University of Virginia Library

Poetical Miscellanies.

The Character of Almenon,

out of an old Manuscript.

An EPIGRAM.

[Suppose two Patriots in Debate]

Suppose two Patriots in Debate,
Deciding of Affairs of State;
The one thinks all our Measures right,
And to the Skies extols the Knight:
The other, full of Doubts and Fears,
Complains of Taxes, Debts, Arrears;
Grudges the Hessian Troops their Pay,
Nor minds what Hare and Horace say;
Curses the Treaties, one and all,
Distrusts the very Cardinal.
How shall we end this great Dispute;
Where both Sides argue, both confute?
Why, send for Scroop, and let him bring,
A Sample of his Reasoning.
Remarks, Enquiries, Observations,
And even Osborn's Demonstrations:
Not half so clear a Light afford,
As from Scroop's Mouth a single Word.

Part of a SATIRE.

The Northern Climate, an Epigram.

Of Three sure Seasons doth our Years consist,
We've Summer, Autumn, Winter, all the rest.
That's pleasant truly: You ne'er mention Spring!
And, pray why should I? We have no such Thing.

Occasion'd by Reading the Gazetteer of Saturday, December 11, 1736.

An Epistle to a Young Gentleman.

Written in February, 1737.

'Tis odd, that all Ages complain of the Times;
Is Life then made up but of Follies and Crimes?
Might each Man, by a Wish, obtain what he wou'd;
The Wisest could hardly find out his own Good:
What we long'd for to-day, we are loathing tomorrow;
So nearly all Joy does still border on Sorrow.
The old Hunks, 'midst his Heaps, cries aloud for more Gold;
The gay Nymph only prays, she may never grow old;
Th'Ambitious wou'd lead the whole World in a String;
The Voluptuous desires, but to have his full Swing.
Suppose all this granted, you'll say, and what then?
Every one falls to wishing and praying again.
Content, like Perfection's a mere Term of Art,
It may lodge on the Tongue, but ne'er reaches the Heart.

Usbeck, King of the Tartars.

An Epigram.

The Honest Englishman's Wish.

From bad Health, and bad Weather, and Party's dull Strife;
From an insolent Miss, and a troublesome Wife;
From the Kindred of such, (or by Father or Mother)
Who most wisely delight in plaguing each other;
From noisy Companions, and brew'd Tavern Wines;
From the Wretch, who can cant, when he Mischief designs;
From the Dealers in Wit, full of Scandal and Lies;
From a Friend who betrays, while he seems to advise;
From Hermaphrodite Toupee, and smart Female Rake;
From your haughty Grandees, who a Kicking will take;
From a wrong-headed Race of mean, narrow-soul'd Fools,
Who are fond of their Fleecers, and proud of being Tools;
From Curses, like these, if kind Heaven defend me,
I will never complain of the Fortune it sends me.
May good Sense, and good Nature be my honest Praise;
And I envy not Great Ones, tho' Millions they raise.

An Extempore Reflection, in the Stile of our English Tragedy.

What's Life? (That Gantlope we poor Mortals run)
But a vain Farce, set off with various Scenes,
Which shift so quick, 'tis hard to act one's Part.
Each different Stage steals on us, unawares,
Like Northern Spring, that bears the Face of Winter;
The Change scarce felt, we oft from others, learn
What we ourselves, ought, first of all, to know:
Thus Childhood still lives on in Youth, and Youth in Manhood,
And Manhood fain would do the same in Age;
But finds the hoary Miser too severe,
Too jealous of his arbitrary Sway;
Which, like a Tyrant, he with Joy indulges,
To ruin that fair Fabrick, Nature rais'd.

An Epigram upon Jovial John of Twickenham.

Whilst we listen, how sweetly John tickles his Strings:
Behold, on a sudden, he runs mad, and sings.
Thus, at once, we must lose all the Charms of the Lyre,
Because he will needs strain his rusty Voice higher.
Just so, when soft Philomel tunes up her Note,
If a neighbouring Raven should stretch his hoarse Throat;
Wou'd it not be a thing most confounded provoking,
To drown all her Warbles with his cursed Croaking?

Relationship.

