The Works of John Hall-Stevenson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Whether from courtesy or grace,
Custom or patent from the King,
Your Lordship's preseance and place
To me is an establish'd thing.
Whatever titles kings devise,
I always take for current pay,
Whether their royal heads are wise,
Or only made of common clay:
And as to custom, seldom mind,
Whether it serves for any use,
We may be thankful when we find
A custom is not an abuse.
From the same sire and dam we draw
Our form and likeness to each other.
If I am wiser, common law
Assigns it to the younger brother:

226

You have more money, I more mettle,
I will not be like you, my Lord,
As we have an account to settle,
I'll pay my debts before I hoard.
I would not pay you what I owe you,
If I could cheat you without shame,
And yet I love you, though I know you;
Where is the man can say the same?

Old Flaccus took himself to task,
And old Montaigne himself unravels,
They'll shew you how, you need but ask,
They are both at hand, in all your travels.
I do not mean, that you and they
Are like the three of whom we read;
“Voila trois tetes dans un bonnet:”
Which is a Riddle, not a Creed.
If one improve at any rate,
Be it by sapience or dreaming,
Though it may seem to come too late,
I hold it not at all unseeming.

227

Were they, by their fine curtain-lectures,
In fact improv'd? that I'll not swear,
The fact rests wholly on conjectures,
If you will take their words they were.

Come, then, I'll open you my budget,
It is not like Pandora's box,
Nor North's; replete, as patriots judge it,
With the Scotch itch, and the French pox.
'Tis much more like an old wife's potion
Of Sir John Pringle's, or a charm;
Or any other anile motion,
That may do good and does no harm.

You have committed many a folly,
And told me to my face I did it;
Rather than see you melancholly
Perhaps I did not quite forbid it;
But there are follies I could name,
Some of them past all understanding.

228

Freaks which I utterly disclaim;
Pranks, none of which I had no hand in.
I drop this point, I am no stranger
To your repentance, and know why
In many points you are out of danger
Of going now so much awry.

Who made your Lordship sour and proud?
Not I; you must give me my due:
I was, and always was allow'd,
Quite the reverse, till spoil'd by you.
'Twas you, not me, that was suspicious,
Of those that never meant you ill,
When you said any thing malitious
'Twas you that spoke against my will,
When you were bouncing like a squib,
I whisper'd you, and bid you shun it:
Instead of teaching you to fib
I made you blush, when you had done it.
You made folks laugh that else would sleep;
Truly a very fine defence;

229

They would not let me off so cheap,
You made them laugh at my expence.
My Lord, I speak it to your glory,
When arguments could not prevail,
I have prevailed, by a short story;
Therefore I'll tell you a short tale:

“A lord, like many of the land,
“There was, that scorn'd to balk his passions:
“He gave the ton, I understand,
“To all the Macaroni fashions:
“This Lord was over head and ears
“In love, you'll find in modern histories—
“Love with himself; for it appears,
“Like you, he had no other mistress.
“He let the Arena stroke and pat him;
“She laugh'd, with prudence, in her sleeve,
“At table, whether she laugh'd at him
“Or with him, how should he perceive?
“His love, she knew, was fix'd and true:
“She did not laugh at him for this;

230

“She laugh'd at him, because she knew
“He had no business with a miss.”

Where none could suffer but ourselves,
You were my pilot night and day;
Driven, by the rapids, amongst shelves
And quicksands, we were cast away.
As to the faults of constitution,
I took with you my natural share,
They might be help'd with resolution,
But that was more than we could bear.
Expos'd to many a sooty flatus,
That blows out of the devil's bellows,
Vapours to flatten or elate us,
We must be always foolish fellows,

Who was it put you upon rhyming?
I did; to find you an employment
I pull'd the string, and left you chiming,
I wound you up for your enjoyment.
For the same purpose, or a better,
I made you pore in books and poke,

231

Till you could hardly see a letter,
Till it was almost past a joke.

What would become of you, do you think,
Was I to leave you quite and clean,
To take away your pen and ink,
And leave you nothing but your spleen?
Forgetting all you have read or wrote,
Some fair enchantress of the town,
The rustling of a petticoat,
Might turn your wisdom upside down.
Strange passions in an evil hour
Come unawares; and what's more sad,
Even when men have lost all power,
But that of running silly mad.
Without assistance from above,
Or such a faithful friend as me,
Who knows but you may fall in love
Like Dashwood, when you are sixty-three.

232

The Caput Mortuum, we descry,
Of vice, in Harrington's inanity,
But in a doatard's love-sick eye,
The Caput Mortuum of insanity.

1778, November 25.