
A Slave to Dice, and Cully to the Whore?
Who more Obnoxious to the Sting of Satyr?
Who of all Men more pester'd with Ill Nature?
Who at Plays sooner, and at Churches later?
If this is Wit, e'er such a Wit to be,
Who wou'd not, if 'twere possible, be more a Fool than Thee?
And see if He is not the Man who most
Aspires to Wit; but any Fool may see,
(So plain, it must be Visible to Thee)
How the Pretence and Conduct disagree:
311
You'd think He wou'd not spare the Fools a Grain:
A very Bugbear! so Licentious grown,
He is the Standard-Scandal of the Town.
Who more a Fop? and, which is worse, who more
A Slave to Dice, and Cully to the Whore?
Who more Obnoxious to the Sting of Satyr?
Who of all Men more pester'd with Ill Nature?
Who at Plays sooner, and at Churches later?
If this is Wit, e'er such a Wit to be,
Who wou'd not, if 'twere possible, be more a Fool than Thee?
Content's a Blessing; but it must be own'd
It is a Blessing very rarely found:
Some to the Men of Land believe it sent;
But there's no being Rich and Innocent.
As little can we place it with the Poor;
It loves Enough, but neither Less, or More.
Nor is it by the Rural Hind embrac'd;
He sees it, but he han't the Sense to tast.
Nor can it to the Trading Cit belong;
It flies a Lying Lip, and Envious Tongue.
Less can it to the Inns of Court be known;
For Villany and That can ne'er be one.
Nor will it in the Chase of Fame appear,
For Greatest Honours are the least Sincere.
Nor to the Am'rous Coxcomb will it come;
It never stays but where the Heart's at Home.
If with the Wedded 'tis presum'd to dwell,
We may, alike, suppose it next in Hell.
In short, the Rich, the Poor, the Peasant, Cit,
Still aim at something which they have not yet,
And still at something more if that should hit:
'Tis hard, perhaps impossible to find
One that has all things suited to his Mind;
Something will be amiss, and must be so,
For to want Nothing, wou'd be Heav'n below:
Yet some will think t'attain it here, and some
In search of it, around the Globe will roam;
Alas! it may be sooner found at Home:
She lives not in the Court, or Noisy Town,
But shuns the Gilded-Roofs, and Beds of Down,
And Robes of Ermin, which in vain wou'd hide
Their Owners Spite, Extortion, Lust and Pride:
Of all the Sorts with which the Time's accurst,
A Legislative Villain is the worst.
In short, we'll all to this Conclusion bring,
If not with Thee, there is not such a thing:
For true Content, impartially defin'd,
(And in thy Breast we see the Blessings join'd)
Is Perfect Innocence, and Lasting Peace of Mind.
It is a Blessing very rarely found:
Some to the Men of Land believe it sent;
But there's no being Rich and Innocent.
As little can we place it with the Poor;
It loves Enough, but neither Less, or More.
Nor is it by the Rural Hind embrac'd;
He sees it, but he han't the Sense to tast.
Nor can it to the Trading Cit belong;
It flies a Lying Lip, and Envious Tongue.
Less can it to the Inns of Court be known;
For Villany and That can ne'er be one.
Nor will it in the Chase of Fame appear,
For Greatest Honours are the least Sincere.
Nor to the Am'rous Coxcomb will it come;
It never stays but where the Heart's at Home.
If with the Wedded 'tis presum'd to dwell,
We may, alike, suppose it next in Hell.
In short, the Rich, the Poor, the Peasant, Cit,
Still aim at something which they have not yet,
And still at something more if that should hit:
'Tis hard, perhaps impossible to find
One that has all things suited to his Mind;
312
For to want Nothing, wou'd be Heav'n below:
Yet some will think t'attain it here, and some
In search of it, around the Globe will roam;
Alas! it may be sooner found at Home:
She lives not in the Court, or Noisy Town,
But shuns the Gilded-Roofs, and Beds of Down,
And Robes of Ermin, which in vain wou'd hide
Their Owners Spite, Extortion, Lust and Pride:
Of all the Sorts with which the Time's accurst,
A Legislative Villain is the worst.
In short, we'll all to this Conclusion bring,
If not with Thee, there is not such a thing:
For true Content, impartially defin'd,
(And in thy Breast we see the Blessings join'd)
Is Perfect Innocence, and Lasting Peace of Mind.
How much, alas! of our short Time we waste,
In seeking what we never get at last,
The true Religion? Or, at least, so get,
As to live up to the strict Rules of it:
But one Foundation does our Saviour yeild,
But Ah! how many Pinacles we build?
Some guided by false Pastors go astray;
Blinded are such, or will not see their Way,
Others need not be driven on the Shelves;
Foes to the Compass, they will wreck themselves.
Some will have the Unfailing Chair their Guide,
When any Chair would do as well beside;
And some the Private Spirit—which is Pride.