What Follies are all the Engagements of Life,
The dear Friend, the dear Kinsman, and much dearer, Wife?
Experience will shew, they alike can betray;
And act the same Part, tho' a different Way.
They wish you full well; but (amidst all their Canting)
They must own, on your Side, there is still something wanting:
Some Failings there are, which they cannot disguise;
For Flatt'ry, all honest People despise:
If Affairs go on well; what a strange lucky Man!
If ill; 'tis your Fault, do whatever you can:
You're too Gay, or too Dull, too Foolish, or Wise;
How much better 'twou'd be, did you let them advise?
Each then, with their Counsels, might mix their own Ends,
Be good Kindred to you, to themselves be good Friends:
And who wou'd repine to be cheated of Pelf,
When it goes to another, as dear as himself?

[Conquest and Glory are the Warrior's Aim]

A Receipt to make an Author rich.

Written in the Year 1737.

An Author's is a glorious Trade;
And yet has few Men's Fortune made;
Unless for Authors those you cite,
Who pen Indenture Tripartite:
However, there is still one Way,
To get almost as much as they.
Where Pride, and Int'rest have a Share,
Be sure employ your Talents there:
Rich Wits, rich Widows, Princes praise,
Or to Saint Bob address your Lays;
His Virtues sing, and wond'rous Zeal
For publick, as for private Weal;
How, by nice Conduct, he almost has
Reform'd the Rogues of Guarda-costas;
That we no more their Visits fear,
Than those of our Excisemen, here;
Who, tho' to search our Houses sent,
Do greater Evils but prevent,
Assist weak Grace, with Nature struggling,
And save us from the Sin of Smuggling.
This sung, or said, no Matter which,
You will be soon, or may be, Rich:
Be Posted, Pension'd, and made Free
Of Gazetteer's good Company.

To the Quidnuncs.

So wonderful wise, you are growing of late,
That of nothing you chat, but Intrigues of the State:
Of Austrian Schemes, and of Treaties of Seville,
Like Fanatick of old, of the Pope, and the Devil.
What avails it to us, how our Minister rules;
Who buys, and who sells; who are Knaves, and who Fools?
Since the End of all Governors still is the same,
For the Publick to stake, whilst they play the Game,
So that all goes on Rugg, it matters not much,
Which are best, our new French, or our old Friends, the Dutch.
This Isle, God be prais'd, can ne'er want Good Allies,
Whilst the Farmer pays Land-tax, and Maltster Excise.
The Balance of Europe we still wisely hold,
With their Int'rests in one Scale, in t'other our Gold.

To Himself.

To you, my old Friend, and Companion so dear,
I've some plain Truths to tell; pr'ythee lend me your Ear;
They're what you won't like; but I think it my Duty,
Having flatter'd so long, for, this once, to be true t'ye.
I doubt you'll be vex'd, when you come to be told,
That, altho' not much wiser, you're growing more old,
That your jaunty fine Airs, and Cavalier Dress,
Become you, alas! ev'ry Day less and less;
And you soon must lay down that sure Claim to be witty,
By such Jokes, as all Nymphs find so moving and pretty:
In one word, you will lose the two vigorous Joys;
For the Downs and the Girls must be left to the Boys:
Nay, don't frown, and put on your damn'd Family-Face,
Look as sour as you please, it won't alter the Case;
What! amongst all your Books, ha'n't you learnt the Discretion,
To quit with some Grace, when you can't keep Possession?
Come, let me advise; never fret, fume, and swear;
Never rail, nor affect to be mighty severe:
The World will but laugh at a Wisdom so great;
And cry with a Sneer, You begin it too late.
What is then to be done? A new Course to be taken;
And, oh! harder still, an old one forsaken.
'Tis cruel, I own, but the Matter well scan'd,
'Twill be vain to contest, when you cannot withstand:
In what's common to all, how can one be befriended?
And why make things worse, since they're not to be mended?
Curse your Stars then no more, but contentedly say,
Th'old Proverb is true, Ev'ry Dog has his Day.
Leave Wrongheads t'intrigue on, 'till Threescore and ten;
And, at last, like true Dotards, to marry again.

Two against One.

MEMNON.

Memnon has Knowledge, Breeding, Wit, Good Nature,
In Conversation's a delightful Creature;
But he is un-ambitious, and retir'd,
Nor will use Arts to get himself admir'd.
'Tis for this Reason only, he's not fam'd,
And by the Wits that know him, rarely nam'd:
For Wits, like Beaus, will no Acquaintance own,
But with the publick Toasts of all the Town.

[Avaro's Rich! What's that to me?]

