Miscellanies In Prose And Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oft have we reason'd much and long,
Not knowing who was right, or wrong:
I hold that Fortune rules the Roast,
And favours Fools, and Knaves the most:
You still on Conduct lay the Blame,
And fancy Luck is much the same,
Else Wisdom's Worth might well be doubted,
If we cou'd do as well without it.
'Tis true, I own, this looks like Sense;
But what's that to Experience?

Frank Charters fairly scap'd his Due,
And so have others hitherto.

338

Say, is it Luck or Merit saves,
The Wretch, that ev'ry Tongue beslaves?
As well they may, since all agree,
That Losers have this Liberty.
If crafty P**** gets a Plumb,
And robs each Client of a Sum,
To make the Total up compleat,
Whilst plunder'd Cullies hug the Cheat;
His Merits sure could ne'er befool 'em,
But 'tis his Stars that over-rule 'em.
When good Sir Blackmore first set up,
Some few Years since, his Epick Shop,
The modish Ware so quickly sold,
One would have sworn 'twas made of Gold:
Sure it must be more Luck than Sleight,
To pass off Pinchbeck Ore for right.
What Sage, with all his Wisdom, ever
Could play a Trick so very clever,
As those most justly fam'd Projectors,
Great Britain's and South-Sea Directors?
Who, tho' convict to Demonstration
Of having pillag'd half the Nation;
Yet (what's most wond'rous to be told)
Escap'd with Life, and Limb, and Gold.

But now, methinks, I hear you say,
That ev'ry Dog should have his Day.

339

I grant it true; but then I hold,
A Saying just as trite and old;
Those Dogs, like Birds of the same Feather,
Should flock, that is, should hang, together;
But not be left to play their Tricks,
And spoil all those, with whom they mix;
With Arts corrupt debauch the Town,
And turn the whole World upside down;
Like Mobsters, in a frosty Day,
When they a Game at Foot-ball play;
And keep all honest Folks within Doors,
Whilst they are breaking Shins and Windows.

Sir John, you say, would fain be great,
Well lodg'd, attended, serv'd in Plate;
Build, purchase, shew a Taste, and do
Much more than e'er his Father knew.
And shall such Talents be confin'd;
And shall we cramp this noble Mind;
Because some musty Book-worms tell us,
(In the true Cant of all old Fellows)
Of Right and Wrong, and God knows what,
With Morals, Virtue, and all that?
Name, if you can, the When, and Where,
Such Doctrines ever practis'd were.
Much wrote of, I confess, they've been;
And talk'd of too, but never seen.

340

Take each old Book, to English turn it,
And make Paul Jove as plain as Burnet;
You'll find both Papist, Whig, and Tory,
Agreeing in the self-same Story.
And tho' some flatter, and some lye,
And both perhaps have Reasons why;
Upon the whole, one Truth appears,
That, for these last five hundred Years,
The wise Men still of all Opinions,
All Ages, Countries, and Dominions,
Have found it ever right to do,
Whate'er their Int'rest led them to.

'Tis shrewdly urg'd, Friend Dick; but pray,
Explain one Part of what you say.
Who's this Sir John? and how came he
Akin, to either you or me?
He'd fain be great at our Expence;
But where is then our common Sense?
Are we to lend a helping Hand,
That he may on our Shoulders stand?
Since Right and Wrong, are old Wives Tales,
And nothing's bad, but that which fails;
Why should not you and I Sir John it,
And try our Skill and Luck upon it?

341

If Int'rest be our only Rule,
'Tis better being Knave than Fool.

I like, quoth Dick, the Motion well;
But I am no Sir Sidrophel.
I wish I were; you'd quickly find,
I'm not to Scruples much inclin'd:
Scruples, the out-of-fashion Taste,
Of simple Puppies too shame-fac'd;
All which, since Ro---n's pious Reign,
Are wisely banish'd 'cross the Main.
But 'tho' I can't lead up the Ball,
Must I not therefore dance at all?
I'll be no Stander-by, I'll swear;
And tho' without much Grace or Air,
Whoever leads, in spite of Laughter,
Most actively I'll fidget after.

I much approve, Dick, your Good-will;
But what's this to my Question still?
To do Things truly great is hard,
But not to pocket the Reward.
'Tis Mars must charge thro' Blood and Thunder;
But Mercury as well can plunder.
To serve, improve, enrich a Nation,
Requires a Fleury's Application;

342

But Cha---n's without Skill or Toil,
Can run away with all the Spoil.
Each Man his proper Talents feels;
Who cannot guide, may greaze the Wheels.
Consider we're not talking now,
Of what Men ought to do, or how:
If playing all the Game be fair,
'Tis who shall have the largest Share:
And you and I may soon agree,
Which should have that, Sir John, or we.
For whether Luck or Art prevails,
Since Merit ne'er yet turn'd the Scales;
Why then not bustle thro' the Crowd,
Be busy, impudent, and loud?
Get once but o'er their Heads, they'll swear,
That Heav'n itself has plac'd you there.

As Quack, when on his Scaffold mounted,
A mighty Doctor is accounted;
And ev'ry gaping Fool that passes,
Adds to the Number of his Asses;
Whilst Zany still bawls out the louder,
And sells his Pimpernello Powder;
Just so, upon the World's great Stage,
Whoe'er gets up, becomes a Sage;
And so continues 'till some other,
Can jostle out this elder Brother;

343

Then takes his Place, is just as great,
And gravely carries on the Cheat.

Old England's Sons (tho' free) are found,
To pay ten Shillings in the Pound;
But then their Taxes they must vote,
Or else they would not pay a Groat;
Whilst poor French Senates have no Share
In Edicts, but to register.
The Difference is great, you see;
They must wear wooden Shoes; but we,
When once we have excis'd our Leather,
May fairly have our Choice of either.

Hold, hold, cry'd Dick, you go too far,
You make Men sillier than they are;
And of the Mark are quite too wide,
In fancying, 'tis but up, and ride.
Think you, Mankind can e'er be led
By Hands alone, without a Head?

By Hands alone? Ay, sure, say I;
I wish we could the Fancy try:
Command whate'er you will, and then
Do you find Money, I'll find Men.
What makes your Folks in Power so stout,
And right or wrong, put in and out;

344

Nor care who hisses, or who hollows?
When Money leads, they know what follows.
A Hunks (that for the sake of Metre,
I'll dignify with Name of Peter)
Who was a Man so very willing,
He stuck at nought to get a Shilling,
Had once a noble Offer made him,
To have five hundred Pieces paid him:
Hear, how they chink; now see them told,
Fresh from the Mint, Great George's Gold!
All you need do to gain this Pelf,
Is but to go and hang yourself.
Come, swing away, 'tis all your own;
For quick we run and cut you down.
But wary Hunks, too sharp for this,
Strait turn'd about, and bid them kiss—

Oh! that I once might live to see,
My Countrymen as wise as he;
That when, at seven Years end, come down
The Dealers to each Country Town,
To purchase Calves Heads at low Prices,
And sell them as the Market rises;
They'd hear their Speeches, drink their Wines,
And having made them pay their Fines,
In just Return of such sly Tricks,
Instead of Leases, give them Kicks.

An Italian Bishop, famous for his Knack of writing History, and much esteemed for his Veracity and Disinterestedness.