Tomes of Dispute around the World are spread,
Perversely Writ, and as Perversely Read:
With Prejudice and Spite the Volume swells,
And (which the Present Christian Temper tells)
The more the Virulence, the more it Sells.
But after all their Shifts from this to that,
Their Unintelligible, endless Chat,
Nor we, nor they can tell what 'tis they wou'd be at.
While thus their different Tenents they maintain,
The Atheist tells you all Religion's vain,
A Pious Usage, Ripen'd into Law,
To sham the Crowd, and keep Mankind in awe.
Indeed some Preach for Praise, and some for Gain,
And some delight in Notions dull and vain,
And some in Texts abstruse, which Angels can't explain.
Witness the Feud that S---h and S---k penn'd;
What neither understood they yet would both defend.
'Tis not for Age it self, much more for Youth,
From so much Chaff to sift the Sacred Truth.
Thus while we in an Anxious Laby'rinth stray,
Without a Clue, and doubtful of the Way,
Giddy with turning round, we fall to Death a Prey;
Away w'are hurry'd, all our Life's a Dream,
Or slept away, or spent in the Extreme.
Thou art, dear Jack, from this hard Fate exempt,
'Tis Thou deserv'st Applause, and these Contempt;
This Jargon thou not mark'st, or dost not know,
Thou without this dost mount, with this we sink below.
In seeking what we never get at last,
The true Religion? Or, at least, so get,
As to live up to the strict Rules of it:
But one Foundation does our Saviour yeild,
But Ah! how many Pinacles we build?
Some guided by false Pastors go astray;
Blinded are such, or will not see their Way,
Others need not be driven on the Shelves;
Foes to the Compass, they will wreck themselves.
Some will have the Unfailing Chair their Guide,
When any Chair would do as well beside;
And some the Private Spirit—which is Pride.
Tomes of Dispute around the World are spread,
Perversely Writ, and as Perversely Read:
With Prejudice and Spite the Volume swells,
And (which the Present Christian Temper tells)
The more the Virulence, the more it Sells.
313
Their Unintelligible, endless Chat,
Nor we, nor they can tell what 'tis they wou'd be at.
While thus their different Tenents they maintain,
The Atheist tells you all Religion's vain,
A Pious Usage, Ripen'd into Law,
To sham the Crowd, and keep Mankind in awe.
Indeed some Preach for Praise, and some for Gain,
And some delight in Notions dull and vain,
And some in Texts abstruse, which Angels can't explain.
Witness the Feud that S---h and S---k penn'd;
What neither understood they yet would both defend.
'Tis not for Age it self, much more for Youth,
From so much Chaff to sift the Sacred Truth.
Thus while we in an Anxious Laby'rinth stray,
Without a Clue, and doubtful of the Way,
Giddy with turning round, we fall to Death a Prey;
Away w'are hurry'd, all our Life's a Dream,
Or slept away, or spent in the Extreme.
Thou art, dear Jack, from this hard Fate exempt,
'Tis Thou deserv'st Applause, and these Contempt;
This Jargon thou not mark'st, or dost not know,
Thou without this dost mount, with this we sink below.
The Epicureans cou'd not feign their Gods
More blest than Thee; for in their bright Abodes,
At full Fruition of themselves, they lay,
And made Eternity one Sportive Day:
Careless of all our Petty Jars on Earth,
Which they not minded, or but made their Mirth.
So Thou, in thy Exalted Station plac'd,
Enjoy'st the Present Minute e'er it wast,
Thoughtless of all to come, forgetting all that's Past.
More blest than Thee; for in their bright Abodes,
At full Fruition of themselves, they lay,
And made Eternity one Sportive Day:
Careless of all our Petty Jars on Earth,
Which they not minded, or but made their Mirth.
So Thou, in thy Exalted Station plac'd,
Enjoy'st the Present Minute e'er it wast,
Thoughtless of all to come, forgetting all that's Past.
Tell me, thou Man of Knowledge, who hast read
What Cicero, Plato, Socrates have said,
With all the Labours of the Mighty Dead;
Inform me, when the Fatal Hour comes on,
And the last Sands are hast'ning to be gone,
What Signifies your Wisdom? do you know
What the Soul is? or whether 'tis to go?
Are not your Minds with sad Distractions fraught?
Are You not lost in the Abyss of Thought!
But, which is meaner still, can Human Wit,
Call all in Pulpits taught, in Authors Writ,
Make You contentedly Resign your Breath,
And free You from the slavish Fears of Death?
An Insects Chatt'ring, or a Dog that howls,
Your Merry Crickets, and your Midnight Owls,
Makes You Imagin Heav'n has seal'd your Doom,
And summons You to your Eternal Home:
On ev'ry Thought the Spleen strict Watch does keep,
Till ye at last ev'n dread the Remedy of Sleep.