Avaro 's Rich! What's that to me?
If neither Meat, nor Drink, I see.
He cannot bear to part with Gold;
And I hate Hunger, Thirst, and Cold.
Give me good Eating, and good Drinking;
Let others live on Guinea-chinking.
At Dinner, who's the Fool so great,
To quit the Stake, and ring the Plate?

[True Wisdom is the Grant of bounteous Heaven]

True Wisdom is the Grant of bounteous Heaven,
Which to the Worthy Few alone, is given;
But Grandeur, Power, and a large Estate,
Are Chances in the Lottery of Fate:
Choose then, my Friend (if Choice there can be any)
Would you be of the Few, or of the Many?

Written in a blank Leaf of Thuanus's History of his Own Times.

Who wou'd not read, to be thus nobly told,
How Heroes fought, and Statesmen rul'd of old?
Whilst others meanly but bare Facts indite;
Or only copy what they seem to write:
Thuanus brings his Actors on the Stage;
You see the Men and Manners of the Age:
In Order rang'd, his ancient Worthies stand,
Like Pictures drawn by some great Master's Hand.
No servile Flatt'ry, no Disguise appears,
But every one his native Colours wears.
Th'ambitious Patriot, who sets up for Zeal,
And piously defends the Common Weal:
The fancied Brave, who struts in borrow'd Plumes,
And the sly Sinner, that the Saint assumes,
With honest Freedom, here are boldly shewn,
Nor longer boast of Merits not their own.
Here, generous Truth her injur'd Friends records;
And Virtue meets her late, but just, Rewards.

Written in 1740.

What avails it, dear Tom, to be honest, and true,
Since the World's not made up, of such Sages as you?
If Mankind reason'd right, or but reason'd at all,
Or could learn to distinguish 'twixt Honey and Gall;
I should then freely grant, that your Method was best;
But, as Matters now stand, in good Faith, 'tis a Jest.
To be Courteous, Humane, and to Bounty inclin'd;
To be Liberty's Friend, and a Friend to Mankind;
To be just in your Dealings, both publick and private;
To play no Tricks yourself, nor in others connive at;
To give things their true Names (when you must give them any)
Nor abandon the Few, out of Fear of the Many:
This is what you approve, and declare to be right;
Very well! let's cast up what has e'er been got by't.
Does a Worthy, like this, make a Figure in Town?
Is he lov'd by the People, employ'd by the Crown?
Do his Kindred Dependants, Acquaintance esteem him?
Were he lodg'd in Algiers, would they club to redeem him?
Is he ever much thought of, but just whilst he's giving?
Or, if dead a Fortnight, would his Name still be living?
But suppose the World envies a Merit so great,
It can never sure miss of the Favour of Fate:
Long-life, with good Health, and much Cattle possessing,
It at least may enjoy an old Patriarch's Blessing:
Consult then your Books, and Experience too;
Take my Word, you'll soon find the Reverse of this, true;
The Phænomenon's odd; and its Reason you'd know?
Why the Reason is plain, It has always been so.

Written in the Year 1735.

Wou'd you in Life a Figure make?
These never-failing Measures take.
Learn to be supple, smooth, and easy,
Let every thing that pleases, please you.
With Raptures Farinelli hear;
Or wand'ring, view the fam'd White Bear.
Observe the Manners, watch the Times,
Condemning Virtues, praising Crimes.
Just as you find each Man prevail,
Prepar'd to flatter, or to rail.
Are Fops and Folly Alamode,
And Servileness Preferment's Road;
Be sure, avoid the least Suspicion,
Of being Wit, or Politician.
Let Dressing, Punning, Fawning, Lying,
Be the Accomplishments you vie in;
Despising Truth, opposing Sense,
And valuing nothing but the Pence:
Laugh at the Out of-fashion Fools,
That doat about their antique Rules;
Existing only in old Stories,
Useless to modern Whigs, or Tories.

The SINCERE FRIEND.

An Epigram.

Erasmus vows, he's much my Friend,
And to convince me of it better,
Each Post some good Advice he'll send,
In smooth and well-concerted Letter.
'Tis wond'rous kind! I needs must own,
But why to me this sudden Favour?
Dean Swift, long since, told all the Town,
Erasmus was a cunning Shaver.

A CATCH.

Versus in opes rerum nugæque canore.

A SONG.

[Phillis, the Glory of the Plain]

Verses sent to a Young Lady.

To a Young Lady that told me my Fortune on the Cards.

The Fond Wives.