What Cicero, Plato, Socrates have said,
With all the Labours of the Mighty Dead;
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And the last Sands are hast'ning to be gone,
What Signifies your Wisdom? do you know
What the Soul is? or whether 'tis to go?
Are not your Minds with sad Distractions fraught?
Are You not lost in the Abyss of Thought!
But, which is meaner still, can Human Wit,
Call all in Pulpits taught, in Authors Writ,
Make You contentedly Resign your Breath,
And free You from the slavish Fears of Death?
An Insects Chatt'ring, or a Dog that howls,
Your Merry Crickets, and your Midnight Owls,
Makes You Imagin Heav'n has seal'd your Doom,
And summons You to your Eternal Home:
On ev'ry Thought the Spleen strict Watch does keep,
Till ye at last ev'n dread the Remedy of Sleep.
Tell me, deny th'Assertion, if you can,
Is not my Natural Fool the Happier Man?
Remorse he feels not, which the Best must do,
Or never reach the Bliss which they pursue:
And if the Vertu'ous no way else can find
But thro' a Pious Sorrow Peace of Mind;
What Tortures must the Ungodly Wretch attend,
That Sins as if his Life wou'd never end?
What Stings and Gripes of Anguish must he feel!
What Racks of Horror! and what Whips of Steel!
When Conscience, as it first or last will do,
Sets all his black Enormities in view;
His Pride, Revenges, Perjuries, Breach of Trust,
Prophaneness, Luxu'ry, Murder, Rage, and Lust:
In vain no Faith he'd to Hereafter give,
He here Anticipates his Doom, and feels a Hell alive.
Is not my Natural Fool the Happier Man?
Remorse he feels not, which the Best must do,
Or never reach the Bliss which they pursue:
And if the Vertu'ous no way else can find
But thro' a Pious Sorrow Peace of Mind;
What Tortures must the Ungodly Wretch attend,
That Sins as if his Life wou'd never end?
What Stings and Gripes of Anguish must he feel!
What Racks of Horror! and what Whips of Steel!
When Conscience, as it first or last will do,
Sets all his black Enormities in view;
His Pride, Revenges, Perjuries, Breach of Trust,
Prophaneness, Luxu'ry, Murder, Rage, and Lust:
In vain no Faith he'd to Hereafter give,
He here Anticipates his Doom, and feels a Hell alive.
Mean while, my Pavy, thy Auspicious Breast
Is with a Sacred Calm of Peace possest;
That wings Thee smoothly on to everlasting Rest.
No noisy Storms of Nature on the Deep
Break thy Repose, which the same State does keep
Alike if Winds be still, or if they blow,
And shatter all above, and loosen all below.
No Clangor frightens Thee, or beat of Drum,
Or Visions of the Dismal Day of Doom,
When, trembling, some awake and cry, 'tis come! 'tis come!
With rowling Haggard Eyes they gaze around,
And think they hear the last loud Trumpet sound:
Nor only that, but Labouring with short Breath,
Believe they're plunging down the horrid steep of Death:
By their Intempe'rance to the Snare betray'd,
When Indigested Fumes the Seat of Sense invade;
And sad Ideas to the Soul instill
Of Hissing Fiends, and Fears of Future Ill.
Thou dost not with this Sensual Race comply,
Nor in this worse than slavish Posture lye,
Almost ev'n quitting Life for very fear to Die.
Free from these frightful Apprehensions found,
Thy Peace is lasting, and thy Rest is sound.
Is with a Sacred Calm of Peace possest;
That wings Thee smoothly on to everlasting Rest.
315
Break thy Repose, which the same State does keep
Alike if Winds be still, or if they blow,
And shatter all above, and loosen all below.
No Clangor frightens Thee, or beat of Drum,
Or Visions of the Dismal Day of Doom,
When, trembling, some awake and cry, 'tis come! 'tis come!
With rowling Haggard Eyes they gaze around,
And think they hear the last loud Trumpet sound:
Nor only that, but Labouring with short Breath,
Believe they're plunging down the horrid steep of Death:
By their Intempe'rance to the Snare betray'd,
When Indigested Fumes the Seat of Sense invade;
And sad Ideas to the Soul instill
Of Hissing Fiends, and Fears of Future Ill.
Thou dost not with this Sensual Race comply,
Nor in this worse than slavish Posture lye,
Almost ev'n quitting Life for very fear to Die.
Free from these frightful Apprehensions found,
Thy Peace is lasting, and thy Rest is sound.
But above all, had You the Sense assign'd
To take a thoughtful view of Humankind:
Were you to walk some Days thro' Cornwall street,
And nicely mark the Num'rous Herd You'd meet:
Some creep like Snails, and some like Monkeys walk,
Some all hum-drum, and some Eternal Talk:
Some clad in Silks, some wrap't in Double Frieze,
And some with Rolls like Cables on their Knees.
As Chatt'ring Babell did all Tongues confess,
Yet not one know what t'other did express,
You'd see the same Confusion there in Dress:
No two alike of all the Endless Train,
No two alike, yet all Profusely vain.
And first the Ladies, with their high heel'd Shoos,
Walk as their Hips were fastn'd on with Screws.
All bare their Breasts, as if for Sale design'd,
Six Ells of Lappet waving in the Wind,
And half a Mercer's Shop tuck'd up behind:
Their Monumental Heads to Heaven aspire;
Ah! wou'd they take the Hint from their Attire!
But they're so pleas'd on Earth they're not for Climbing high'r.
Just after 'em the Fashion-Monger, Male,
Obsequious waits, and posted at the Tail;
Much worse, if Possible, and more by far
Fond of his Trappings than the Ladies are;
Exactly looking, cover'd with his Hair,
Like Orson that was suckl'd by the Bear:
Forgetting, as in Slovens, so no less
Is Decency destroy'd by the Excess.
Or were you in the Publick Walks to see
Some labour'd Scenes of Hip-Civility;
When first they meet how low our Beaus will bend,
You'd think they stood at once on either End:
Then how they toss their Noddles when they rise,
To shake the Hair and Powder from their Eyes.
Others will hug, and close as Lovers Kiss,
Yet when they're parted all is Scorn and Hiss:
To such Extremes is Modern Breeding grown,
Present, y'ave all; and when y'are Absent, none:
A Thousand Vows of Friendship tho' they swore,
Not one of 'em is ever thought on more.
So little can we in our Gentry see
That Vulgar Vertue of Sincerity.
Or were you in our Theatres to sit,
And hear the Fools clap Bombast off for Wit,
Farce for true Comedy; and the Good Sense
That Manly speaks, run down for Impudence.
Were you behind the Gawdy Scenes to go,
(For Wit is only now Machine and Show)
There view the Fops to Leonora bending,
Like Twenty fawning Spaniels on one Ritch attending.
Or shou'd you there a Base-born Mimick see,
Hugg'd and Ador'd by Coxcombs of Degree,
With only a deliberate Impudence
To recommend him for a Man of Sense;
Observe his Haughty Port, and Tow'ring Looks,
That in a Bulk sat lately Chaffering Books;
Or see him swell'd with his ill-gotten Pelf,
Scorn Persons vastly better than himself;
How big he looks when any Generous Pen
Describes how much he's loath'd by Honest Men;
But vain's his Anger, impotent his Rage;
His Valour all is shown upon the Stage;
His Tongue is sharp, and in Abuse delights,
But blunt must be the Sword with which he fights.
Or were you, next, to see the Midnight Rout
In all their Curs'd Employments scour about;
Some for Revenge, and some for Thievery prowl,
And some in quest of Punks upon the Stroll:
Were you to see 'em drink to an Excess,
And ev'ry Glass advance in Wickedness,
Till equally enflam'd with Wine and Drab,
At last 'tis only Damn me, and a Stab;
Nor Justice fear; now but the Murd'rer's Scoff,
Assur'd a Jury Brib'd will bring 'em off:
When any Tryal does for Blood befal,
Their God and Country they their Umpires call,
When Twelve Corrupted Perjur'd Rogues are all.
Or shou'd you, at your Leisure, take the Pains
To visit all the Pris'ners in their Chains;
What Wretches doom'd to Durance wou'd you find?
For various Crimes to various Wards assign'd.
Our many Bridewells we shall mention, first,
With Hemp and Hunger equally accurst;
Where, of all Human Privilege debarr'd,
The Vagrant and the Harlot labour hard,
And thrice a Day are Lash'd for their Reward.
The vicious Bench we will the next survey,
Where many Villains won't come out that may,
And needier Knaves that wou'd are forc'd to stay.
But most the Common-Side your Eye wou'd draw,
Where fed with Basket Alms, and lodg'd on Straw,
You see the Curse of Debt, and Cruelty of Law:
Ev'n Transportation much a milder Doom
Than perishing, unpittied, thus at home.
Nor can you unconcern'd thro' Ludgate pass
Without a Conscience steel'd, or Heart of Brass;
Where, thro' the Iron Grate, a Rueful Tongue
Directs you to the Box below 'em hung,
To angle Farthings from the num'rous Throng;
But so successless, for one Giver found,
Ten thousand shove along and never hear the Sound.
But highest, Newgate your Concern wou'd rear,
To see 'em Batt'ning in their Dung, and hear
An Everlasting Clank of Irons there:
A Nest of Villains, resolutely blind,
That neither Present, Past or Future mind;
But to the utmost Verge of Fate pursue
An impious Life, nor their Condition rue,
When Tyburn and Damnation's full in view:
No least Contrition in their Eyes is seen,
But all is Brass without, and hardned Fiend within.
Just so did W--- make Gen'rous E---rt bleed,
Lost to remorse, and laughing at the Deed;
But tho' a Pardon then deferr'd his Doom,
Which way can he prevent the Hell to come.
Or were you yet a blacker Scene to draw,
And fairly open all th'Abuse of Law;
Where you will find more Falsehood, Fraud, Design,
Than is in all the Villains all our Jayls confine:
No Cause with them is better, or is worse,
But as it takes its Measure from the Purse.
Those that have scap'd both Famine, Fire, and War,
Have perish'd by the Harpies of the Bar:
Their large Extended Tallons proudly stretch
Where no Pursuit, no Judgment else can reach.
Or were You of th'Exchange to take a View,
No matter whether 'twere the Old or New;
And for a while incline a List'ning Ear
To all the fulsome Language vended there;
What solemn Vows are cheaply thrown away,
The work of ev'ry Hour in ev'ry Day,
Without one serious Thought of what they say;
How very hard they at Damnation Strain
And many times for scarce a Farthing's Gain;
In spite of all the Lies besides You hear,
You'd think their Father only Worship'd there.
Or were You next to mount the Guard, and see
Their several Classes of Impiety;
The Officers at Dice Blaspheming here,
The Foot with Candles Sketching Lewdness there:
But most the Horse You wou'd for Vice admire,
At once all Swearing as at once they Fire:
As in some Kitchen You perhaps have seen
The Larding stuck so thick no Flesh appear'd between,
So take from their Discourse the Oaths away,
And You'll Retrench Nine Tenths of all they say.
But at the Sutlers who their talk can tell!
Where ev'ry Night they ev'n themselves excell,
And breath with Brandy-Lungs the very Air of Hell.
Or were you at the Court some Days t'attend
To raise your Self, or Benefit your Friend,
Shou'd you observe the Honest wait in vain,
And hope Preferment none but Knaves attain,
See Titles bought by Fops Unlearn'd and Base;
But Honour is as hard to get as Grace;
For that's not so deriv'd from Sire to Son,
Much more by Whores obtain'd, or Flatt'ry won:
Shew me the Man (for which the Times be prais'd)
Who by his own Intrinsick Worth was rais'd
Made often for no other Reason Great,
But to Secure their Votes, or serve a Turn of State:
The Run of ev'ry Dy the Courtiers know,
Or Worth might once Expect a Lucky Throw;
But on the truely Brave no Chance will fall,
For Merit's Nothing there where Money's all.
Shou'd You see all this, Jack, and from Your Heart
The Truth, and nothing but the Truth Impart,
Wou'dst thou be any thing but what thou Art?
Pleas'd with thy Fate, and faithful to our Rules,
How wou'dst thou Pity all these Wiser Fools!
To take a thoughtful view of Humankind:
Were you to walk some Days thro' Cornwall street,
And nicely mark the Num'rous Herd You'd meet:
Some creep like Snails, and some like Monkeys walk,
Some all hum-drum, and some Eternal Talk:
Some clad in Silks, some wrap't in Double Frieze,
And some with Rolls like Cables on their Knees.
As Chatt'ring Babell did all Tongues confess,
Yet not one know what t'other did express,
You'd see the same Confusion there in Dress:
No two alike of all the Endless Train,
No two alike, yet all Profusely vain.
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Walk as their Hips were fastn'd on with Screws.
All bare their Breasts, as if for Sale design'd,
Six Ells of Lappet waving in the Wind,
And half a Mercer's Shop tuck'd up behind:
Their Monumental Heads to Heaven aspire;
Ah! wou'd they take the Hint from their Attire!
But they're so pleas'd on Earth they're not for Climbing high'r.
Just after 'em the Fashion-Monger, Male,
Obsequious waits, and posted at the Tail;
Much worse, if Possible, and more by far
Fond of his Trappings than the Ladies are;
Exactly looking, cover'd with his Hair,
Like Orson that was suckl'd by the Bear:
Forgetting, as in Slovens, so no less
Is Decency destroy'd by the Excess.
Or were you in the Publick Walks to see
Some labour'd Scenes of Hip-Civility;
When first they meet how low our Beaus will bend,
You'd think they stood at once on either End:
Then how they toss their Noddles when they rise,
To shake the Hair and Powder from their Eyes.
Others will hug, and close as Lovers Kiss,
Yet when they're parted all is Scorn and Hiss:
To such Extremes is Modern Breeding grown,
Present, y'ave all; and when y'are Absent, none:
A Thousand Vows of Friendship tho' they swore,
Not one of 'em is ever thought on more.
So little can we in our Gentry see
That Vulgar Vertue of Sincerity.
Or were you in our Theatres to sit,
And hear the Fools clap Bombast off for Wit,
Farce for true Comedy; and the Good Sense
That Manly speaks, run down for Impudence.
317
(For Wit is only now Machine and Show)
There view the Fops to Leonora bending,
Like Twenty fawning Spaniels on one Ritch attending.
Or shou'd you there a Base-born Mimick see,
Hugg'd and Ador'd by Coxcombs of Degree,
With only a deliberate Impudence
To recommend him for a Man of Sense;
Observe his Haughty Port, and Tow'ring Looks,
That in a Bulk sat lately Chaffering Books;
Or see him swell'd with his ill-gotten Pelf,
Scorn Persons vastly better than himself;
How big he looks when any Generous Pen
Describes how much he's loath'd by Honest Men;
But vain's his Anger, impotent his Rage;
His Valour all is shown upon the Stage;
His Tongue is sharp, and in Abuse delights,
But blunt must be the Sword with which he fights.
Or were you, next, to see the Midnight Rout
In all their Curs'd Employments scour about;
Some for Revenge, and some for Thievery prowl,
And some in quest of Punks upon the Stroll:
Were you to see 'em drink to an Excess,
And ev'ry Glass advance in Wickedness,
Till equally enflam'd with Wine and Drab,
At last 'tis only Damn me, and a Stab;
Nor Justice fear; now but the Murd'rer's Scoff,
Assur'd a Jury Brib'd will bring 'em off:
When any Tryal does for Blood befal,
Their God and Country they their Umpires call,
When Twelve Corrupted Perjur'd Rogues are all.
Or shou'd you, at your Leisure, take the Pains
To visit all the Pris'ners in their Chains;
What Wretches doom'd to Durance wou'd you find?
For various Crimes to various Wards assign'd.
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With Hemp and Hunger equally accurst;
Where, of all Human Privilege debarr'd,
The Vagrant and the Harlot labour hard,
And thrice a Day are Lash'd for their Reward.
The vicious Bench we will the next survey,
Where many Villains won't come out that may,
And needier Knaves that wou'd are forc'd to stay.
But most the Common-Side your Eye wou'd draw,
Where fed with Basket Alms, and lodg'd on Straw,
You see the Curse of Debt, and Cruelty of Law:
Ev'n Transportation much a milder Doom
Than perishing, unpittied, thus at home.
Nor can you unconcern'd thro' Ludgate pass
Without a Conscience steel'd, or Heart of Brass;
Where, thro' the Iron Grate, a Rueful Tongue
Directs you to the Box below 'em hung,
To angle Farthings from the num'rous Throng;
But so successless, for one Giver found,
Ten thousand shove along and never hear the Sound.
But highest, Newgate your Concern wou'd rear,
To see 'em Batt'ning in their Dung, and hear
An Everlasting Clank of Irons there:
A Nest of Villains, resolutely blind,
That neither Present, Past or Future mind;
But to the utmost Verge of Fate pursue
An impious Life, nor their Condition rue,
When Tyburn and Damnation's full in view:
No least Contrition in their Eyes is seen,
But all is Brass without, and hardned Fiend within.
Just so did W--- make Gen'rous E---rt bleed,
Lost to remorse, and laughing at the Deed;
But tho' a Pardon then deferr'd his Doom,
Which way can he prevent the Hell to come.
Or were you yet a blacker Scene to draw,
And fairly open all th'Abuse of Law;
319
Than is in all the Villains all our Jayls confine:
No Cause with them is better, or is worse,
But as it takes its Measure from the Purse.
Those that have scap'd both Famine, Fire, and War,
Have perish'd by the Harpies of the Bar:
Their large Extended Tallons proudly stretch
Where no Pursuit, no Judgment else can reach.
Or were You of th'Exchange to take a View,
No matter whether 'twere the Old or New;
And for a while incline a List'ning Ear
To all the fulsome Language vended there;
What solemn Vows are cheaply thrown away,
The work of ev'ry Hour in ev'ry Day,
Without one serious Thought of what they say;
How very hard they at Damnation Strain
And many times for scarce a Farthing's Gain;
In spite of all the Lies besides You hear,
You'd think their Father only Worship'd there.
Or were You next to mount the Guard, and see
Their several Classes of Impiety;
The Officers at Dice Blaspheming here,
The Foot with Candles Sketching Lewdness there:
But most the Horse You wou'd for Vice admire,
At once all Swearing as at once they Fire:
As in some Kitchen You perhaps have seen
The Larding stuck so thick no Flesh appear'd between,
So take from their Discourse the Oaths away,
And You'll Retrench Nine Tenths of all they say.
But at the Sutlers who their talk can tell!
Where ev'ry Night they ev'n themselves excell,
And breath with Brandy-Lungs the very Air of Hell.
Or were you at the Court some Days t'attend
To raise your Self, or Benefit your Friend,
Shou'd you observe the Honest wait in vain,
And hope Preferment none but Knaves attain,
320
But Honour is as hard to get as Grace;
For that's not so deriv'd from Sire to Son,
Much more by Whores obtain'd, or Flatt'ry won:
Shew me the Man (for which the Times be prais'd)
Who by his own Intrinsick Worth was rais'd
Made often for no other Reason Great,
But to Secure their Votes, or serve a Turn of State:
The Run of ev'ry Dy the Courtiers know,
Or Worth might once Expect a Lucky Throw;
But on the truely Brave no Chance will fall,
For Merit's Nothing there where Money's all.
Shou'd You see all this, Jack, and from Your Heart
The Truth, and nothing but the Truth Impart,
Wou'dst thou be any thing but what thou Art?
Pleas'd with thy Fate, and faithful to our Rules,
How wou'dst thou Pity all these Wiser Fools!
The Knight, Sir Guy, who overcame an Host,
Was not so dang'rous then, as now a Knight o'th' Post:
With Thee his Perjur'd Affidavits fail;
Nor can the Flatt'rers florid Cant prevail;
Alike Destructive both to Friends and Foes,
Eternal Troublers of the World's Repose.
From Feastings too y'are free, and Serenade,
By Gluttons these, and those by Coxcombs made;
And being so, are free from Surfeits, Noise,
Which none but Fops believe Substantial Joys:
Free from the Watch-Man's Bill, and Bully's Stab,
And the Embrace of many a Pocky Drab.
Nor are You for Your Actions call'd t'Acccount,
Or Liable for Words the Gallow-Tree to mount,
Where many of our Wisest Men have Swung
For want of the due Government of Tongue.
From ev'ry Imposition thou art free;
Ev'n Publick Taxes take no hold of Thee:
Nor dost thou take from Brogues the Gallick tread,
Or with the English pay Excise for wearing of a Head.
Was not so dang'rous then, as now a Knight o'th' Post:
With Thee his Perjur'd Affidavits fail;
Nor can the Flatt'rers florid Cant prevail;
Alike Destructive both to Friends and Foes,
Eternal Troublers of the World's Repose.
From Feastings too y'are free, and Serenade,
By Gluttons these, and those by Coxcombs made;
And being so, are free from Surfeits, Noise,
Which none but Fops believe Substantial Joys:
Free from the Watch-Man's Bill, and Bully's Stab,
And the Embrace of many a Pocky Drab.
Nor are You for Your Actions call'd t'Acccount,
Or Liable for Words the Gallow-Tree to mount,
Where many of our Wisest Men have Swung
For want of the due Government of Tongue.
From ev'ry Imposition thou art free;
Ev'n Publick Taxes take no hold of Thee:
321
Or with the English pay Excise for wearing of a Head.
How well are they then Guilty of our Scorn
That say—'twere better You had ne'er been born?
That look on Thee with a Contemptuous Eye,
And Sneer and Grin when e'er thou passest by,
As if you were Compos'd of Courser Clay;
Or form'd by a less Skillful Hand than they:
But 'tis not Thee, their Selves are rather sham'd;
Why shou'd that Sacred Folly be defam'd
By which we are secur'd from all the Ills I've nam'd?
That say—'twere better You had ne'er been born?
That look on Thee with a Contemptuous Eye,
And Sneer and Grin when e'er thou passest by,
As if you were Compos'd of Courser Clay;
Or form'd by a less Skillful Hand than they:
But 'tis not Thee, their Selves are rather sham'd;
Why shou'd that Sacred Folly be defam'd
By which we are secur'd from all the Ills I've nam'd?
The Wiser Turks, when by kind Heav'n's Decree
Nature produces such a Fool as Thee,
Make Him their Care, and as a Saint adore;
Their Mahomet himself has hardly more:
Believing firmly they must serve and love
The few, so highly favour'd from above,
And fix, undaunted, careless of the Wiles
Of Prince's Courts, and freed from Human Toils:
While they, obnoxious to their Tyrants hate,
Their Fears of Want, or Hopes of Growing Great,
Are made the Prey, Revenge, and Sport of Fate.
O let us then, like them, think Thee the same,
As Worthy of the Strait Embrace of Fame,
And to all Future Times transmit thy Glorious Name!
Nature produces such a Fool as Thee,
Make Him their Care, and as a Saint adore;
Their Mahomet himself has hardly more:
Believing firmly they must serve and love
The few, so highly favour'd from above,
And fix, undaunted, careless of the Wiles
Of Prince's Courts, and freed from Human Toils:
While they, obnoxious to their Tyrants hate,
Their Fears of Want, or Hopes of Growing Great,
Are made the Prey, Revenge, and Sport of Fate.
O let us then, like them, think Thee the same,
As Worthy of the Strait Embrace of Fame,
And to all Future Times transmit thy Glorious Name!
Hail! Awful Fool, thou Mighty Ideot Hail!
Thou Conq'rour! against whom nor Men, nor Hell prevail;
But thy Impenetrable Brain t'oppose,
And pale Affright disperses all thy Foes:
What e'er his Holyness may Urge in Pride,
While on the Necks of Monarch's He does ride,
Thy Dulness is a far more Certain Guide:
What e'er he boasts of an Unerring Sway,
What e'er Monks teach or Hood wink'd Sectaries say,
H'has no Pretence to Infallibility any other way.
Thou Conq'rour! against whom nor Men, nor Hell prevail;
But thy Impenetrable Brain t'oppose,
And pale Affright disperses all thy Foes:
What e'er his Holyness may Urge in Pride,
While on the Necks of Monarch's He does ride,
Thy Dulness is a far more Certain Guide:
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What e'er Monks teach or Hood wink'd Sectaries say,
H'has no Pretence to Infallibility any other way.
Of all the Truths the Wisest Man express'd,
This Aphorism must be own'd the best,
Much Wisdom is much Grief, and while we here
This Pond'rous load of Flesh about us bear,
He that Increases Knowledge but Increases Care.
Which is the same as shou'd he rise again,
And in these following Words the Text explain.
I knew while Living all that Man below
In all his height of Wit cou'd boast to know,
All that our Mortal Fabrick can receive;
More than e'er Heav'n before to Man did give:
From the tall Cedars that on Mountains grow,
Ev'n to the Humble Shrubs in Vales below,
All Plants the Fertile Earth did e'er Produce;
I knew their several Natures, and their Use:
To that exalted Pitch my Knowledge flew,
'Twas ev'n unknown to me how much I knew;
But having cast to what Account 'twill come,
I find all Cyphers for the Total Sum:
'Tis nothing! nothing! all that we can here
Attain with utmost Study, Search and Care,
Is but to know, (and that ev'n hard to gain)
Our Care is fruitless, and our Search is vain.
This Aphorism must be own'd the best,
Much Wisdom is much Grief, and while we here
This Pond'rous load of Flesh about us bear,
He that Increases Knowledge but Increases Care.
Which is the same as shou'd he rise again,
And in these following Words the Text explain.
I knew while Living all that Man below
In all his height of Wit cou'd boast to know,
All that our Mortal Fabrick can receive;
More than e'er Heav'n before to Man did give:
From the tall Cedars that on Mountains grow,
Ev'n to the Humble Shrubs in Vales below,
All Plants the Fertile Earth did e'er Produce;
I knew their several Natures, and their Use:
To that exalted Pitch my Knowledge flew,
'Twas ev'n unknown to me how much I knew;
But having cast to what Account 'twill come,
I find all Cyphers for the Total Sum:
'Tis nothing! nothing! all that we can here
Attain with utmost Study, Search and Care,
Is but to know, (and that ev'n hard to gain)
Our Care is fruitless, and our Search is vain.
Against proud Wisdom 'twere enough to say,
It raises Doubts which it can never lay,
And being Blind, presumes to shew the Way;
Or if not wholly Blind, with Blinking Eyes
Wou'd pry into Abstrusest Mysteries,
And grasp Incomprehensibilities:
Talks but at Random, varying to Extremes,
Fond of wild Notions and fantastick Themes,
More incoherent than a Madman's Dreams.
Thus it betrays us to ten Thousand Ills,
And Tyrant like, it tortures 'ere it kills.
Want pinches; for while thus we Books adore,
Our Cash grows less, and Prudence ne'er the more.
Meagre and Wan they look, and sleepless Nights
Is one of the moap'd Student's best Delights.
Eternal Jangle! Who cou'd ever find
Two, tho' of one Religion, of one Mind.
Here One on his dear Labours casts a Smile;
Another strait unravels all his Toil,
And shews how Coarse the Grain, how Lean the Soil:
Another does the same by him; a Fourth
Proves all the Third has said, of neither Force or Worth.
And thus the Game is play'd from Hand to Hand,
And made a Medley none can understand.
Wisdom's but trifling then, with Pride pursu'd;
And Folly is the only Human Good.
It raises Doubts which it can never lay,
And being Blind, presumes to shew the Way;
Or if not wholly Blind, with Blinking Eyes
Wou'd pry into Abstrusest Mysteries,
And grasp Incomprehensibilities:
323
Fond of wild Notions and fantastick Themes,
More incoherent than a Madman's Dreams.
Thus it betrays us to ten Thousand Ills,
And Tyrant like, it tortures 'ere it kills.
Want pinches; for while thus we Books adore,
Our Cash grows less, and Prudence ne'er the more.
Meagre and Wan they look, and sleepless Nights
Is one of the moap'd Student's best Delights.
Eternal Jangle! Who cou'd ever find
Two, tho' of one Religion, of one Mind.
Here One on his dear Labours casts a Smile;
Another strait unravels all his Toil,
And shews how Coarse the Grain, how Lean the Soil:
Another does the same by him; a Fourth
Proves all the Third has said, of neither Force or Worth.
And thus the Game is play'd from Hand to Hand,
And made a Medley none can understand.
Wisdom's but trifling then, with Pride pursu'd;
And Folly is the only Human Good.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |