The Works of the Right Honourable Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams ... From the Originals in the Possession of His Grandson The Right Hon. The Earl of Essex and Others: With Notes by Horace Walpole ... In Three Volumes, with Portraits |
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The Works of the Right Honourable Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams | ||
I. VOL. I.
THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE
A Fable.
A lion who, o'er all the plain,
Was wont, like any king, to reign;
Could head a mob, and fight and scold,
Was now grown crafty, weak, and old.
Supine within his den he lay,
And there, by falsehood, tricks, and lies,
He try'd all travellers to surprise.
A Norfolk Calf pass'd by the first,
He lik'd him best, and used him worst;
He made the greatest rout about him,
And swore he cou'd not live without him;
He slobber'd, kiss'd, caress'd, cajol'd him,
Then to a neighb'ring butcher sold him;
A Bull in the same pasture bred,
Of dew-lap large, and high-toss'd head,
A nobler beast was never seen:
Him had the Lion long rever'd,
He knew his strength, his horns he fear'd;
He acted long a flattering farce,
He lick'd his hoofs, he kiss'd his a---;
But after all the court he'd paid him,
Join'd with his enemies, and betray'd him;
Got him within his power, and then
Dragg'd him, and eat him in his den.
There next appear'd an unbroke Horse,
Impetuous, fiery in his course,
Impatient of a bit or bridle;
Who, seeing the Lion in that state,
Kick'd him, to show his scorn and hate:
The wretched beast, who lay half dead,
Call'd loudly for his brother's aid;
Who came, and with united force,
They fell upon th' incautious Horse,
And after they had maul'd and beat him,
Drew him into their cave and eat him.
A Spanish Mule came next in view,
Of slowest pace, and swarthiest hue;
(Who'd been, to serve the Lion's end,
Of old his fav'rite and his friend,
To stand before him as a screen.)
He harmlessly approach'd the door,
But being now of use no more,
His former service is forgot;
He shares his predecessors lot.
A little Monkey, full of tricks,
More fam'd for puns than politics,
Came hopping from the Irish shore,
And knocking at the Lion's door,
Begg'd for admittance to his Grace,
And slid himself into a place;
To govern all our English beasts;
But Leo hardly let him stay
To speak, before he seiz'd his prey;
And tho' it was not half his fill,
Swallow'd him, as you would a pill.
Next came a Poney, plump and round,
Whose neck with halter blue was bound,
And ambled to the Lion's den,
Who bow'd, and begg'd he would walk in;
And said he was the welcomest beast
That ever yet had been his guest;
Offer'd him all his oats, and swore
He now was fix'd, would change no more,
And from that hour to his life's end,
Would never have another friend:
The Pad too easily believ'd him,
And thought he durst not have deceiv'd him;
The Lion seiz'd him by the breech;
The Poney kick'd, and bit, and fought,
And curs'd, and damn'd him all to nought;
But all in vain, the weaker beast
Expires indignant with the rest;
But after this for many a day,
The Lion catch'd no other prey:
He soon grew hungry, fierce, and sour,
Jackal was scolded every hour,
And would himself have shared the fate,
Of all that were devour'd of late,
But such a scabby nasty beast,
No Lion's stomach could digest.
At length a well fed Fox came by,
And caught the Lion's sharpest eye
(They formerly had known each other;
The Fox had lov'd the Lion's brother,
But never lik'd the Lion much,
And always kept without his touch.)
He ne'er design'd to call or stay;
When thus began the royal beast:
“Whither so fast? I thought, at least,
“You might have stay'd, before you go,
“To see if I'm alive or no.
“I am alive, indeed, that's all;
“But soon, I fear, you'll see me fall.
“How am I bound to curse my fate,
“Alas, I'm in a wretched state!
“My Brother, your old friend, is dead,
“And here I'm stretch'd upon my bed,
“All bosoms feel that hear my moans;
“And yet, you know, as well as me,
“We Brothers never could agree;
“You know we quarrell'd every day,
“Our lives were one continued fray;
“His changeful conduct still perplex'd me,
“And his neglect of business vex'd me.
“Then his extravagance was worse,
“And daily drain'd my well-sav'd purse;
“How often did my courage save him—
“He had no friends, but those I gave him;
“And tho' I shed these tears about him,
“I shall be greater still without him;
“Especially if you, my friend,
“To take his place will condescend;
“Your pow'r and credit shall be more
“Than e'er my Brother's was before.
“Upon my word you may rely,
“A Lion's heart detests a lie;
“Give me your hand, then, for good luck,
“And let the bargain here be struck.”
“I'll not be dup'd with words like these;
“I spy the snare, I see the danger
“To others, Sir; go seek a stranger.
“Your Brother's loss I feel, and mourn,
“With tears, o'er his untimely urn;
“He was my friend, experience-try'd,
“The forest on his word rely'd;
“And all the beasts express their moan,
“That you are left, and he is gone.
“I have with pains for many a-year,
“Study'd your character with care:
“I know, and I will freely speak it,
“You make no promise, but to break it.
“Can pawn your honour to deceive,
“Are perjur'd to make fools believe;
“Can lie with such an easy grace,
“That few can see it in your face;
“Faithful to nought, but your own ends,
“The bitterest enemy to your friends;
“But to your fixt undaunted foe,
“Obsequious, base, complying, low.
“Treason and lies are all thy arts.
“But see, for I am on my guard,
“What scenes of blood are in your yard;
“What sculls and bones fill half the place:
“Besides, the footsteps that I trace
“Are all directed towards your den,
“I don't see one come back again;
“And tho' I hear you spare some few,
“To hunt about for prey for you,
“Yet, Sir, your service has undone 'em,
“All honest beasts, with caution, shun 'em:
“Whoe'er has once been in your cave,
“Went in a fool, came out a knave.
“For me whom no ambitious view
“Shall tempt to join in league with you;
“To whom all hopes of pow'r or gain,
“Thrown out by you, are thrown in vain;
“Your Rose with thorns is quite choak'd up,
“There's poison in your proffer'd cup.
“In every friendship knit with you,
“There's scandal, and there's danger too
“And, which I value ten times more,
“My yet unspotted reputation
“Would sink at once with all the nation;
“So, notwithstanding your fine speech,
“I'll never come within your reach,
“Without I'm safe: thank heaven, your laws
“Extend no farther than your claws;
“Content, I stand undaunted here,
“My life's secure, my honour clear,
“Nor force, nor nails, nor teeth I fear:
“I dread no traps, no snare, no gin,
“But I'm undone, if I go in.”
AN ODE TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE,
AS FROM MR. DODDINGTON, (Written in June 1740.)
Victor Mœnii carminis alite, &c.
LET loftier poets stretch the wing,
Pope should alone attempt to sing,
In the Mœonian style,
The vast renown that you have got,
For speeches made, and battles fought,
Brave, eloquent Argyle.
How you on either side debate
For and against a question;
Nor match'd by any mortal yet,
For well-judg'd turns, for useful wit,
For thought, and for digestion.
Then place you like the god of war,
Seated on a triumphant car,
In Flanders, or in Spain;
Or in your fertile native land,
When you, for once, had chief command,
And sing the fam'd Dunblain.
The conquering right wing shall there,
With all that martial fire appear
That made the foe retreat;
The Poem shall be like the fight,
Just as you fought the bard shall write,
And the left wing forget.
Are far above my humble strains,
Nor suit my peaceful Lyrick;
And I will ne'er be tempted more,
Grown wise from what I've done before,
To write a panegyric.
ARGYLE'S DECAMPMENT,
(Written in June, 1740.)
Thus did our Monarch say;
“Dear cousin, since you won't command,
“By G—d you shall obey.
“Such is our fixt intention;
“From regiment and pension.”
Whom no two people follow'd;
And then the Torys all rejoic'd,
And then the Whigs all halloo'd.
Did not much like this story,
Whom I did not except, because
He's neither Whig nor Tory.
Not to his ownself tight;
For what he voted for at noon,
He rail'd against at night.
As all the world can tell;
He flatter'd Walpole at Whitehall,
And damn'd him in Pall-mall.
Ne'er answer'd what he meant:
Offensive was his flattery,
His satire innocent.
He thought 'twas time to stop;
And having served three 'prenticeships,
Resolv'd to set up shop.
In this unhappy bout;
That from his Scottish Grace he catch'd
The itch of going out.
Projecting glorious ends;
And then he sent his letters forth,
To summon all his friends.
He first the silence broke;
And thus the gaping company,
The peerless Bub bespoke:
‘Of your poor friend's digrace;
“Walpole, I hear, has vow'd my fall,
“And I must lose my place.
“For I appeal to you,
“If he e'er bid me do a thing,
“That I refused to do.
“And join in all their ends,
“And let us all be Walpole's foes,
“Who never were his friends.
“To Eastbury all welcome;
“Two of you shall for Weymouth serve,
“And two shall serve for Melcomb.
“In combat, to defie us;
“I'll show my strength, and rid the towns
“Of Pierce and of Olmius.
“And so's Bridgewater too;
“Poole, as you know, my wash-pot is,
“O'er Wells I cast my shoe.
“As at the Treasury-board;
“But here the world shall all allow,
“I strut like any Lord.
“And to the city of London;
“Then, farewell Walpole, farewell Erle,
“And Winnington and Sundon.”
And still was going on;
When news was brought that our good King
Has turn'd out Bubington.
To which will he repair;
For he is ill at St. James'-house,
And much worse in the square.
By patriotism led;
Unvote his votes of twenty years,
And unsay all he has said,
Both which he'll do, I hope;
Go to the Cocoa Tree at noon,
And sup at night with Pope.
A GRUB UPON BUB
And despise not my ballad for being a Grub;
For if 'tis not a good one, at least 'tis not long,
And I'll tell you, in short, the fall of poor Bub:
How he lost his good place,
And is in disgrace,
And does not know where to show his flat face;
For the Torys will never receive such a scrub,
And no Whig at court will be civil to Bub.
He greatly desired he that order might wear;
But he had not one star, for poor Bub was ill-fated,
And ne'er a red ribbon fell to his share:
For the King would not dub,
So low-born a scrub,
Nor the order disgrace with a fellow like Bub;
But he calmly and quietly put up the thing,
And follow'd the court, tho' not led in a string.
And the clerks there with titles had tickled his ear;
From ev'ry day hearing himself call'd a lord,
He begg'd of Sir Robert to make him a peer,
But in an ill hour;
For Walpole look'd sour,
And said, it was not in his will or his pow'r.
“Do you think, Sir, the King would advance such a scrub,
Or the peerage debase with the name of a Bub?”
And of Virtue will prate like a saint on a tub;
But I shall leave him for Sir William to bang,
If he 'as but a clear stage, how he'll mumble poor Bub:
Who has never a friend,
That assistance will lend,
Or his cause, tho' his life were at stake, will defend;
Nay, if'twas not in hopes to give Walpole a rub,
The patriots themselves would p---ss upon Bub.
(Written in December 1741.)
UNHAPPY England, still in forty-one,By Scotland art thou doom'd to be undone;
But Scotland now, to strike alone afraid,
Calls in her worthy sister Cornwall's aid;
And these two common strumpets, hand in hand,
Go forth and preach up virtue through the land;
Start at corruption, at a bribe turn pale,
Shudder at pensions, and at placemen rail.
Peace! peace! ye wretched hypocrites, or rather,
With Job, say to Corruption, thou'rt our father;
But how can Walpole justify his fate,
He trusted Isla till it was too late.
Where were those parts, where was that piercing mind,
That knowledge, and that judgment of mankind.
Strange truth betray'd, yet not deceiv'd he fell:
He knew his heart was, like his aspect, vile;
Knew him the tool and brother of Argyle.
Yet to his hands his power and hopes gave up,
And tho' he knew 'twas poison, drank the cup;
Trusted to one he never could think true,
And perish'd by a villain whom he knew.
GILES EARLE (OF MARLBOROUGH-STREET); AND GEO. BUBB DODDINGTON, Esqrs.
(Written in Jan. 1740-1.)
A Dialogue.
E.MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
MY dear Pall-mall, I hear you're got in favour,And please the Duke by your late damn'd behaviour;
And thus, thank heav'n, we have exchang'd our places.
D.
PALL-MALL.
Yes, Sir, on great Argyle I often wait,At charming Sudbrook, or in Bruton-street;
In wit or politics (he's good at either)
We pass our independent hours together.
E.
MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
By G---d that's heavenly: so in town you talk,Or round the groves at charming Sudbrook walk,
And hear the cuckoo and the linnet sing;
L---d G---d, that's vastly pleasant in the Spring.
D.
PALL-MALL.
Dear witty Marlbro'-street for once be wise,Nor happiness, you never knew, despise;
Nor felt the dignity of loss of place.
E.
MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
Not lost my place! yes, but I did, by G---d,Tho your description of it's mighty odd;
I felt no triumph, found no dignity:
I cry d, and so did all my family.
D.
PALL-MALL.
What, shed a tear because you lost your place!Sure thou'rt the lowest of the lowest race.
Gods! Is there not in politics a time,
When keeping places is the greatest crime?
MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
O yes, that doctrine I have learnt long since:I once resign'd my place about the Prince;
But then I did it for a better thing,
And got by that the green cloth to the King.
D.
PALL-MALL.
Thou hast no taste for popular applause,Which follows those that join in Virtue's cause:
Argyle and I am prais'd by every tongue,
The burthen of each free-born Briton's song.
E.
MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
You and the duke, d'ye think you're popular?By G---d they lie that tell you that you are.
The people's idol, and their monarch's choice.
D.
PALL-MALL.
When the Excise scheme shall no more be blam'd,When the Convention shall no more be nam'd,
Then shall your minister, and not till then,
Be popular, with unbrib'd Englishmen.
E.
MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
The Excise and the Convention! D---n your b---d,You voted for them both, and thought them good;
Or did not like the triumph of disgrace,
And gave up your opinion, not your place.
PALL-MALL.
To freedom and Argyle I turn my eyes;For them I feel, by them I hope to rise;
And after years in ignominy spent,
I own my crime, and blush, and dare repent.
E.
MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
Sir, of repentance there's one charming kind,And that's the voluntary, and resign'd:
Your's is a damn'd, enforc'd, turn'd-out repentance.
A Newgate malefactor's after sentence;
Who sighs, because he's lost the power to sin,
As you repent, that you're no longer in.
But since we're rhyming, pray, for once, mind me,
While I, like other poets, prophecy:
Whenever Walpole dies, and not before,
Then shall Argyle perhaps come into pow'r;
And when he has been paid his long arrear,
And got once more 9,000l. a year;
Shall be restor'd to pension or to place;
When ev'ry Scotchman in his train is serv'd,
An Englishman may chance to be preferr'd.
This is a truth; I know it to my cost:
He best can tell it who has felt it most.
PETER AND MY LORD QUIDAM:
A Satire.
Responde------
Hor. Lib. ii, Sat. 5.
LORD QUIDAM.
PETER, I've sign'd and seal'd; the work is done;
My goods, my lands, and tenements are gone!
But since you're now possess'd of my estate,
And these few guineas all that now remain,
Teach me to thrive, and to be rich again:
To thee, the art of heaping endless stores
Is known, and Plutus opens all his doors.
PETER.
Already asking?—what! a fresh demand,
With those five hundred guineas in your hand,
Of which, had I insisted on my due,
One shilling never could have come to you?
LORD QUIDAM.
O you, who never but for interest lie,
Pity me in this ebb of poverty;
My spreading beeches and my oaks cut down,
My manors sold, and ev'ry acre gone;
Thus low reduc'd, what is my birth, my fame,
And all my virtue, but an empty name?
Since, then, you're chang'd from what you were before,
And have a just disdain for all that's poor;
And since to think you wisely now begin,
That poverty's a crime, and want a sin;
That gold to ev'ry wish its object draws,
Can purchase honour, can command applause,
Can laugh at punishment, and mock the laws;
Attend, whilst I point out the certain way
To wealth, and all my golden rules display:—
Whene'er you find a person deep in years,
Loaded with wealth, but destitute of heirs,
There get acquaintance, there get intimate,
Bow to him, follow, court him, visit, treat;
For rarities beat all the town about,
The fresh Thames salmon, and the Fordwich trout;
The fattest ven'son and the plumpest quail,
The green-corn partridge, and delicious rail,
Procure and send him: ever in his sight
Be found; attend by day and watch by night.
A coward, liar, human kind's disgrace;
Not Hervey in a more avoided state,
Vieing with Pult'ney for contempt and hate;
With him in public still be fond t' appear,
Smile in his face, and whisper in his ear;
At park, at play, be ever at his side;
Walk when he walks, and in his chariot ride.
LORD QUIDAM.
What, Sir, be seen with Pult'ney in the Mall,
Or follow old detested Marlbro's call;
To make you think that I could be so mean?
I will not flatter.
PETER.
Then you will be poor.
Well, be it so, then: I must bear my fate;
But tell me how you rais'd your vast estate.
Tell ye!
Be sedulous, nor time, nor labour spare,
To be some rich old childless dotard's heir;
Again, nor let the scheme forgotten lie.
You seem to think the part is base and low:
Look round you, Sir; see what your betters do!
Consider Dorset, famous for more pride,
Than half the haughty English peers beside;
Yet this great man pursu'd this plan with care,
Besieging Wilmington for many a year;
Receiv'd his nod, and own'd himself his slave;
Flew at his call, and follow'd where he went,
His tool in Court, his vote in Parliament.
And tho' his gen'rous labour was not paid,
And by design, or chance, no will was made;
Does he give o'er, or from my scheme abstain,
Or miss his constant visits to Germain.
Would you have more examples to inspire
Such deeds, and kindle lucrative desire,
Ev'n worthless Sidney's praise, I must not grudge,
The assiduous dry-nurse of a wealthy judge;
His words he echo'd, and his looks observ'd;
With him he went the circuit, to take care
His supper to bespeak, his sheets to air;
And tho' at last his hopes were here dismay'd,
He'd been before a gainer by the trade;
The sweets he'd tasted once he could not leave:
He got by Topham tho' he lost by Reeve.
For many a year, tho' now he's dead and gone,
Sir Richard liv'd the fairest mark in town;
No near relations, and a vast estate;
What numbers courted, who with eager eyes
Beheld and wish'd to gain the golden prize;
But far beyond the rest to gain his love,
Horace and Hambden diligently strove;
But Horace flatt'ry was too thick and coarse,
And Hambden's conversations ten times worse;
Thither did Horace ev'ry day repair,
While politics were but his second care;
And left the council, tho' they sat on trade.
For him the dear Dutch mail for hours has laid,
Unop'd, and Fleury's letters been unread;
All care t' amuse, all pains to please him took,
And Pug and Whist and Europe he forsook.
In strict attendance Hambden did the same,
Arm'd with the strong pretensions of his name;
By ties of blood he claim'd the foremost place,
As the last branch of patriot Hambden's race.
His daily visits punctually he paid,
From morn till noon, from noon till night he stayd;
Still the same race of dull discourse was run,
Till by himself the blockhead was undone:
He strove, but vainly strove, to act his part.
But to a nobler object turn your eyes,
See Pult'ney loaded with a weighty prize:
He in these kingdoms once did foremost stand,
And balanc'd England with a doubtful hand;
Each party's idol then, tho' now their hate,
The arbiter of Whig and Tory fate;
Yet then neglecting place, the game of fools,
He wisely stuck to my unerring rules.
Muse let this tale in smoothest verse be sung,
While Pult'ney's praises flow from Peter's tongue:
False to his country, falser to his friends,
And true to nothing but his private ends;
Immensely rich, yet lab'ring still for more,
Flatters alike a Duchess or a whore;
And first old haughty Buckingham he tried,
To all her weaknesses his arts applied,
Flatter'd her vanity, and swell'd her pride;
And pity'd the unfortunate Pretender.
He went, and thought he'd found a nearer way;
And lost at once her friendship and estate;
To keep my ways, and never wander more.
Of wealth, he left a bastard and a whore;
To these his chattels, jewels, goods, and plate,
He gave—to these bequeath'd his vast estate.
The bastard prov'd a fool, and by the way,
In Dalilah the whole reversion lay;
Here the quick-sighted Pult'ney fix'd his aim,
And in such words as these bespoke the dame:
“When first at our departed friend's we met,
“(The hour with pleasure I remember yet),
“In ev'ry word a care to please you show'd,
“And nat'ral grace from ev'ry motion flow'd.
“To your dear lord you paid such just regard,
“And such disinterested care appear'd:
“By which all hypocrites their passion prove;
“But all so open, honest, I was charm'd,
“And quickly found my breast with friendship warm'd;
“And sure by sympathy we must agree,
“You hate all interested views, like me.
“Permit me friendship's sacred knot to tie
“So fast, that nought may loose it till we die:
“Your name and character shall be my care;
“Against the world your champion I'll appear;
“Support your virtue, and its foes run down,
“Nay, justify your usage of your son;
“Him I'll secure; he ne'er shall see your face,
“Nor propagate his disobedient race:
“Or alter old ones, to advance your cause;
“And since the prudish world won't care t' appear,
“Or go with you in public anywhere,
“Because you ne'er were bound in nuptial bands,
“And no old drunken parson join'd your hands,
“Be that my consort's care, who, I may say,
“Pursues my gen'rous undesigning way:
“She'll carry you t' assemblies, to the play,
“To drawing-rooms by night, to park by day;
“She shall attend you to your country seat;
“With her you may do any thing but eat;
“For now our house is alt'ring, we're not able
“To entertain our friends, and keep a table:
“She for the waters to the Bath's gone down,
“And I'm at little Jeffreys's in town;
“Where'er we are, we're both your humble slaves;
“Letme then share your toils, and ease your cares,
“Inspect accounts, and manage your affairs:
“Servants still act for their own private end;
“In me you'll find the servant and the friend;
“Duty in me and inclination join,
“T'advance your cause, and make your interest mine;
“And on these matters since we now debate,
“Don't you intend to settle your estate?
“For tho' I hope your fatal hour's not nigh,
“Yet we're all mortal, madam, and must die;
“And your unhappy son behaves so ill,
“That you must think of alt'ring your old will;
“How well I lov'd him once yourself best knows,
“But all that disoblige you are my foes;
“And tho' 'twould be my utmost wish, I own,
“To see your tears of joy forgive your son,
“Yet of his actions I've so just a sense,
“I'll never say one word in his defence;
“Since, then, he's doom'd to languish in disgrace,
“Friendship may justly claim the second place;
“To you, and to your friends alone a friend,
“Others, perhaps, may warmer zeal express,
“And clothe their low designs in friendship's dress;
“May falsely vow, and infamously swear,
“Your welfare's their concern, your ease their care;
“Believe them not, they've no regard for you,
“Your wealth's their aim, and your estate their view.
“I scorn the aid of guile, the help of art;
“I act the open, but the honest part,
“And my tongue speaks the language of my heart.”
He paus'd, and Dalilah, with smiles, complies
To fetch his trusty lawyer: Pult'ney flies;
He brings back Ord,—they make her will—she dies.
An harder conquest than the Devil's o'er Eve;
The gen'rous Devil bad her take and live,
More greedy Pult'ney bad her die and give.
Are you not all on fire with what I've said,
And dost thou longer doubt these paths to tread?
More I could tell you, but 'tis twelve o'clock,
And hark, I hear my young Lord Booby knock.
An advantageous bargain I expect,
And that's such business as I ne'er neglect.
Go on, pursue, and merit my applause;
Farewell, I go, for pow'rful int'rest draws.
A Political Eclogue
(Written at the latter end of the year 1740, occasioned by the great contest between Mr. Lechmere and Mr. Pytts, Torys, who afterwards carried the Election; and Lord Derehurst and Mr. Lyttleton, Whigs (all four being violent opposers of the Court), who should represent the County of Worcester in the ensuing Parliament, to be chosen next Spring.)
And candidates set up on either side,
And thro' the country as they took their course,
Two chanced to meet near Severn's rapid streams,
And Lyttleton and Lechmere were their names;
One famed for deep debate, and classic taste,
The other for his judgment in a beast;
One minds the public, one his private cares,
This shines in senates, and this shines in fairs;
One sighs at Walpole's everlasting sway,
While t' other mourns th'excessive price of hay;
They stopp'd, when Lyttleton the silence broke,
And thus the Patriot to the Grazier spoke:
“When to conclude a tedious war's alarms,
“Ajax and godlike Hector met in arms,
“They paus'd, and talk'd in amicable words;
‘So let us twain, like those two generous foes,
“First parley hold, then, if we must, oppose.
LECHMERE.
“I never heard of Ajax, or of Hector;
“But you would speak to me, Sir, I conjecture:
“Then pray, Sir, let your tale be briefly told,
“For standing still may give my gelding cold.
LYTTLETON.
“Then briefly thus: in vain, why should we toil?
“All culture's fruitless in a barren soil;
“What can be hoped, when friends from friends divide,
“And weaken fatally the weaker side?
“Our party by itself is overcome,
“By Roman arms thus perished fated Rome.
“Vict'ry's a loss, and conquest a defeat.
“No triumph shall attend the victor's care,
“No laurel-crown the conqueror shall wear;
“The sheriff shall with tears the cause decide,
“And joyless in their chairs the elected ride.
“Don't we in all things act and vote the same;
“And both on one foundation build our fame,
“Equally hating Walpole's noxious name?
“What good from such contentions can redound?
“Whene'er we strike the party feels the wound.
“Whoe'er of all us four obtain their ends,
“The party still must lose two zealous friends;
“Expenses and fatigue I can't support,
“Bad is my health, and small my place at Court.
“I for reversions with impatience wait,
“Heir to a better place, and an estate;
“Hear, then, why I should quietly be chose,
“Why you ought to assist, and not oppose.
“I write in verse, and have my Prince's ear.
“The glorious talent to declaim is mine;
“In Council and in Parliament I shine.
“Have you not heard me? yes, you must have heard,
“When Tully's spirit in each word appear'd;
“When the still senate on each accent hung,
“And oratory dwelt upon my tongue;
“When I, great Liberty, thy standard bore,
“And Walpole pale sat trembling on the floor;
“When all th' applauding patriot band allow'd
“That I myself appear'd their leading god.
“Why wouldst thou, then, my being chose prevent,
“Why spoil me of my seat in Parliament?
“Why wouldst thou cross my warm pursuit of praise,
“Why cloud the glorious sunshine of my days?
“Destroy my hopes of ministerial pow'r,
“And stop me in my full pursuit of glory?
LECHMERE.
“Because, Sir, you're a Whig, and I'm a Tory.
“Howe'er with us you the same schemes pursue,
“You follow those who ne'er will follow you;
“My principles to you I'll freely state,
“I love the church, and Whiggism I hate;
“And tho', with you, Sir Robert I abhor,
“His Whiggish heart is what I hate him for;
“And if a Whig the minister must be,
“Pult'ney and Walpole are alike to me.
LYTTLETON.
“To what remote, to what more friendly sky,
“Deserted Patriotism wilt thou fly?
“The Torys scorn thee and the Whigs deny.
“Still rent by faction, and by party tore.
“Has all-accomplish'd St. John, first of men,
“That demi-god, then, vainly drawn his pen?
“Were all his learned lectures fruitless read,
“Are all his works forgot, his writings dead?
“Where fell the seeds thrown from his plastic hand,
“On what ungrateful, on what barren sand,
“That promis'd ten-fold product to the soil,
“To cheer the tiller, and reward his toil?
“And canst thou to the sacred name pretend
“Of being Liberty's and England's friend,
“Who wish that faction in this realm may thrive,
“And party's odious names be kept alive?
“Is this thy wretched plea to merit?—No!
“This proves thee Liberty's and England's foe.
“That fatal rule, which patriots should disdain.
“When Solomon the harlot's quarrel try'd,
“Nature prevail'd, and the true mother cry'd,
“‘Oh! let me lose my child, but don't divide!’
“The minister, who well his interest knows,
“Amongst us strife, distinctions, variance sows;
“A general coalition is too wide,
“Too large a basis for that wretch's pride.
“His pow'r, his wealth, rais'd on the narrow plan
“Of a small sub-divided party clan;
“But now, thank Heaven, his basis proves too small,
“The killing frost is come, and he must fall,
“Like Lucifer, never to hope again:
“This England's enemy, this Freedom's bane,
“Shall be cut off by Patriotism's hand,
“And Liberty shall re-assume the land.
“Well, Sir, with patience I have heard your speech,
“Tho' half you said was much above my reach;
“But does not one thing stare you in the face?
“All the whole country knows you have a place;
“And, I assure you, think it the same thing,
“Whether you have it from the Prince or King.
“Go to the farmers, fine orations speak,
“To wives talk Latin, to their husbands Greek.
“I in plain English will the country rand,
“And shake each good freeholder by the hand,
“And drink the church, as long as I can stand.
“What tho' my words are not, like your's, refin'd,
“Rough tho' they are, they always speak my mind.
“And before all the flow'rs of eloquence,
“Prefer an honest heart, and common sense;
“Therefore, be wise, go home, and rand no more,
“But give up, as your father did before.”
ISABELLA;
OR, THE MORNING
THE ARGUMENT.
THE Duchess of Manchester is represented as rising from breakfast with her parrot, monkey, and lap-dog.—Dicky Bateman comes in with a Staffordshire tea-pot, with which the Duchess is charmed:—a simile—She makes a fine speech upon the occasion, which is broken off by General C. Churchill's coming in. —His character.—His first speech.—The Duchess shows him the tea-pot.—She tells him of fire-works to be sold at Margus's, which gives him an opportunity of telling a story of some he saw in Flanders. It appears from the very beginning of the story that it could have no end.—It is broken off by the entrance of Charles Stanhope.—A simile on his coming in.—His character as a companion.—He gives an account of a polypus.—The Duchess longs for a polypus.—Both the Charles's fall fast asleep, on each side of the Duchess.—Contrast between Susanna and the two elders.—The whole company roused by Lord Lovell's coming into the room.—His character.—He talks of the Opera, of Chesterfield and Fanny.—Lady Fanny's looks owing to love.—The General begins the story of Miss How.—The company's dismay described at the General's beginning a story.—The clock strikes three.— The Duchess rings to dress.—The company rises.—The departure of the company described.
Had each retir'd from breakfast to their place,
When, hark, a knock! “See, Betty, see who's there:”
“'Tis Mr. Bateman, ma'am, in his new chair:”
“Whose poles are lacker'd, and whose lining's brown!”
But see, he enters with his shuffling gait;
“Lord,” says her Grace, “how could you be so late?”
“I'm sorry, madam, I have made you wait,”
Bateman reply'd; “I only stay'd to bring
“The newest, charming'st, most delightful thing!”
“Oh! tell me what's the curiosity!
“Oh! show it me this instant, or I die!”
To please the noble dame, the courtly 'squire
Produc'd a tea-pot, made in Staffordshire:
With eager eyes the longing Duchess stood,
And o'er and o'er the shining bauble view'd:
Such were the joys touch'd young Atrides'breast,
Such all the Grecian host at once exprest,
When from beneath his robe, to all their view,
Laertes' son, the fam'd Palladium drew.
When Paris first produc'd the golden prize.
“Such work as this,” she cries, “can England do?
“It equals Dresden, and outdoes St. Cloud:
“All modern China now shall hide its head,
“And e'en Chantilly must give o'er the trade:
“For lace let Flanders bear away the bell,
“In finest linen let the Dutch excel;
“For prettiest stuffs let Ireland first be nam'd,
“And for best-fancy'd silks let France be fam'd;
“Do thou, thrice happy England! still prepare
“This clay, and build thy fame on earthen-ware.”
More she'd have said, but that again she heard
The knocker—and the General appear'd.
Who serv'd through all the glorious wars in Flanders;
Loving to act the steady friendly part:
None led through youth a gayer life than he,
Cheerful in converse, smart in repartee.
Sweet was his night, and joyful was his day,
He din'd with Walpole, and with Oldfield lay;
And in narration he's extremely long;
Exact in circumstance, and nice in dates,
On every subject he his tale relates.
If you name one of Marlbro's ten campaigns,
He tells you its whole history for your pains:
As long in telling as it was in fighting:
His old desire to please is still express'd;
His hat's well cock'd, his periwig's well dress'd:
He rolls his stockings still, white gloves he wears,
And in the boxes with the beaux appears;
His eyes through wrinkled corners cast their rays;
Still he bows graceful, still soft things he says:
And still rememb'ring that he once was young,
He strains his crippled knees, and struts along.
The room he enter'd smiling, which bespoke
Some worn-out compliment, or thread-bare joke
(For not perceiving loss of parts, he yet
Grasps at the shade of his departed wit.)
“How does your Grace? I hope I see you well?
“What a prodigious deal of rain has fell!
“Will the sun never let us see his face?
“But who can ever want a sun that sees your Grace?
“Isn't it a prodigious charming pot?
“And a'n't you vastly glad we make them here?
“For Dicky got it out of Staffordshire.
“See how the charming vine twines all about!
“Lord! what a handle! Jesus! what a spout!
“And that old Pagog, and that charming child!
“If Lady Townsend saw them, she'd be wild!”
“Lord! where could Mr. Bateman find this pot?
“Dear Dicky, cou'dn't you get one for me?
“I want some useful china mightily;
“Two jars, two beakers, and a pot pourri.”
“At Margus's, and there such fire-works seen,
“So very pretty, charming, odd and new;
“And, I assure you, they're right Indian too!
“I've bought them all, there's not one left in town;
“And if you were to see them, you would own
“You never saw such fire-works any where.”
—“Oh, Madam, I must beg your pardon there,”
The Gen'ral cry'd, “for—'twas in the year ten;
“No, let me recollect, it was not then;
“'Twas in the year eight, I think, for then we lay
“Encamp'd, with all the army, near Cambray—
“We supp'd together in Cadogan's tent
“Palmes, Meredith, Lumley, and poor George Grove,
“And merrily the bumpers round we drove;
“To Marlbro's health we drank confounded hard;
“For he'd just beat the French at Oudenarde;
“The best champaign that ever came from France;
“And 'twas no wonder that it was so good,
“For some dragoons had seized it on the road;
“And they had heard from those they took it from,
“It was design'd a present for Vendôme.
“So we—” But see, another Charles's face
Cuts short the Gen'ral, and relieves her Grace.
Is reading morning-service through his nose,
Another, in the pulpit, straight appears,
Claiming the tir'd-out congregation's ears,
And with a duller sermon ends their pray'rs.
For this old Charles is full as dull as t'other,
Bævius to Mævius was not more a brother;
From two defects his talk no joy affords,
From want of matter, and from want of words.
“And caught no cold by yenturing to the play!”
“Oh, Sir, I'm mighty well—won't you sit down?
“Pray, Mr. Stanhope, what's the news in town?”
“From seeing a curiosity at home:
“'Twas sent to Martin Folkes, as being rare,
“And he and Desaguliers brought it there:
“It's call'd a Polypus.”—“What's that?”—A creature,
“The wonderful'st of all the works of nature:
“(I should not say it came, for it was brought);
“To-morrow we're to have it at Crane-court,
“And 'tis a reptile of so strange a sort,
“That if 'tis cut in two, it is not dead;
“Its head shoots out a tail, its tail a head;
“Take out its middle, and observe its ends,
“Here a head rises, there a tail descends;
“Or cut off any part that you desire,
“That part extends, and makes itself entire:
“But what it feeds on still remains a doubt,
“Or how it generates, is not found out:
“And then 'twill be consider'd and made clear,
“For all the learned body will be there.”
The Duchess cry'd, “pray can't you get me one?
“I never heard of such a thing before,
“I long to cut it and make fifty more;
“I'd have a cage made up in taste for mine,
“And, Dicky—you shall give me a design.”
And Stanhope had not one more word to say,
So stretch'd on easy chairs in apathy they lay;
And, on each side the goddess they ador'd,
One Charles sat speechless, and the other snor'd.
When chaste Susanna's all-subduing charms
Made two old lovers languish for her arms,
Soon as her eyes had thaw'd the frost of age,
Their passions mounted into lustful rage;
And almost bore the wish'd-for prize away.
Whose passions brutal lust has ne'er disgrac'd;
No warm expressions make your blushes rise,
No ravish'd kiss shoots light'ning from your eyes:
Let them but visit you, they ask no more,
Guiltless they'll gaze, and innocent adore.
“Lord!” says her Grace, “they'll thunder down my door!”
Into the room see sweating Lovel break,
The Duchess rises, and the Elders wake:
A lover, statesman, connoisseur, buffoon:
Extract him well, this is his quintessence,
Much folly, but more cunning, and some sense;
To neither party in his heart inclin'd,
He steer'd twixt both with politics refin'd,
Voted with Walpole, and with Pultney din'd.
Then opens with preliminary chat:
“I'm glad to see your Grace—the Gen'ral too—
“Old Charles, how is it? Dicky! how d'ye do?
“Madam, I hear that you were at the play,
“You did not say one word on't yesterday;
“I went, who'd no engagement any where,
“To th' Opera.”—“Were there many people there?”
The Duchess cry'd.—“Yes, Madam, a great many,”
Says Lovel—“There were Chesterfield and Fanny
“Ten years ago, and never will be done;
“For tho' you know he sees her ev'ry day,
“Still he has ever something new to say;
“There's nothing upon earth so hard to me,
“As keeping up discourse eternally;
“He never lets the conversation fall,
“And I'm sure Fanny can't keep up the ball;
“I saw that her replies were never long,
“And with her eyes she answer'd for her tongue:
“Poor I! am forc'd to keep my distance now,
“She won't ev'n curt'sy if I make a bow.”
“Ay, fortune de la guerre,” my lord reply'd:
“But you and I, Charles, hardly find things so,
“As we both did some twenty years ago.”
“And take off twenty years,” reply'd her Grace,
“'Twould do no harm to Lady Fanny's face;
“My Lord, you never see her but at night,
“By th' advantageous help of candle-light:
“Oh, if your lordship saw her in a morning!
“It is no more than Fanny once so fair;
“No roses bloom, no lilies flourish there:
“But hollow eyes, and pale and faded cheek,
“Repentance, love, and disappointment speak.”
To speak—“Ah, Ma'am, you did not know Miss Howe;”
I'll tell you all her history, he cry'd—
At this Charles Stanhope gap'd extremely wide;
Poor Dicky sat on thorns, her Grace turn'd pale,
And Lovel trembl'd at th' impending tale.
“Poor girl! faith she was once extremely fair,
“Till worn by love, and tortur'd by despair:
“Her breaking face foretold her breaking heart.
“At Leicester-house her passion first began,
“And Nanty Lowther was a pretty man:
“But when the Princess did to Kew remove,
“She could not bear the absence of her love;
“Away she flew.”—But here the clock struck three;
So did some pitying deity decree;
The Duchess rings to dress—and see her maid
With all the apparatus for her head;
Th' adoring circle can no longer stay,
Each rises, bows, and goes his different way.
To ancient Boothby's ancient Churchill's flown;
Home to his dinner Stanhope goes alone:
Dicky to fast with her, her Grace invites,
And Lovell's coachman drives unbid to White's.
AN ODE TO THE HONOURABLE HENRY FOX,
On the Marriage of the Duchess of Manchester to Edward Hussey, Esq. afterwards Lord Beaulieu.
The zephyrs blow, the sun looks gay,
The sky one perfect blue;
Can you refuse at such a time,
When Fox and I both beg for rhyme,
To sing us something new?
“I've got a fav'rite theme, my son,
“I'll sing the conquer'd Duchess;
“I'll sing of that disdainful fair,
“Who, 'scap'd from Scotch and English snare,
“Is fast in Irish clutches.
“She'll be no more ador'd, no more
“Shine forth the public care:
“Oh! what a falling off is here,
“From her whose frowns made wisdom fear,
“Whose scorn begot despair!
“O'er fertile fields, o'er barren sands
“She stretch'd her haughty reign:
“The coxcomb, fool, and man of sense,
“Youth, manhood, age, and impotence,
“With pride receiv'd her chain.
“Here gentle Carberry gently strove
“Here Churchill snor'd his hours away,
“Here too Charles Stanhope every day
“Sat out her Grace's fire.
“Kneeling with reverential awe,
“T' adore his high-flown chotce;
“Where you, my Fox, have pass'd whole days,
“Forgetting king's and people's praise,
“Deaf to ambition's voice.
“What Dresden China for your feast!
“But I'll no longer tease you;
“Yet 'tis a truth you can't deny,
“Tho' Lady Caroline is nigh,
“And does not look quite easy.
“For one of the Milesian race,
“On stronger parts depending;
“Nature, indeed, denies them sense,
“But gives them legs and impudence,
“That beats all understanding.
“Op'ning before the noble dame
“His honourable trenches;
“Nor of rebukes or frowns afraid,
“He push'd his way (he knew his trade),
“And won the place by inches.
“Like Hussey's all the Irish bless,
“May they all do as he does;
“And still preserve their breed the same,
“Cast in his mould, made in his frame,
“To comfort English widows.”
AN ODE, ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE CONQUER'D DUCHESS:”
In Answer to that celebrated Performance.
Who, for her pleasure, barters fame!
As if 'twere strange or new,
That ladies should themselves disgrace,
Or one of the Milesian race
A widow should pursue.
Who, while a Duchess, play'd the whore,
Wiser than Lady Harriet too,
Whose foolish match made such a do,
And ruin'd her and Beard.
Who, should she list her am'rous train,
Sprightly as Orford's Countess she,
And as the wanton Townshend free,
And more than both discreet.
Before she took the man to bed;
And can you say that's bad?
Like Diomede's, your arrows rove:
Like him, you wound the Queen of Love,
And may, like him, run mad.
If you invok'd your muse for rhyme,
That all the world stood gazing;
You sung us then of folks that sold,
Themselves and country too for gold,
Or something as amazing:
Jump'd from a patriot to a peer,
No mortal yet knows why;
How Pulteney truck'd the fairest fame
For a Right Honourable name
To call his vixen by.
'Twas you, and only you could tell,
And all the scene disclos'd;
How Vane and Rushout, Bathurst, Gower,
Were curs'd and stigmatis'd by power,
And rais'd to be expos'd.
To others leave the middle sky,
Whose wings are weak and flaggy:
Leave these to some young Foppington,
Who takes your leavings, Woffington,
And tunes his odes to Peggy.
Must own that women most excel
When ruling, or when rul'd:
While young they others lead astray;
When old, they ev'ry call obey,
Still fooling, or befool'd.
They every coxcomb's tale must heed,
And then by one false step 'tis seen,
How slight the diff'rence is between
The Duchess and the Hussey.
AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE STEPHEN POYNTZ, ESQ.
Nutrita faustis sub penetralibus
Posset------
Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam,
Rectique cultus pectora roborant.
Hor Od. 4, Lib. 4.
I
WHILST William's deeds and William's praiseEach English breast with transport raise,
Say, Poyntz, if thy elated heart
Assumes not a superior part,
A larger share of joy?
II
But that thy country's high affairsEmploy thy time, demand thy cares,
You only should this theme pursue—
Who can for William feel like you,
Or who like you can write?
III
Then to rehearse the hero's praise,To paint this sunshine of his days,
The pleasing task be mine—
To think on all thy cares o'er paid,
To view the hero you have made,
That pleasing part be thine.
IV
Who first should watch, and who call forthThis youthful Prince's various worth,
Wisely his royal Sire consign'd
To thee the culture of his mind,
And England blest the choice.
V
You taught him to be early knownBy martial deeds of courage shown:
From this, near Mona's flood,
By his victorious Father led,
He flesh'd his maiden sword, he shed
And prov'd th' illustrious blood.
VI
Of Virtue's various charms you taughtWith happiness and glory fraught,
How her unshaken pow'r
Is independent of success;
That no defeat can make it less,
No conquest make it more.
VII
This after Tournay's fatal day,'Midst sorrow, cares, and dire dismay,
Brought calm and sure relief;
He scrutiniz'd his noble heart,
Found virtue had perform'd her part,
And peaceful slept the chief.
VIII
From thee he early learnt to feelThe Patriot's warmth for England's weal;
(True Valour's noblest spring)
To vindicate her Church distrest;
To fight for Liberty opprest;
To perish for his King.
IX
Yet say, if in thy fondest scopeOf thought, you ever dar'd to hope
Would pay thy toils, reward thy care,
Consenting bend to ev'ry pray'r,
And all thy wishes crown.
X
We saw a wretch with trait'rous aid,Our King's and Church's right invade;
And thine, fair Liberty!
We saw thy Hero fly to war,
Beat down Rebellion, break her spear,
And set the nations free.
XI
Culloden's field, my glorious theme,My rapture, vision, and my dream,
Gilds the young Hero's days:
Yet can there be one English heart
That does not give thee, Poyntz, thy part,
And own thy share of praise?
XII
Nor is thy fame to thee decreedFor life's short date: when William's head,
For victories to come,
The frequent laurel shall receive;
Chaplets for thee our sons shall weave,
And hang them on thy tomb.
AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF MATZEL, A FAVOURITE BULL-FINCH:
Addressed to Philip Stanhope, Esq. to whom the Author had given the Reversion of it when he left Dresden.
I
TRY not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vainTo stop your tears, to hide your pain,
Give sorrow and revenge their scope,
My present joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.
II
Matzel's no more, ye graces, loves,Ye linnets, nightingales and doves,
Attend th' untimely bier;
Let ev'ry sorrow be exprest,
Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the nat'ral tear.
III
In height of song, in beauty's pride,By fell Grimalkin's claws he died—
But vengeance shall have way:
On pains and torture I'll refine;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine,
His nine will ill repay.
IV
For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine,Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, shall join
In thy funereal verse:
My painful task shall be to write
Th' eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.
V
In vain I lov'd, in vain I mournMy bird, who, never to return,
Is fled to happier shades,
Where Lesbia shall for him prepare
The place most charming, and most fair
Of all th' Elysian glades.
VI
There shall thy notes in cypress groveSoothe wretched ghosts that die for love;
There shall thy plaintive strain
Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield some short relief,
And soften Dido's pain.
VII
Till Proserpine, by chance, shall hearThy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;
While each attendant's soul shall praise
The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all his songs approve.
A BALLAD: IN IMITATION OF MARTIAL, Lib. 6, Ep. 34.
ON LADY ILCHESTER ASKING LORD ILCHESTER HOW MANY KISSES HE WOULD HAVE.
For sweeter no girl ever gave:
But why in the midst of our blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure,
Then prithee, dear Betty, be kind;
For as I love thee beyond measure,
To numbers I'll not be confin'd.
Count the flow'rs that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempe are playing,
Or the grains that each Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in Heaven,
Go reckon the sands on the shore,
And when so many kisses you've given
I still shall be asking for more.
A heart that, dear Betty, is thine;
In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,
And curl round thy neck like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips shall be spent;
But those who can number their kisses
Will always with few be content.
AN ODE ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY,
AT SIX YEARS OLD.
I
WHY should I thus employ my time,To paint those cheeks of rosy hue?
Why should I search my brains for rhyme,
To sing those eyes of glossy blue?
II
The pow'r as yet is all in vain,Thy num'rous charms, and various graces;
They only serve to banish pain,
And light up joy in parents faces.
III
But soon those eyes their strength shall feel;Those charms their pow'rful sway shall find;
Youth shall in crouds before you kneel,
And own your empire o'er mankind.
IV
Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit,And thousands court your wish'd-for arms,
My Muse shall stretch her utmost wit,
To sing the vict'ries of your charms.
V
Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost,At least while verse like mine endures:
And future Hanburys shall boast,
Of verse like mine, of charms like yours.
VI
A little vain we both may be,Since scarce another house can shew,
A poet, that can sing like me,
A beauty, that can charm like you.
A SONG: ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY,
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. MR. BIRT.
I
DEAR doctor of St. Mary'sIn the hundred of Bergavenny,
I've seen such a lass,
With a shape and face,
As never was match'd by any.
II
Such wit, such bloom, and beauty,Has this girl of Ponty Pool, Sir,
With eyes that would make
The toughest heart ache,
And the wisest man a fool, Sir.
III
At our fair t'other day she appear'd, Sir,And the Welchmen all flock'd and view'd her;
And all of them said,
She was fit to have been made
A wife for Owen Tudor.
IV
They would ne'er have been tir'd with gazing,And so much her charms did please, Sir,
That all of them stay'd,
Till their ale grew dead,
And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir.
V
How happy the lord of the manor,That shall be of her possest, Sir;
For all must agree,
Who my Harriet shall see,
She's a Harriet of the best, Sir,
VI
Then pray make a ballad about her;We know you have wit if you'd show it,
Then don't be asham'd,
You can never be blam'd,
For a prophet is often a poet.
VII
But why don't you make one yourself, then?I suppose I by you shall be told, Sir:
This beautiful piece,
Alas, is my niece;
And besides, she's but five years old, Sir.
VIII
But tho', my dear friend, she's no older,In her face it may plainly be seen, Sir,
That this angel at five,
Will, if she's alive,
Be a goddess at fifteen, Sir.
ON THE DEATH OF LADY ABERGAVENNY:
BY A LADY.
YE Muses all, and pitying virgins, comeAnd pour your tears on poor Calista's tomb.
In the cold mansions of the silent grave,
May her remains a sanctuary have
From the malignant blasts of sland'rous tongues,
Who have pursu'd her name with cruel wrongs;
And let not calumny her mem'ry blot.
Unhappy nymph! let none her crime upbraid,
By love and too much gentleness betray'd;
And, oh! for ever may his name be curst,
Of spotted villains be he rank'd the first,
Who, with a base revenge and malice fir'd,
Fierce jealousy in her stern Lord inspir'd.
Inhuman wretch! Sure now thy woes begin,
And thou already hast thy hell within.
While pitying Heaven, with mercy, sees her fate,
And kindly takes her to a happier state,
Pardons the fault she so sincerely mourn'd,
And joys to see a penitent return'd.
But, oh! ye railers, ye abandon'd few,
How ill your Master's precepts ye pursue:
Reflect, when God himself was here below,
What mercy he did to a sinner show,
And bade the guiltless only throw a stone;
Straight all retir'd, and left her there alone:
With majesty he rais'd his awful head,
And mildly to the tender creature said,
“Now, go thy way, and look thou sin no more.”
Th' accusing Jews were juster far than you,
By conscience self-condemn'd, they all withdrew;
But amongst those who mangle thus her fame,
How many's crimes, tho' not their fates the same!
Henceforth for ever cease her name to tax,
Nor with foul calumny abuse her sex.
ON LADY ABERGAVENNY:
BY CHARLES, DUKE OF DORSET.
YOUNG, thoughtless, gay, unfortunately fair,Her pride to please, and pleasure all her care;
With too much kindness and too little art,
Prone to indulge the dictates of the heart;
Flatter'd by all, solicited, admir'd,
By women envied, and by men desir'd:
At once from full prosperity she's torn,
By friends deserted, of defence forlorn,
Expos'd to talk, to insults, want, and scorn;
By every idle tongue her story told,
The novel of the young, the lecture of the old;
But let the scoffer or the prude relate,
With rigour's utmost force her hapless fate;
Good nature still to soft compassion wrought,
Shall weep her ruin, while it owns her fault.
To virtue's rule too little reverence paid,
Yet, dying, still she show'd, so dear her fame,
She could survive her guilt, but not her shame:
Her honour dearer than her life she prov'd,
And dearer far than both, the man she lov'd.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS TO SIR HANS SLOANE,
WHO SAVED HIS LIFE, AND DESIRED HIM TO SEND OVER ALL THE RARITIES HE COULD FIND IN HIS TRAVELS.
To bless by turns, and plague, my wife;
Whatever is enjoin'd by you.
That I should search the western land
For curious things of ev'ry kind,
And send you all that I should find;
I've ravag'd air, earth, seas, and caverns,
Men, women, children, towns, and taverns;
And greater rarities can show,
Than Gresham's children ever knew:
Which carrier Dick shall bring you down,
Next time his waggon comes to town.
Which Jove in Danaë's lap did pour;
From Carthage brought, the sword I'll send
Which brought Queen Dido to her end.
The stone whereby Goliath died,
Which cures the head-ache, well apply'd;
The snake-skin, which, you may believe,
The devil cast who tempted Eve.
That Adam wore to hide his shame,
The blow by which poor Abel died.
A whetstone, worn exceeding small,
Time us'd to whet his scythe withal;
The pigeon stuff'd, which Noah sent
To tell him when the waters went.
A ring I've got of Samson's hair,
The same which Dalilah did wear;
Saint Dunstan's tongs, which story shows
Did pinch the devil by the nose.
The very shaft, as all may see,
Which Cupid shot at Antony;
And, which above the rest I prize,
A glance of Cleopatra's eyes;
Some strains of eloquence which hung,
In Roman times, on Tully's tongue;
Which, long conceal'd and lost had lain,
Till --- found them out again.
Then I've, most curious to be seen,
A Scorpion's bite, to cure the spleen;
A goad, that rightly us'd, will prove
A certain remedy to love.
I've pills cure maggots in the head;
With the receipts, too, how to take 'em,
Found in the bottom of a mine;
A lawyer's conscience, large and fair,
Fit for a judge himself to wear.
I've a choice nostrum, fit to make
An oath a Catholic will take;
In a thumb-vial you shall see,
Close cork'd, some drops of honesty,
Which, after searching kingdoms round,
At last, were in a cottage found;
An antidote, if such there be,
Against the charms of flattery.
I ha'nt collected any care,
Of that there's plenty ev'ry where;
But after wond'rous labours spent,
I've got one grain of rich content.
To furnish your nicknackatory;
I only beg that when you show 'em,
You'll tell your friends to whom you owe 'em,
Which may your other patients teach
To do, as has done your's, C. H.
(Written in February 1739-40.)
Winnington.
FOR that short time that I alone was blest,
Singly admitted to that lovely breast,
There was no happier fellow in this town,
Not Essex, Bludworth, or the vig'rous Brown.
Ethelreda.
Whilst me you lov'd, beyond each earthly thing,
Nor Ethelreda was postpon'd to Bing;
I shone the foremost character in life,
Nor envy'd Walmod, or Lord Archi's wife.
For Teddy Bing a passion now I feel,
Who both a Pichen and my heart could steal;
Bully the witnesses, and bribe the jury.
Winnington.
I have as odd a passion for my Kitty
(The motley breed of quality and city).
Had I as many lives as twenty cats,
I'd give them all for one dear game at---
What if to nature I again return,
And for thy beauteous form once more should burn!
Should I quit Bing, would you take back your Winny,
And love again as if the devil was in ye?
Tho' Kitty's full of sentiments refin'd,
Thou rough as seas, and fickle as the wind;
Tho' when I melt in tender Kitty's lap,
I fear no children, and I dread no---
Ethelreda.
With thee I'd choose to live, tho' sure to breed,
And take my Lord to bed, in case of need.
THE COUNTRY GIRL; AN ODE:
HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF BATH.
To love, when the young 'squire grows kind,
Doubts between joy and ruin;
Now will, and now will not comply,
To raptures now her pulse beats high,
And now she dreads undoing.
His oaths, his sighs, his vows and tears,
Holds out the proffer'd treasure;
She quite forgets her fear and shame,
And quits her virtue, and good-name,
For profit mixt with pleasure.
By speech, by pamphlet, and by song,
Held patriotism's steerage,
Yields to ambition mixt with gain,
A treasury gets for Harry Vane,
And for himself a peerage.
Harry's estate was covered o'er,
Unless thatstory should be true,
That he receives but half his due,
And the new Countess shares it.
Pays half the fees of secretary
To Bath's ennobled doxy;
If so—good use of pow'r she makes,
The treasury of each kingdom takes,
And holds them both by proxy.
And leaves the noisy House of Commons,
Amongst the Lords to nod;
Where if he's better than of old,
His hands perhaps a stick may hold,
But never more a rod.
As innocent as any peer,
As prompt for any job;
For now he's popular no more,
He'as lost the power he had before,
And his best friends the mob.
They fail him when too near the sky,
Like Icarus's wings;
And popularity is such,
As still is ruin'd by the touch
Of gracious giving kings.
And Argyle, with his Tory friends,
For Enoch's fate and thine are one,
Like him translated, thou art gone
Ne'er to be heard of more.
A NEW ODE
TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE.
From heav'n, of Britain's truest friends.
O Muse attend my call!
To one of these direct thy flight,
Or, to be sure that we are right,
Direct it to them all.
I shall get money for my rhymes;
And thou no more go tatter'd;
Make haste, then, lead the way, begin,
For here are people just come in
Who never yet were flatter'd.
Indeed he's nearest to the King,
Yet careless how you use him:
Give him, I beg, no labour'd lays;
He will but promise if you praise,
And laugh if you abuse him.
The new-made Earl of Bath comes next,
Stiff in his popular pride:
His step, his gait, describe the man;
They paint him better than I can,
Waddling from side to side.
Now in a fury, now in tears,
Now laughing, now in sorrow;
Now he'll command, and now obey,
Bellows for liberty to-day,
And roars for pow'r to morrow.
With staunchest Whigs he supp'd at night,
Each party try'd to 've won him;
But he himself did so divide,
Shuffled and cut from side to side,
That now both parties shun him.
Who at the long'd-for money-board
Sits first, but does not lead:
His younger brethren all things make;
So that the Treasury's like a snake,
And the tail moves the head.
He made you for a president;
Back to that station go:
Nor longer act this farce of power,
We know you miss'd the thing before,
And have not got it now.
Britain's two thunderbolts of war,
But, oh! their strength and spirits flown,
They, like their conquering swords, are grown
Rusty with lying by.
And since things thus have chang'd their face,
You'll give opposing o'er:
'Tis comfortable to be in,
And think what a damn'd while you've been,
Like Peter, at the door.
But not in flatt'ry, Samuel Sands;
For since you are in power,
That gives you knowledge, judgment, parts,
The courtier's wiles, the statesman's arts,
Of which you'd none before.
Its state, old Rome dictators took
Judiciously from plough:
So we (but at a pinch thou knowest),
To make the highest of the lowest,
The Exchequer gave to you.
Did it not make your brains go round?
Did it not turn your head?
I fancy (but you hate a joke)
You felt as Nell did when she woke
In Lady Loverule's bed.
And since he's made Vice-Treasurer,
Grown taller by some inches:
See Tweedale follow Carteret's call;
See Hanoverian Gower, and all
The black funereal Finches.
Berenger's clerk to take his place,
Into the Treasury come;
With pride and meanness act thy part,
Thou look'st the very thing thou art,
Thou Bourgeois Gentilhomme.
You've gain'd by the long-labour'd fall
Of Walpole and his tools?
He was a knave suppose—what then?
He'd parts—but this new set of men
A'n't only knaves, but fools.
Demands; oh! Chesterfield, Argyle,
Unite all hearts, appease each storm,
'Tis yours such actions to perform,
My pride shall be to sing'em.
AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM EARL OF BATH
Quam necis artifices arte perire sua.
Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras
Ictibus crebris juvenes protervi:
Nec tibi somnos adimunt: amatque
Janua limen.
Quæ prius multum facilis morebat
Cardines, &c. &c.
Hor. Lib. 1, Od. xxv.
The Tories trust your word no more,
Your gates are seldom now unbarr'd,
No crowds of coaches fill your yard,
And scarce a soul comes near ye.
Scarce any sue to you for places,
Or come with their petition,
To tell how well they have deserv'd,
How long, how steadily they starv'd
For you in opposition.
Since all mankind perceive that pow'r
Is lodg'd in other hands:
Sooner to Cart'ret now they'll go,
Or e'en (though that's excessive low)
To Wilmington and Sands.
And, sitting silent by the fire,
A sullen tête-à-tête,
Think over all you've done or said,
And curse the hour that you were made
Unprofitably great.
Reflect on all your actions past,
With sorrow and contrition;
And there enjoy the thoughts that rise
From disappointed avarice,
From frustrated ambition.
Of your deserting friends complain,
That visit you no more;
But in this country 'tis a truth,
As known as that love follows youth,
That friendship follows pow'r.
You through the dregs of life must sweat
Beneath this heavy load;
And I'll attend you, as I've done,
Only to help reflection on,
With now and then an ode.
THE STATESMAN.
Tibia sumis celebrare, Clio?
Quem deum? &c.
Hor. Lib. 1, Ode xii.
Whose name through the island is spread,
Will you choose, O my Clio, to sing,
Of all the great living or dead?
In search of a topic for rhyme:
The great Earl of Bath is the man,
Who deserves to employ your whole time.
And perhaps you're unfurnish'd with matter;
May it please you to take my advice,
That you may'nt be suspected to flatter.
Speak Latin as if you were tipsy:
Say, we are all but the sons of the earth,
Et genus non fecimus ipsi
Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties:
You may say, he is married; that's true,
Yet speak not a word of his Countess.
To enrol the fair deeds of his youth!
When you mention the acts of his age,
Leave a blank for his honour and truth!
He spake—and the minister fell.
Say, he made a great statesman of Sands;
(Oh! that he had taught him to spell!)
Say, how he harangu'd at the Fountain;
Say, how the old patriots were bit,
And a mouse was produc'd by a mountain.
By increasing our taxes, and stocks:
Then say how he chang'd to a peer,
Fit companion for Edgecumbe and Fox.
A NEW ODE.
Perfusus liquidis urguet odoribus
Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
Hor. Od. 5, Lib. i.
With courtly graces woes thee?
And from St. Stephen's Chapel to
The House of Lords pursues thee?
How pleas'd with what is past!
Your title has your judgment shown,
And choice of friends your taste.
Yourself and your good Countess,
You've hit on sweet-lip'd Harry Vane
And high-bred Harry Furnese.
What geniuses you've taken?
Their talents, like their virtues, great!
Or all the world's mistaken.
Which you had on your hands,
So, to please Prince and people too,
You wisely pitched on Sands.
Could so exactly hit ye:
His mien and manners charm'd the King
His parts amaz'd the City.
And end as you begun;
To find a genius such as his,
What was there to be done?
Such stars but rare appear!
Dart not their rays on every ground,
Gild ev'ry hemisphere.
Not Tycho Brahe's more true,
From far spy'd some bright orbs arise,
And brought them to our view.
Blaz'd out in Parliament,
Gibbon, for eloquence renown'd,
To grace the court you sent.
Some more, as choice and proper,
Bright Bootle? darling of mankind!
Good Limerick and sage Hooper.
In ev'ry chosen spirit!
All men at least this truth must own,
Your nice regard to merit!
For this blest reformation!
Thou joy of ev'ry heart and tongue!
Thou saviour of the nation!
With all your tools around you!
Does not each glorious patriot name,
Quite dazzle and confound you?
Triumphant still you'd been;
By only putting them in place,
You had yourself kept in.
AN ODE, FROM THE EARL OF BATH TO AMBITION.
All party rage forsake my breast,
And opposition cease.
Arm me no more for future strife,
Pity my poor remains of life,
And give my age its peace.
For I am Pult'ney now no more,
My titles hide my name.
(Oh, how I blush to own my case!)
My dignity was my disgrace,
And I was rais'd to shame.
Gave up my honour, friendship, truth,
My king and country's weal.
For thee I sinn'd against my reason,
The daily lie, the weekly treason,
Proclaim'd my blinded zeal.
Oh! had I well employ'd that hour,
My reign had known no end:
But then (oh, fool!) like Brutus, I
Left able, pow'rful Antony,
T'avenge his fallen friend.
And still he urges on my fate,
And heaps my measure full:
All Orford's wrongs are now repaid,
I'm fall'n into the pit I made,
And roar in my own bull.
On him resistless smiles bestow,
Inflame his kindled heat:
Display thy pow'r, thy temptings show,
Thy glorious height, the sunny brow,
With all that charm and cheat.
You, goddess, favourably smil'd,
And form'd him for your tool;
Bid him the path of Greatness try,
Teach him to conquer or to die,
To ruin, or to rule.
I only ask content and peace,
Which I will never barter
For all the gifts that you can show'r;
The pride of wealth, the pomp of pow'r,
Employments and a garter.
Again I feel Ambition burn,
There all my wishes crown'd I feel,
Enjoy the ribband, treas'ry, seal,
Which vanish with the day.
THE HEROES:
A NEW BALLAD.
Our house, since times of jobbing:
Sure none was ever like the last,
Ev'n in the days of Robin:
At this polluted cluster
Of fifteen nobles of great fame,
All brib'd by one false muster.
Both tall and of great prowess;
Two little Barons in the rear
(For they're, you know, the lowest:)
But high and low they all agree
To do whatever man dar'd;
Those ne'er so tall, and those that fall
A foot below the standard.
With two more places you know;
Since his Bath knights, his grace delights
In Tri-a junct' in U-no.
Now Bolton comes with beat of drums,
Though fighting be his loathing;
He much dislikes both guns and pikes,
But relishes the cloathing.
A peer in wond'rous bustle;
With sword in hand, he stout doth stand,
And brags his name is Russell:
He'll beat the French from ev'ry trench,
And blow them off the water;
By sea and land he doth command,
And looks an errant otter.
For bravery that can be,
(Tho' Anstruther should make a stir,)
Compar'd with Marquis Granby:
His courage most exceeding:
And by his hair, you'd almost swear
He's valiant Charles of Sweden.
And Falmouth, choice commanders!
For these the nation we must tax,
But ne'er send them to Flanders.
Two corps of men do still remain,
Earl Cholmondley's and EarlBerkeley's;
The last, I hold, not quite so bold
As formerly was Herc'les.
And comprehensive noddle:
Tho' you've the gout, yet as you're stout,
Why wa'n't you plac'd in saddle?
Then you might ride to either side,
Choose which king you'ld serve under;
But, dear dragoon, change not too soon,
For fear of th' other blunder.
Defend our faith's defender;
Shall keep us free from popery,
The French and the Pretender.
Now God bless all our ministry,
May they the crown environ,
To hold in chain whate'er Prince reign,
And rule with links of iron.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS TO EDWARD HUSSEY, ESQ.
With craggy clifts and darksome vale,
May no rude steps defile 'em!
Your poet with a vengeance sent
From London post, is hither bent,
To find a safe asylum.
Who prest upon my horse's rear,
And made the fleet still fleeter;
There shall my hurry'd soul repose,
And, undisturb'd by Irish prose,
Renew my lyric metre.
Behind him left his little shield,
And sculk'd in Sabine cavern:
Had I not wrote that cursed ode,
My coward heart I ne'er had show'd,
The jest of ev'ry tavern.
I boast from you my sprightly pen,
I rhyme by your direction:
Why did you partial gifts impart?
You gave a head, but gave no heart,
No heart, for head's protection.
And scans each inch of Hussey's length,
Hence, angry boys my rhyme provoke,
I ne'er (too serious proves the joke)
Can think on't without sweating.
My inauspicious wit supply'd,
And forc'd me into action;
To me as to this scribe indite,
Hibernia's sons—I cannot write
To give them satisfaction.
The taking of the duchess' fort,
And which the way to win her:
I, undisturb'd, my town enjoy'd,
Then (Nero like) with fire destroy'd,
In springing mines within her.
Great George's birth, or new-year's day,
As innocent as Colley,
Your other Pope (oh! hear, ye Nine)
He'd gladly all his odes resign,
And screen himself in folly.
I feel no more that sweet blue weather,
The Muses most delight in:
Dark, and more dark, each cloud impends,
And ev'ry message from my friends,
Conveys sad hints of fighting.
Listen, ye lambkins, whilst ye feed,
Ye shepherds, nymphs and fountains:
Ye bees, with soporiferous hums,
Ye pendent goats, if Hussey comes,
Convey me to your mountains.
Shall pull the songster by the ear,
T' advise me whilst I'm writing:
Or, if my satire will burst forth,
I'll lampoon parsons in my wrath,
Their cloth forbids them fighting.
To sculk beneath this lonely nook,
And tamely bear what few will?
H---r---t like Priam's son appears,
Cries, as he shakes his bloody ears,
Beware of Irish Duel.
Strange scenes, and swim before my eyes,
Swords, pistols, bloody—shocking!
Whole crowds of Irish cross my view,
I feel th' involuntary dew,
Run trickling down my stocking.
Cornwall once forc'd such streams to flow,
So dreadful he to meet is;
Should gentle Cornbury, Leicester, Bath,
Or drowsy Stanhope wake in wrath,
'Twould cause a diabetes.
Reverse my prayer thou late didst grant,
Or I'm for ever undone;
Rust all their pistols, break their swords,
And if they'll fight it out in words,
I'll come again to London.
An Epigram.
SIR Thomas, of Wentworth, inflexibly good,Had long Ministerial power withstood;
At length through ambition an Earl he was made,
So first lost his friends, and then lost his head;
So Pultney consider like his thy condition,
How great and how glorious thy long Opposition;
Thou art now made an Earl, have a care of thy head,
Our Pyms and our Hambdens are not all yet dead.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARL OF BATH AND HIS COUNTESS.
E.TO the Earl said the Countess, what makes you so dull?
C.
Because for your Ladyship I've played the fool.
E.
For me? do you say, Sir; your Lordship I mean—
C.
Ay, curse that damn'd title, 'tis that gives me spleen.
E.
You have no sense of honour, no notions of glory—
Yours are, Polly Walpole should not rank before ye;
Had you been plain Madam, and I been plain Will.
TO THE EARL OF BATH;
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.
And them, tho' true, without reluctance leave?
Tell me, perfidious man, thou Lordling say,
Can you your friends forsake, and then betray?
Have not the pangs of guilt your bosom seized?
Think not with impious acts the Gods are pleased.
But these are thoughts which never plagued thy breast,
Who basely left us, and when much distrest.
What can we do against a race unjust,
Where find a man who's faithful to his trust?
Our friendship you by false pretensions gain'd,
As if no danger in your breast remained;
Your actions give your former vows the lie;
Nor words nor deeds retracted longer bind,
Your words retracted, and your deeds are wind;
You may forget and live a wretch abhorr'd,
But know the Gods remember and record;
Faith well remembers, reverend Deity,
And will exact due penitence from thee.
(Written on the Earl of Bath's door in Piccadilly.)
Here dead to fame, lives patriot Will,His grave a lordly seat;
His title proves his Epitaph,
His robes his winding-sheet.
AN ODE TO THE HON. PHILIP YORKE:
IMITATED FROM HORACE. Ode xvi. Book ii.
When gathering storms obscure the skies,
The stars no more appearing;
The Candidate for quiet prays,
Sick of bumpers and huzzas,
Of blest Electioneering.
The serjeant's mace can keep off care,
Alas! he is not half so blest
As those who've Liberty and rest,
And dine on beans and bacon.
And quit our cheerful country sun,
For business, dirt, and smoke;
Can we by changing place and air,
Ourselves get rid of, or our care,
In truth 'tis all a joke.
And mounts behind the General's horse,
Outstrips Hussars and Pandours;
Far swifter than the flying hind,
Swifter than clouds before the wind,
Or Cope before Highlanders.
Should laugh at all his threat'ning foes,
Nor think of future evil;
Each good has its attendant ill,
A seat is no bad thing, but still
Elections are the Devil.
Divides—To Orford it was given,
To die in full-blown glory;
To Bath indeed a longer life,
But though he lives, 'tis with his wife,
And shunn'd by Whig and Tory.
Have granted seats and parks, and land,
Brocades and silks you wear;
With Claret and ragouts you treat,
Six neighing steeds, with nimble feet,
Whirl on your gilded car.
Good Port and Mutton, best of meat,
With broad-cloth on my shoulders;
A soul that scorns a dirty job,
Loves a good rhyme, and hates a mob,
I mean that's not freeholders.
THE CAPUCHIN:
A NEW BALLAD,
Has a Mendicant seen,
Who for charity follows to dun ye;
Offer him what you will,
He refuses it still,
For he has sworn that he'll never touch money.
With two open hands,
(A Creature that follows for hire)
Any gifts that you make,
He'll readily take,
And at night he accounts with the friar.
Has sworn, in his wrath,
That he'll never accept of a place;
Neither Chancellor he,
Nor Treasurer will be,
And refuses the seal and the mace.
Stand bawling aloud,
For all that two courts can afford;
And 'tis very well known,
That for them what is done,
Is the same as if done for my Lord.
Lest these things should take air,
And with dirt all mankind should upbraid ye;
That you try a new way,
'Tis as safe I dare say,
And make them account with my Lady.
And the world will see through,
And your character still will bespatter;
Mind th' advice that I send,
For I'm so much your friend,
That I'm sure, you can't say, that I flatter.
Isn't a quarter come o'er,
And I fancy you'll find he wants zeal;
If he don't come plum in,
And vote thro' thick and thin,
Turn him out, and be made Privy Seal.
Nor affect to be nice,
For an oath's but a joke,
To one that has broke
Through all honour and ties with his friends.
You'll still go on, tell'em,
All honest men's hope to defeat;
To Crown your disgrace,
They'll give you this place,
And your character will be complete.
AN ODE TO LORD LIMERICK
Deseruit pede Pana claudo.
Lord Bath! my zeal's for you the same,
As constant and as fervent;
And don't imagine I am gone,
If for a moment I step down,
To Teague your Irish Servant.
And to the new-made Statesman sung,
I didn't, I assure ye,
Intend that it should be your lot,
To be the only one forgot,
Great Foreman of the Jury.
(For I have much plain truth to say)
Which you'll call foul aspersion;
But had no place to put you in,
So you must be as you have been,
O'er paid with a reversion.
Give such a creature, such a thing,
Say Clio, I desire ye;
Into the cause enquiry make,
If 'tis but for his lordship's sake,
For my Lord loves inquiry.
Allege their claims to hold the helm,
And rule this stubborn state;
Illustrious birth has some pretence,
Strong always is the claim of sense,
And property has weight.
My lord, ev'n your great name's not clear,
It takes all ranks in and all sizes,
From footmen, and from chairmen rises
Up to Scotch Royal Blood.
(In this uniting) that you've none;
And when your lordship's prating,
Contempt in ev'ry face appears,
Ev'n th' equilibrious Speaker sneers,
At such sad low debating.
You've neither int'rest nor estate,
Go then most fit and willing;
To serve a court lay any Tax,
No matter if it breaks our backs,
It won't cost you one shilling.
You've chose in a new path to tread,
After the true old Irish way,
As juryman you ask'd for pay,
And as an Evidence.
But should have chose some other way,
And kept you still attendant;
For Harry Vane himself would own,
'Twas wickedly and weakly done,
To make you independent.
Heav'n long preserve Lord Palmerston,
And since for life he's in;
You must like other sinners stay,
Till death, or his, or your's shall pay,
The wages of your sin.
AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM EARL OF BATH:
April 1743.
If Clio smil'd, to write again,
Reflection to renew;
And by this Ode my lord you'll find,
Tho' you break yours with all mankind,
I keep my word with you.
A prop'rer theme could never chuse,
To answer her intention:
Each day so variously you act,
She's never at a loss for fact,
Or tortur'd for invention.
And does again ambition burn,
Would the dead embers blaze?
And dar'st thou hope that courts or pow'r,
Thy reputation can restore,
Or thy sunk credit raise?
You strive that Treasury to regain,
Which you let slip last year;
To that, while yet his country's friend,
Th' unspotted Comm'ner might pretend,
But not the tainted peer.
Do you expect the people's voice,
Will the court do the thing?
No; by your own superior parts,
Tho' you have lost the people's hearts,
You have not gain'd the King.
Who will reach out a helping hand?
And Walpole's party won't forget,
The urger of their leader's fate,
The spoiler of his pow'r.
And would'st thou launch thy bark again,
In the decline of life?
From whence can all this madness flow?
These are the counsels of some foe,
Or of that friend, your wife.
Her av'rice paints, say, knowing muse,
Thou'rt not afraid to tell it;
'Tis she that thinks (mistaken dame)
You've still some remnant left of fame,
And prudently would sell it.
And you set up yourself to sale,
From ev'ry side you'll meet disgrace,
The King won't buy you with a place,
The people with a hollo!
TO THE EARL OF BATH,
OCCASIONED BY A LATE PAMPHLET, INTITULED “FACTION DETECTED.”
Where the Whigs you've abus'd,
But, my Lord, I'm afraid,
From all that's there said,
'Tis you, and not they, are detected.
Most freely declare,
That 'tis not approv'd of by either;
If'tis damn'd, then, by both,
It must be the growth
Of somebody who is of neither.
From what quarter it came,
And the thing of itself stands confest;
'Tis that pitiful crew,
Of your creatures and you,
Whom both parties scorn and detest.
Which tool could it be,
For of all those you made,
If there's one that can read,
I'm sure there's not one that can write.
Nor by Sands could be done,
And Bootle's too stupid and dark;
Ord hardly reads well,
Jeff never could spell,
And you know Harry Vane, sets his mark.
Are such ignorant fools,
It must be your lordship's own doing;
You have taken your plie,
But you'll soon own with me,
That you've settled yourself in your ruin.
Like the weather-cock you
Long waver'd both parties betwixt;
But did not you know,
That weather-cocks grow
Quite useless the moment they're fix'd?
TO THE EARL OF BATH,
(Written at Maddington, Sept. 1743.)
Nor grieve that Pelham has the place,
False, shuffling Earl of Bath;
Alter your batt'ries, change your view,
More safe, less open ways pursue,
Nor tread in Musgrave's path.
Unluckily for too much gold,
You know the story well;
And therefore be not such a fool,
To cram your money-bag too full,
Lest it should break and tell.
Levees and flatt'rers, pimps and spies,
And ministerial state;
You know that money is the thing,
That does substantial comforts bring,
And makes one truly great.
To empty lords who ev'ry day
Compose St. James's mob;
But ev'ry future year of life,
Do you, to please yourself and wife,
Obtain some gainful job.
Where you subscrib'd for what you would,
Thro' your own treas'rers bounties;
Indeed 'twas pretty piddling there,
'Twas twenty thousand guineas clear,
To you, and your damn'd Countess.
That Israel's sons own you excel,
And cheated Gideon was surprised,
How one that was not circumcis'd,
Could be so great a Jew.
AN ODE FROM THE EARL OF BATH.
Hor.
SHALL these mad efforts of indignant foes,
My name to blacken, break my mind's repose;
What's the base murmuring of the people's breath,
To the high sounds of Lord and Earl of Bath:
At their first patriot they roar and rave,
And call me Hypocrite, and call me knave;
For I who Pultney was, am Pultney still,
In form tho' varying, fixt in principle;
The principle from which I ne'er did swerve,
Has ever urged me my dear self to serve;
With titles honour'd, and large wealth increas'd,
My pride I pamper and my avarice feast:
For sake of virtue, sake of justice starve;
High joy'd I smile when they frown at my ways,
And while they hiss me, clap to my own praise.
A NEWER ODE THAN THE LAST.
Iterum iterum movebo.
Be not in wrath,
At what the people say;
Bob was abused,
And roughly used—
Each dog must have his day.
A man of war,
Of courage stout and try'd;
It was, we know,
But word and blow,
When honour seem'd your guide.
Did play the dunce,
And challeng'd you to fight;
And he so stood,
To lose his blood,
But had a dreadful fright.
Said something bad,
And wrote it down to York;
Your sword you drew,
And at him flew,
And fought like any Turk.
That wore a head,
Durst either speak or write
Things, to dispraise
Your virtuous ways,
But draw he must, and fight.
I'll call you knave,
And show you're courage-bound;
For if you dare
With me to war,
You must the nation round.
[BUT Orford's self I've seen, whilst I have read]
The following Character of Sir Robert Walpole was drawn from the Life by Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Knight of the Bath, in an Epistle to the Right Honourable Henry Fox.
Laugh the heart's laugh, and nod th' approving head.
Pardon, great Shade! if, duteous, on thy hearse
I hang my grateful tributary verse:
If I, who followed through thy various day,
Thy glorious zenith, and thy bright decay,
Now strew thy tomb with flowers, and o'er thy urn,
With England, Liberty, and Envy, mourn.
His soul was great and dar'd not but do well,
His noble pride still urg'd him to excel;
Ambition govern'd, Av'rice had no part.
A genius to explore untrodden ways,
Where prudence sees no track nor ever strays;
Which books and schools, in vain attempt to teach,
And which laborious art can never reach.
Falsehood and flattery, and the tricks of Court,
He left to Statesmen of a meaner sort;
Their cloaks and smiles were offer'd him in vain,
His acts were justice, which he dar'd maintain,
His words were truth, and held them in disdain.
Open to friends, and e'en to foes sincere,
Alike remote from jealousy and fear;
Tho' Envy's howl, tho' Faction's hiss, he heard,
Tho' senates frown'd, tho' death itself appear'd;
Calmly he view'd them, conscious that his ends
Were right, and Truth and Innocence his friends.
Thus was he form'd to govern and to please;
Familiar greatness, dignity with ease,
Compos'd his frame; admir'd in every state,
In private amiable, in public great,
His love was liberty, his wish was peace.
Such was the man that smil'd upon my lays:
And what can heighten thought, or genius raise,
Like praise from him whom all mankind must praise;
Whose knowledge, courage, temper, all surpris'd,
Whom many lov'd, few hated, none despis'd.
BRITANNIA'S GHOST TO THE EARL OF BATH.
His downy pillow prest;
Fresh horrors in his soul arose,
And further banish'd rest.
All ghastly pale and wan,
Thus in deep doleful accent cry'd;
“Oh, base perfidious man!
“Should close thy guilty eyes;
“When all Britannia's sons must weep
“Her fall'n thy sacrifice.
“Against her bosom foe;
“Depending on the vows you made,
“To ward the fatal blow.
“Or boldly had defy'd;
“Till leaning on her Guardian's breast,
“His treacherous arm she spy'd.
“‘Thou of the traitor crew!
“‘Nay, brave Cæsar like I'll die,
“‘Since Brutus lives in you.’
“To sate Ambition's flame;
“Ah, titles thence you'll gain indeed,
“But gain with endless shame.
“For all your broken vows?—
“Why, cancel your late grand mistake,
“Her interest to espouse.
“You barter guilt for fame;
“She shall revere you when alive,
“When dead, adore your name.”
“Too fickle vile a thing,
“Ever to be sincerely loved,
“By Country, Court, or King.”
But Conscience in its stead;
Dire cursing legions quickly reared,
Round his devoted head.
“Thou daughter of perdition;
“Britannia's ruin'd by thy pride;
“I'm damn'd by thy ambition.”
AN ODE FROM FAME TO THE EARL OF BATH.
Audivere, Lyce; fis anus, et tamen
Vis formosa videri,
Ludisque et bibis, impudens.
HE is grown old; he is abhorr'd,
Whom falsely once all men ador'd;
I thank you, gods, for so you ought
To stamp the man who merits nought.
And yet to bribe the goddess Fame,
No art by him is left untry'd;
So great is Bubo's want of shame,
His drunkenness and pride.
But know 'tis P---t that goddess seeks,
His shining virtues claim her choice;
For him alone her trumpet speaks,
For him alone is heard her voice.
The goddess flies from dirty Bath;
Oh, Bubo, thou art fill'd with lies,
O, Virtue, he has left thy path!
Nor title can nor strings of blue,
Nor wealth immense thy fame restore;
Nor heav'nly peace of mind renew—
What Time has buried is no more!
Where is the man who next to Wyndham shone
The Nation's column and the Senate's pride?
Where is the Patriot the Camillus gone?
Of true applause where now the levelling tide?
But Wyndham dy'd while credit bloom'd,
Cursed, O Bubo, is thy fate;
An aged raven thou art doom'd,
The world's contempt—not worth its hate.
THE PATRIOT PARROT:
A Fable.
To mimic sound, to prattle his own thought;
“Rogues all, rogues all,” was Poll's eternal tone,
“Rogues all, rogues all,” who e'er approach a throne.
How well the master judged, how well the bird,
Critics decide—the master is preferr'd;
Servile he cringes, fawns, adores the throne,
But honest Poll still keeps her honest tone.
“Rogues all, rogues all,” is her eternal song,
“Rogues all, rogues all,” who 're slaves the court among!
“Rogues all, rogues all,” still honest Poll replies.
“Tom, take the bird, wring off his neck, for hoarse,
“Hoarse is as raven's croak his voice, and worse.”
“Rogues all, rogues all,” still honest Poll replied—
Who more a patriot lived than Poll, or dy'd?
The Moral.
From Poll's heroic soul let Statesmen see,With their first lesson should their last agree;
The bird disdain'd his servile master's wrath—
Was it the bird of Sandys, or of Bath?
AN EPITAPH ON THE POLITICAL MEMORY OF WILLIAM PULTNEY, EARL OF BATH;
Who died to Fame, July 15th, 1742.
PULTNEY, no friend to truth, in fraud sincere,In act unfaithful, and from honour clear;
Who broke his promise, served his private ends,
Who gain'd a title, and who lost all friends;
Dishonour'd by himself, by none approv'd,
Curs'd, scorn'd, and hated, e'en by those he lov'd.
A BALLAD: IN IMITATION OF “WILLIAM AND MARGARET,”
ADDRESSED TO WM. EARL OF BATH.
'TWAS in the hour when guiltless careIs lull'd in soft repose;
When nothing wakes, save fell despair,
Beset with cureless woes.
Inviting sleep, lo, William lay,
The down he vainly prest;
Honour, alas! had soar'd away,
And shame had poisoned rest.
Britannia, with that stern regard
That conscious worth puts on,
Before his frantic eye appear'd,
And pierc'd him with a groan.
Her cheek had lost its rosy bloom,
And languid roll'd her eye;
This once could brighten midnight gloom,
That shame the Tyrian dye.
Twin'd round her awful brow,
As what her grief and rage disdain'd,
She rent in fury now.
Away she hurl'd her boasted shield,
Away her useless spear;
What joys to slaves, can trophies yield,
What pride the pomp of war.
“Behold the dire effects,” she cried,
“Of William's perjured truth!
“Behold the Orphan, who relied
“On a false guardian's oath.
“How couldst thou with a lover's zeal,
“My widow'd cause espouse,
“Yet quit that cause, you serv'd so well,
“In scorn of all thy vows?
“How couldst thou swear, wealth, titles, power,
“Thy candour would disclaim;
“Yet barter, in an evil hour,
“That candour for a name?
“A patriot to believe?
“How could I know, but by the smart,
“A patriot would deceive?
“Bethink thee of thy broken trust,
“Thy vows to me unpaid;
“Thy honour humbled in the dust,
“Thy country's weal betrayed.
“For this may all my vengeance fall
“On thy devoted head;
“Living be thou the scorn of all,
“The curse of all when dead.”
This said, while thunder round her broke,
She vanished into air;
And William's horror while she spoke,
Was followed by despair.
ON THE ARRIVAL OF GENERAL OGLETHORPE.
ARRIVE in safety all ye Heroes brave,That from America survive the grave;
Let Fame cry fraud, ill-conduct, or neglect,
No Inquisition Britons now expect.
Since Orford loaded with an age of crimes,
Escapes insulting, these degenerate times:
Since Bath, that great Paladium, till of late,
Defends each vice in Ministers of State:
Well may these Ministers remit the scores
Of Generals, Admirals, and Commodores.
HOR. LIB. II. ODE XVI.—Otium Divos, &c. IMITATED:
INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF BATH.
Each friend that should support you lost,
By Faction's tempest rudely tost:
At length you ask the gods for ease.
But what avails your pious care,
Your heart pour'd out in endless prayer,
Ease is not venal tho' you are,
As wealth may tempt, or titles please.
That Orford grasp'd before his fall,
Or his successor Pelham shall,
Can ease the self-devoted mind.
Care flies into the rooms of State,
Nor can the slaves that on him wait
Drive the curst phantom from the Gate:
Care stays, when none else dare, behind.
Lives the plebian tho' no lord,
His father's wealth his only hoard;
Who acts within his proper sphere;
Whilst honest Morpheus o'er his brows,
His choicest wildest poppies strows,
And sleep, the gods best gift, bestows,
Unbroke by avarice or fear.
Our feeble thread spun by the Fates,
Each hour the fatal Scissars waits,
Nor will one moment's pause afford!
We bustle to be raised on high,
New lands explore, new suns descry,
Alas! 'twere well could self, too, fly,
And lose the squire in the lord.
The following is not worth your care;
In life's contracted span how rare,
See, Orford wisely laying down,
Nor giving foes one parting frown,
Whilst peace his latest hours shall crown;
And good old Wilmington at rest.
You yet may live, and taste good cheer,
Tho' you'll ne'er be Lord Treasurer,
So you repent you of that sin;
Whilst I, as others will, no doubt,
When **** returns with many a shout,
Shall laugh to see your friends trot out,
As shamefully as they came in.
WYNDHAM AND PULTNEY;
OR THE VISION AT BATH.
To ease his troubled mind;
But little dreamt the angry Peer,
More trouble there to find.
Ev'n those for wealth or fame;
Nor brought a spark of malice down,
Except against the game.
His toils surviv'd the light;
And yet, tho', wearied, home he came,
He slept not sound at night.
In Peasant and in Peer;
How durst thou plague so great a man,
Who holds his peace so dear?
Did on his steps attend;
Ev'n Statesmen trembled at his frown,
And Kings to him did bend.
Durst tax him with his deeds;
Thus boldly should a man presume,
For his offence he bleeds.
An act he would not boast,
Knowing no mortal venture might,
Thought introduced a ghost.
Like Justice, mankind slept;
When to his lordship's working brain,
This dreadful Vision crept.
His conscience Fancy caught;
And sudden to his aching sight,
Great Wyndham's shadow brought.
With terror shook the Peer;
When thus, the dread harangue begun,
He heard or seem'd to hear.
“To him and truth attend;
“Who, living, still your cause espous'd,
“And now in death your friend.
“How upright seem'd thy soul:
“As if no hope thy heart could seize,
“Nor any fear control.
“And yet but act a part;
“Why; when applauded for that skill,
“Did it not touch thy heart?
“Be to her cause untrue;
“Or fancy, after acting thus,
“A title was thy due?
“If this you did not mean?
“Or having both to light reveal'd,
“Why, after, turn a screen?
“While meditating wrong?
“Or how believe, an ill-got pow'r
“Should e'er continue long?
“Like Cato's, Pultney's name;
“How could'st thou slight so great a good,
“How fool away such fame?
“Deceive the great Argyle?
“How cheat the generous-hearted Pitt;
“Sir William how beguile?
“Thy country how undo?
“Who'd from a Briton this expect?
“Of Britons all from you.
“For titles' tinsel grace!
“And poorly sell thy own desert,
“To dignify thy race.
“'Tis Virtue gives a name;
“For titles if they 're basely got,
“Are but entails of shame.”
And clowns began to wake;
Before the chief could from his view,
This dreadful Vision shake.
And hurried back to town;
Where his return made as much noise
As did his going down.
Yet, as arch Horace writes,
His mind was just, still where it was,
He could not sleep at nights.
From council stays away;
And what made people stare at most,
He miss'd the King's birth-day.
Of great affairs makes light;
Talks much of being what he was,
And setting all things right.
And send his Bishops grace;
Keeping all Lords for evermore,
From Bath's unhappy case.
TO MR. GARNIER AND MR. PEARCE OF BATH.
A GRATEFUL ODE, In return for the extraordinary kindness and humanity they shewed to me and my eldest daughter, now Lady Essex, 1753.
I
WHAT glorious verse from Love has sprung?How well has Indignation sung?
Whilst in her once-belov'd abode
I stray, and suppliant kneel, an ode
To Gratitude refuse?
II
Garnier, my friend, accept this verse,And thou receive, well-natur'd Pearce,
All I can give of Fame:
Let others other subjects sing,
Some murd'rous chief, some tyrant king,
Humanity's my theme.
III
Whilst arts like yours, employ'd by you,Make verse on such a theme your due,
To whom indulgent heav'n
Its fav'rite pow'r of doing good,
By you so rightly understood,
Judiciously has giv'n.
IV
Behold, obedient to your pow'r,Consuming fevers rage no more,
The cripple dances, freed from pain,
The deaf in raptures hear again,
The blind, transported, sees.
V
Health, at your call, extends her wing,Each healing plant, each friendly spring,
Its various pow'r discloses;
O'er death's approaches you prevail,
See Chloe's cheek, of late so pale,
Blooms with returning roses.
VI
These gifts, my friends, which shine in you,Are rare, yet to some chosen few
Heav'n has the same assign'd;
Health waits on Mead's prescription still,
And Hawkins' hand, and Ranby's skill,
Are blessings to mankind.
VII
But hearts like yours are rare indeed,Which for another's wounds can bleed,
The lover's fear, the parent's groan,
Your natures catch, and make your own,
And share the pains you heal.
VIII
But why to them, Hygeia, whyDost thou thy cordial drop deny
Who but for others live;
Oh, goddess, hear my pray'r, and grant
That these that health may never want,
Which they to others give.
HOR. LIB. I. ODE XXX.—O Venus! Regina, Cnida Paphosq. &c.
PARAPHRASED BY SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS, AS GENERAL CHURCHILL'S ADDRESS TO VENUS.
(Written in December 1739: Mr. Churchill being just then made Deputy Ranger of St. James's Park, under Lord Weymouth.)
Leave for awhile thy blest abodes,
Propitious, on thy vot'ry smile,
Quit Paphos, and the Cyprian isle,
And reign in my Duck island.
To thee alone my altars smoke;
O treat me not with rigor:
Thy wanton son bring with thee too,
My dying embers he'll renew,
And give me back fresh vigor.
Girls that are prodigal of charms,
Of every favour lavish:
Melting and yielding let them be;
Consider I am sixty-three,
And that's too old to ravish.
Much wanted by thy crazy swain;
To crown my gifts, and ease my pain,
Since Ward has labour'd long in vain
Let Mercury come with thee.
A LAMENTABLE CASE.
SUBMITTED TO THE BATH PHYSICIANS.
Hear Strephon's and poor Chloe's case,
Nor think that I am joking;
When she would, he can not comply,
When he wou'd drink, she's not a-dry;
And is not this provoking?
Chloe receives him on her breast,
With fondly-folding arms:
Down, down he hangs his drooping head,
Falls fast asleep, and lies as dead,
Neglecting all her charms.
With rising flames young Strephon burns,
But Chloe, now asleep or sick,
Has no great relish for the trick,
And sadly balks his wooing.
When in the critical embrace
That only one is burning!
Dear doctors, set this matter right,
Give Strephon spirits over night,
Or Chloe in the morning.
A BALLAD:
(Written in June 1743.)
And rules the kingdom, and the king;
The Lord of Bath does, others say,
And others swear 'tis no such thing.
Directs this nation, Cary boasts;
But in their guesses, they're all out,
We're govern'd by the Lord of Hosts.
The argument I'm now pursuing;
Who is there, but the Lord above,
That knoweth what this nation's doing.
In which so many Britons fell;
And what our fleets do on the main,
The Lord, and only he, can tell.
How taxes will be rais'd this year;
The Lord knows how much 'tis we owe,
And the Lord knows, when we shall clear.
We're govern'd by the Lord knows who;
Our king is gone, the Lord knows where,
And the Lord knows what we shall do.
ON THE PRINCES GOING TO ST. JAMES'S
IN FEBRUARY 1741-2.
The son and father came;
Both parties lik'd the thing so much,
That they too did the same.
Will scarce believe these stories;
Lions may couple now with lambs,
When Whigs embrace with Tories.
Will lessen this affection;
And tho' now party names are dead,
They'll have a resurrection.
To loosen these embraces;
Then some shall go and gnash their teeth,
And some to happy places.
HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.
IMITATED IN AN ODE FROM PAUL FOLEY TO NICHOLAS FAZAKERLEY.
Virg.
With idle fears of France or Spain,
What can Bavaria do to us?
What Prussia's monarch, or the Russ?
Or ev'n Prince Charles of Loraine?
And lengthen out the short-liv'd span,
Enjoying ev'ry hour;
The moon itself we see decay,
Beauty's the worse for ev'ry day,
So is the sweetest flow'r.
That Paul and Faz are both grown old,
By young and wanton lasses!
Then since our time is now so short,
Let us enjoy the only sport
Of tossing off our glasses.
And steal away to Richmond Green:
Polly each morn shall fill our tea,
Spread bread and butter, and then we
Each night get drunk in quiet.
As noisy as a dozen drums,
And makes a horrid pother:
Else might we quiet sit and quaff,
And gently chat, and gayly laugh
At this, and that, and t'other.
Adjust accounts by Algebra:
I always order dinner:
Bradshaw, tho' solemn, yet is sly,
And leers at Poll with roguish eye,
To make the girl a sinner.
Some chickens, and a chine of lamb;
Bradshaw must have his damn'd bouilli;
Bath fattens on his fricassée;
I'll have my water-suchy.
(No matter who is in or out)
Till wine or sleep o'ertake us;
Each man may nod, or nap, or wink;
And when it is our turn to drink,
Our neighbour then shall wake us.
Nor envy nor despise the great;
Submit to pay our taxes;
With peace or war we'll be content,
Till eas'd by a good parliament,
Till Stanhope's hand relaxes.
But fill your glass and drink your wine,
The Dutch we know are good allies;
So are they all, with subsidies;
And we have choice commanders.
Tho' neither you nor I have place,
He has many a sage adviser;
And yet no treason sure's in this,
Let who will take the pray 'r amiss,
God send them all much wiser!
ORPHEUS AND HECATE,
An Ode; INSCRIBED TO THE PATRONESS OF THE ITALIAN OPERA LADY BINGLEY.
------illa Sorores
Nocte vocat genitas------
Met. lib. 4.
Carry'd his music down to hell,
He fill'd the shades with joys;
Alecto, and Tisiphone,
Megæra, with Brown Hecate,
Transported heard his voice.
The spectres all in chorus join;
Such was grim Pluto's will!
Tantalus quaff'd a flowing bowl,
Sisyphus ceas'd his stone to roll,
Ixion's wheel stood still.
Set the infernal queen on fire,
Who courted him to stay:
But Pluto, to prevent all strife,
Order'd the Poet, with his wife,
Back to the realms of day.
When, to divide the happy pair,
Hecat' contriv'd a spell:
Now, now, she cry'd, in rapt'rous tone,
His harmony is all my own!
I'll make a heav'n in hell!
Endless the wanton song renew!
O ever touch the lyre!
But still the bard, in heav'nly lays,
Would sing his king's and maker's praise,
And kindle martial fire.
Howl'd; in a trice the furies came,
Threat'ning a dreadful fate:
'Till Phœbus, with the tuneful Nine,
And lovely Graces all combine
To shield him from their hate.
Of men below, and blest above,
Whilst every chaste, and pious mind,
To vice averse, to good inclin'd;
Must Hecat's name despise.
LADY DOROTHY BOYLE ENAMOURED WITH LORD EUSTON.
BEHOLD, one moment, Dorothea's fate!In fortune opulent by lineage great;
In manners gentle, rich in ev'ry grace,
And youth sat blooming in her heav'nly face.
By Nature docile, and by Art improv'd,
Nay, more, she lov'd, with tenderness she lov'd,
The faithless Polydore, yet all these charms
Could not one night confine him to her arms;
But left in all the hell of love and grief,
From death, alone, she hop'd to find relief;
Receives her at his ever-open gate:
There dries her tears, and bids her sigh no more,
And shuts out life, and love and Polydore.
SONG IN COMUS.
To yon fragrant bower repair;
Where, woven with the Poplar bough,
The Mantling Vine shall shelter you.
Tinkling, murmuring, as it goes;
Lightly o'er the mossy ground,
Sultry Phœbus scorching round.
Stretch'd on sunny hillocks, sleep;
Whilst on the Hyacinth and Rose,
The fair does all alone repose.
Your breast may beat to Love's alarms;
Where blest and blessing they shall own,
The joys of love are joys alone.
SONG.
There dwells a lovely lass;
O, had I her good will,
How sweetly life would pass.
Our bliss should e'er annoy;
Her looks can gild despair,
And heighten ev'ry joy.
Her artless beauties charm;
Like them with joy serene,
Our wishing hearts they warm.
Steals ev'ry sense away;
The list'ning swains around,
Forget the short'ning day.
Without her tasteless are;
She gives them pow'r to please,
And makes them worth our care.
Reserved for my share?
Indulgent hear my wish,
And grant it all in her.
II. VOL. II.
TO SIR THOMAS ROBINSON ON HIS BRINGING OVER WARD'S DROP IN 1731-2.
Say, knight, for learning most renown'd,What is this wond'rous drop?
Which Friend ne'er knew, nor can be found,
In Grah'ms or Guerney's shop.
Back to their native coast;
You, Sir, have brought a Jewel home,
Which Pitt could never boast.
'Tis said, as tho' by magic force,
This Med'cine were directed,
Like Mercury it takes its course
Unto the part affected.
If so, this drop so prais'd by you,
Should by yourself be ta'en;
If to th' affected part 'twill go,
You'll find it in your brain.
There may it all its pow'rs dispense,
And may th' effect be such;
As to dispel that little sense,
That troubles you so much.
ON MRS. WOFFINGTON.
The darling theme of every tongue,
Beauty like her's may well infuse
New flights, new fancies, like a Muse,
And brighten every strain.
Which ev'ry fool, that has his eyes,
As well as I can see;
To say she's fair is but to say,
When the sun shines at noon 'tis day,
Which none need learn of me.
Where ev'ry virtue is combined,
Excepting one you scarce can miss,
So trifling that you would not wish
That Virtue had been there.
Must sure excel the prude whose breast
That Virtue shares alone;
To seek perfection is a jest,
They who have fewest faults the best,
And Peggy has but one.
TO KITTY WALKER:
December 1742.
Why to me this am'rous art?
Why to me these fond embraces,
While another has your heart?
May a transient joy impart;
Can I hope for lasting passion,
While another has your heart.
For I scorn to take a part;
But to think of that were folly,
For another has your heart.
Kitty, at those words you start;
And durst you hope you could deceive me,
While another has your heart.
Grav'd by Cupid's powerful dart;
But from thence I'll blot those traces,
Since another has your heart.
Oh, what anguish, and what smart;
None on earth like me can love thee,
Tho' another has your heart.
TO MRS. WOFFINGTON, 1740.
It be no crime, the nymph should know it;
O Woffington accept the strain,
Pity! though you'll not cure the poet.
Yet send not back the am'rous paper;
My pangs may help to curl your hair,
My passion fringe the glowing taper.
But when I'm promised there to find you;
All Horton's merits now grow weak,
And Clive remains far far behind you.
And gains awhile some vulgar praises;
But soon withdraws its feeble rays,
When the superior diamond blazes.
But sudden feels his bosom panting?
Your very sex receive the dart,
And almost think there's nothing wanting.
LOVELY PEGGY.
A NEW SONG.
I
ONCE more I'll tune my vocal shell,To hills and dales my passion tell,
A flame which time can never quell,
That burns for lovely Peggy.
Ye greater bards the lyre should hit,
For say what subject is more fit,
Than to record the sparkling wit,
And bloom of lovely Peggy.
II
The sun first rising in the morn,That paints the dew-bespangled thorn,
Does not so much the day adorn,
As does my lovely Peggy.
He streaks with gold the ruddy west,
He's not so beauteous, as undress'd
Appears my lovely Peggy.
III
Were she array'd in rustic weed,With her the bleating flocks I'd feed,
And pipe upon mine oaten reed,
To please my lovely Peggy.
With her a cottage would delight,
All's happy when she's in my sight,
But when she's gone it's endless night,
All's dark without my Peggy.
IV
The zephyr's air, the violet blows,Or breathes upon the damask rose,
He does not half the sweets disclose,
That does my lovely Peggy.
I stole a kiss the other day,
And, trust me, nought but truth I say,
The fragrant breath of blooming May,
Was not so sweet as Peggy,
V
While bees from flow'r to flow'r shall rove,And linnets warble thro' the grove,
Or stately swans the waters love,
So long shall I love Peggy.
And when death with his pointed dart,
Shall strike the blow that rives my heart,
My words shall be when I depart,
“Adieu my lovely Peggy!”
TO MRS. WOFFINGTON.
(Written in July 1744.)
IN IMITATION OF
Pœna, Barine, nocuisset unquam.
Hor. Lib. 2, Od. 8.
Had the least mark of vengeance shed,
For all thy hate to truth;
Had ev'n diminish'd any grace,
Lit up one pimple in thy face,
Or rotted but one tooth,
More fair, as still more faithless grow,
Charms flow from perjuries;
The more you cheat, we trust the more,
Each jilting tear 's a fruitful show'r,
That makes fresh beauties rise.
To love propitious you're forswore,
Regardless of their wrath;
By tricks and cheats, and lies you live,
By breach of word and honour thrive,
Like my good Lord of Bath.
Indulgent Venus smiles you know,
Who have so often tried her;
And Cupid can't be angry sure,
While thus new vot'ries you procure,
And stretch his empire wider.
They but behold thee and adore,
And press to drag thy chain;
And tho' we swear, and brag we're free,
Repentant Darnley longs like me,
To be thy slave again.
The cautious mother's breast alarms,
For her young darling son;
And each penurious father fears,
Lest their unthinking am'rous heirs,
Should gaze, and be undone,
Is fam'd for fickleness in love,
And for her beauty's pow'r;
You are her copy drawn with care,
Like her are exquisitely fair,
Like her a thorough w---.
TO MRS. BINDON, AT BATH.
And Delphi forsook for the sake of this isle,
Around him he lavishly scatter'd his lays,
And in every wilderness planted his bays;
Then Chaucer and Spenser harmonious were heard,
Then Shakspeare, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whose brows by Apollo were crown'd,
As he sung in such strains as the God might have own'd:
But now, since the laurel is given of late,
To Cibber, to Eusden, to Shadwell and Tate,
Apollo hath quitted the isle he once lov'd,
And his harp and his bays to Hibernia remov'd;
And hath put out Pope's fires which he kindled before;
And further, he says, men no longer shall boast
A science their slight and ill-treatment hath lost;
But that women alone for the future shall write;
And who can resist, when they doubly delight?
And lest we should doubt what he said to be true,
Has begun by inspiring Sapphira and You.
MRS. BINDON'S ANSWER.
WHEN home I return'd from the dancing last night,And, elate by your praises, attempted to write,
I familiarly call'd on Apollo for aid,
And told him how many fine things you had said.
He smil'd at my folly, and gave me to know,
Your wit, and not mine, by your writings you show;
“And then,” says the God, “still to make you more vain,
“He hath promis'd that I shall enlighten your brain;
“When he knows in his heart, if he speak but his mind,
“That no woman alive can now boast I am kind:
“With the sex I have sworn still to keep up the quarrel.”
I thought it a joke, 'till by writing to you,
I have prov'd his resentment, alas! but too true.
SIR CHARLES'S REPLY.
I'LL not believe that Phœbus did not smile:Unhappily for you I know his style;
To strains like yours, of old his harp he strung,
And while he dictated, Orinda sung.
Did beauteous Daphne's scorn of proffer'd love
Against the sex his indignation move?
It rather made you his peculiar care,
Convinc'd from thence, ye were as good as fair.
As mortals who from dust receiv'd their birth,
Must when they die return to native earth;
So, too, the laurel, that your brow adorns,
Sprang from the fair, and to the fair returns.
TAR-WATER, A BALLAD: INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.
The Tar-water 'squire,
Without being counted to blame,
Vulgar patrons hath scorn'd,
And his treatise adorn'd
With the lustre of Chesterfield's name;
And all men of parts,
(Tho' they're not much the growth of the time)
I hope 'twill be meet
To lay at your feet
The same lofty subject in rhyme.
Death, a fig for thy sting!
I think we shall serve thee a trick;
For the Bishop of Cloyne
Hast at last laid a mine,
That will blow up both thee and old Nick.
Tho' you've stone, diabetes,
Gout, or fever, tar-water's specific;
If you're costive, 'twill work;
If you purge, 'tis a cork;
And, if old, it will make you prolific.
Leave off doctors and physic,
Tar-water will cure all your ails;
Have you rheums or defluctions,
Or whims, or obstructions,
It will set right your heads and your tails.
Now lifts up her head,
Like a beautiful fir on the mountain!
While, salubrious, flow,
From a fissure below,
The streams of a turpentine fountain.
Is so scented with tar,
That unless they're permitted to---,
All the Devils in hell
(So alike is the smell)
Can't know a --- from a cart wheel.
(Tho' call'd in so late
To a truly well-meant consultation)
In this fever of war,
Like the spirit of tar,
Thy skill must preserve this poor nation.
Her vitals all wasted,
She's as meagre, and weak as a lath;
Yet we hope that thy art
Will recover each part,
Without the assistance of Bath.
ON CHARLES STANHOPE, ESQ. DRINKING TAR-WATER.
Tar-water first began;
Methinks, he cry'd, I feel myself
Become a double man.
But oh! with shame and trouble,
He found of all his boasted parts,
One thing alone was double.
The bishop and the tar;
And swore the beggar's blessing was
A better boon by far.
AN ODE TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
Makes am'rous duchesses complain,
While peers stand titt'ring by:
Now since you've fairly crack'd your jest,
And Pegasus retires to rest,
Permit me to reply.
Such groveling pertness e'er could use,
To help a lame invention:
Virgins are always something shy,
And language that charms Hanbury,
Their lips disdain to mention.
To furnish out a wanton ode,
I'll readily submit;
Where Drury's dames the lays inspire,
Smut shall be styl'd poetic fire,
And bawdry shine for wit.
Your every pleasure to fulfil,
And ne'er with coyness tease ye:
But shy Apollo's tuneful train
Are skittish, fanciful, and vain,
And oft refuse to ease ye.
Such squeamish goddesses to slight,
Since Needham's serve as well:
Their inspirations raise the song,
As loud, as lofty, and as long,
As thy own odes can tell.
Of Dublin town, tar-water 'squire,
When pleas'd thy verse reveals
Each female fissure from below,
Whence fragrant streams abundant flow,
Resembling carmen's wheels!
Where the fair duchess feels thy spite,
For yielding to be bless'd:
How keen thy pointed satire shines!
While virtue swells the flowing lines,
In native beauty dress'd.
Your Nine, your fountain, and your hill,
And learn your future distance:
Without such aids our verses flow,
As Charles's strains and these may show,
If Needham deigns assistance.
And Charles flies trembling o'er the main
Oh, GEORGE, if pertness have the power
To make Him rise ambassadour,
Let Me be secretary!
AN ODE TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS;
OCCASIONED BY SEEING AN ODE INSCRIBED TO LORD CHESTERFIELD.
Changing his notes to panegyric,
In fearful dread of fighting?
But 'tis in vain; for Hussey swears,
If Cynthius won't, he'll lug your ears,
And make you leave off writing.
To Saxony to hide your head,
On odes you still may venture?
Or wipe off scandal left at home,
By meanly daubing him, in whom
All commendations centre?
Detesting such a filthy Muse,
Whose very praise is satire;
For well he knows the worthless knight is
Just such another as Thersites,
For bulk, abuse, and stature.
(Like powder in artillery,
Proportion'd to the barrel)
Can'st thou, a blunderbuss so large,
With scarce a pocket-pistol's charge,
Presume to bounce or quarrel?
With low abuse, or empty praise,
'Tis nonsense all and folly;
Or if you will be writing odes,
Which ev'ry mortal here explodes,
Write birth-day odes for Colley.
Sing peace or war, God bless the K---g,
And all his measures praise;
Then should old Cibber chance to die,
And Hussey let you come, and try,
Perhaps you'll get the bays.
AN ODE TO LORD LINCOLN.
I
O LINCOLN! joy of womankind!To you this humble ode's design'd;
Let—inspire my song:
Gods! with what pow'rs are you endu'd!
Tiberius was not half so lewd,
Nor Hercules so strong.
II
'Tis—now my pen employs,And since I sing of heav'nly joys,
From heav'n my notes I'll bring:
And tho' the lyric strain I chuse,
I'll open like the Mantuan Muse—
“—, and the man I sing.”
III
But don't expect much flatteryFrom such an honest bard as me,
Dear, noble, vig'rous youth;
For when I say that you — more
Than ever mortal did before,
You know I say the truth.
IV
Four times a night, some happy fair,You—throughout the gliding year,
This course of joy pursuing;
Of feats like these what annals speak,
'Tis eight and twenty times a week,
And, Faith! that's glorious doing.
V
Had Messalina—with you,Whom no then man could e'er subdue,
Tho' many a Roman tried;
She'd own'd your vigor and your charms,
And, melting, dying in your arms,
Cry'd out—“I'm satisfied!”
VI
Then still love on with loosen'd reins,While youth is boiling in your veins,
And sparkles in your face;
With w—belewd, with Whigs be hearty,
And both in—, and in party,
Confess your noble race.
VII
To you and steady Pelham then,With joy I'll dedicate my pen,
For both shall be my theme;
Since both divided England share,
You have the love of every fair,
He every man's esteem.
New Ballad.
(On Lord Doneraile's altering his Chapel at the Grove, in Hertfordshire, into a Kitchen.)
What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old,
How a cot to a temple was conjur'd by Jove;
So a chapel was chang'd to a kitchen at Grove.
Derry down, &c.
That his guests lov'd good prayers, much less than good eating;
And possess'd by the d*v*l (as some folks will tell ye)
What was meant for the soul he assign'd to the belly.
Derry down, &c.
And strait was seen fix'd in the form of a jack;
'Tis shameful to say, pulpit, benches and pews,
Form'd cupboards and shelves for plates, saucepans and stews.
Derry down, &c.
And dressers sprung out of the c-mm—n table;
Which instead of the usual repast, b—d and w—e;
Is stor'd with rich soup, and good English sirloin.
Derry down, &c.
Till now had been known in this temple to blaze!
But, good Lord, how the neighbours around did admire,
When the chimney rose up in the room of a spire!
Derry down, &c.
Whose Levites were scullions, whose high priest a cook;
And thought that he meant our religion to alter,
When they saw the burnt-offerings smoak at the altar.
Derry down, &c.
And oft rous'd the chaplin unwilling to pray'r;
No more to good sermons now summon the sinner,
But, blasphemous, rings all the country to dinner.
Derry down, &c.
How the place was prophan'd, that was built to God's glory;
With zeal he cry'd out, “oh, how impious the deed,
To cram christians with pudding instead of the creed.”
Derry down, &c.
Resolving to read his lay-brother a lecture;
But scarce had begun, when he saw plac'd before 'em,
An haunch piping hot from the sanctum sanctorum.
Derry down, &c.
“What's useless to God, to make useful to man;
“Besides 'tis a true christian duty, we read,
“The poor and the hungry with good things to feed.”
Derry down, &c.
But reserv'd the full right of a free visitation;
Thus 'tis the lord's house, only varied the treat,
Now there's meat without grace, where was grace without meat.
Derry down, &c.
A CONGRATULATORY ODE, MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE STATESMAN ON HIS TRAVELS.
Exemplo et sceleri pœnî paranda duplex.
Sad fate of her unhappy race,
Th' inglorious slaughter war has made,
Her rising debts, her sinking trade,
Her places, pensions, taxes.
What wonder if she thus complains,
Tells thus her dismal story;
In hopes some wise, some patriot chief,
Some Statesman born for her relief,
Might yet retrieve her glory?
Having o'ercome his water-dread,
Some strangers stare to see his plate,
More smile at his projected pate,
Pate unaccus'd of cunning.
Oh! why should mighty Holly roam,
And leave Old England weeping?
'Twas—truth to say—because afraid,
Had others gone, or had he staid,
He was not sure of keeping.
At more expense then quell'd the north,
So late in life to travel;
At mighty feasts, of mighty things,
With princes set, expecting kings
To talk—and plots unravel.
As Holly thinks, is forc'd to bow
By his superior knowledge;
Alas! in politics how mad!
And yet no blockhead when a lad
At Westminster, or College.
What mighty sums did some folks raise,
And what is more amazing,
My lady, too, as well as he,
Must go in triumph over sea,
To set the world a gazing.
Acquir'd by wiser folks before,
These projects only troubled;
But ours, they'll measure by his sense,
Compute our wealth by his expense,
And then our tribute's doubled.
New Princes gain'd, perhaps a king,
More schemes for Europe's quiet;
Hence daily new demands may rise,
New quotas, loans, and subsidies,
Sharp sauce to German diet.
On home-spun feasts and tawdry clothes,
Until mamma to mend his taste
Sends him to cross the Alps in haste
With some bear-leading varlet.
False taste acquires—(what greater curse?)
Brings home a race of vipers;
And, on his new refinements bent,
In twice five years th' estate is spent,
On panders, pimps, and pipers.
AN ODE: INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE VISCOUNT LONSDALE;
May 1743.
I
TH' impartial and by-standing Muse,A narrow party scorns to chuse,
Nor links herself with faction;
Inspir'd by Truth, she tells her thoughts,
She sees men's virtues and their faults,
And judges still by action.
II
The wav'ring Patriot's foul disgrace,Who chang'd his principles for place,
As willing she discloses,
As the court wretch, who now depriv'd
Of Post (and smiles by which he liv'd),
From that one cause opposes.
III
Be but uninfluenc'd, she will raise,Eternal trophies to your praise,
From death she will preserve ye;
But if you're guilty, dread her pen,
Oh, dread to live the scorn of men,
Like Doddington and Hervey.
IV
They by her fav'rite prostrate lie;Now guilt prevails and vice runs high,
Why sleep'st thou, Pope, awake;
As Rome of Brutus did before,
Redress of thee, we now implore,
Write for thy country's sake.
V
All principles by passion sway'd,Gold and ambition are obey'd,
Or disappointment guides;
These motives ev'ry change discover,
Hence, Bath and Cart'ret are come over;
Hence, Hervey has chang'd sides.
VI
That Hervey, who by favour grac'd,Of late in high employment plac'd,
Despis'd each earthly thing,
But pow'r and courts; who ne'er was blest,
But when by smiling Queens carest,
Or whisper'd by a king;
VII
In halting verse, in jingling prose,Their praises he rehears'd, and rose
By flattery's fruitful showers;
Each speech he made, each word he said,
Wove chaplets for the royal head,
And deck'd it out with flowers.
VIII
By Walpole in the palace set,He felt the warmth, enjoy'd the heat,
And in the sunshine grew;
Till clouds that all our sky o'erspread,
Burst down on Walpole's fated head,
And crush'd this sapling too.
IX
At once bereft of all he lov'd,Of place depriv'd, from court remov'd;
Forgetting all he'as done or said,
All pamphlets wrote all speeches made,
He joins the Opposition.
X
Hervey, in vain you strive t' inflame,In vain 'gainst ministers declaim,
With well-feign'd warmth and zeal;
Since ev'n the dullest peer must see,
The court had easily kept thee,
Could'st thou have kept the seal.
XI
How different from this wretch is heWhose only view is to be free,
Careless of all beside;
Nor in his most unguarded hour,
Courts popularity or power,
Thro' vanity or pride.
XII
Such is the man, so just, so brave,Neither the king's nor people's slave,
Do thou, O Pope, this praise rehearse,
To him I dedicate this verse,
For, Lonsdaie, 'tis thy due.
A SIMILE: PRINTED IN GEOFFRY BROADBOTTOM'S JOURNAL;
April 1743.
DEAR Geoffry, didst thou never meetA beggar walking in the street,
Who, conscious of his want of sight,
Trusts others to direct him right?
Out of his doors he'll never stir,
Without his knowing faithful cur,
Well-skill'd each different way in finding,
Who knows all crossings, ev'ry winding;
By him thro' all the town is led,
And guided safely home to bed:
So fares it with our Treasury board,
Where dark and blind sits ev'ry lord
(From that grave thing that wears a ribbon,
Quite down to that grave nothing, Gibbon);
Too dull, their own dull forms to learn;
And, therefore, wisely they've provided,
A Cur by whom they all are guided;
No warrant sign till he inspects it,
No step dare take till he directs it;
But, conscious, to his judgment stoop,
And all their strings are tied to Scrope.
TO THE REV. SAMUEL HILL, CANON OF WELLS, &c. &c.
Written in August, 1744.
DEAR Muse, as you have nothing else to do,Write to the Canon, just a line or two;
First wish him health, then wish him joy, and then
Wish that he may soon be preferr'd again.
That mark of grace is to the clergy giv'n,
Never to be content on this side heav'n;
From step to step, they labour still to rise,
Until they reach, what last they seek, the skies.
For when to pray'rs they're summon'd by the bells,
And Hill is seated in his stall at Wells;
To th' altar, at the creed, he turns about,
With eyes uplifted, and with look devout.
To act his part, and to deceive the crowd;
To Fortune, then, he offers up his pray'r,
Who makes the clergy her peculiar care,
And softly muttering his lips between,
“O, goddess, make thy votary a dean;
“Then I no more thro' Wells will take the air,
“Slow creeping in a chariot and a pair;
“But buy a coach, and add two horses more,
“And I and Molly'll troll about with four;
“Then shall these Canons tremble at my nod,
“And bow to me much lower than to God;
“Then shall I see them seated round my table,
“Flatt'ring as well as their poor wit is able;
“With beef I'll cram them, and with port I'll fill,
“But while I treat them well, I'll use them ill.
“My vanity they'll soothe, my pride they'll swell,
“And vouch for ev'ry story that I tell;
“Cry up my preaching, and my learning raise,
“My jokes they'll laugh at, and my wit they'll praise,
“To leave so great a man, so long a dean.”
If he should ask you how, or what, I do,
Tell him, my Clio, that I live with you;
Attend your call, fulfil what you desire,
Speak as you prompt, and write as you inspire.
But when some friend or mistress calls, I fly
T' amuse their leisure, lay my studies by,
And sometimes please, because I always try.
Blest with an even temper, and a heart
That scorns all guilt, all falsehood, and all art;
With wit, a friend to please, a foe to hurt,
Humour to ridicule, or to divert,
If vex'd, my grief to others is unknown,
And if unhappy, only so alone;
No passion e'er disturbs my social hours,
Nor ranc'rous spleen, my happy time devours;
No gnawing envy e'er disturbs my breast—
Tho' Sands is made a peer, yet I'm at rest.
Contempt of wealth has ever been my crime,
But I grow covetous of health and time;
To Pultney adverse still, to Walpole hearty.
Easy where'er I am, for I can stay
Six months in Wales, yet know no tedious day;
There regularly study, eat and sleep,
And sober meals, and early hours I keep;
But when th' inverted year wears winter's frown,
My coach is order'd, and I drive to town;
There dash into a stream of new delight,
Enjoy my friends by day, my nymph by night.
Till morn, sometimes, a social glass I take,
Not for my wine, but my companion's sake;
In short, broke loose from Wales to company,
There's nothing so irregular as I.
And when discourse, and claret fill my head,
I quite forget there's such a place as bed;
Such are the nights that I have seen of yore;
Such are the nights that I shall see no more.
When Winnington and Fox, with flow of soul,
With sense and wit, drove round the cheerful bowl;
But now they both are lost, quite lost to me.
One to a mistress gives up all his life,
And one from me flies wisely to his wife;
There proves the highest joys that man can prove,
The joys of truth, and of alternate love.
Each happy in his diff'rent path go on,
Pleas'd and content; I, pensive and alone,
Rejoice at both your fates, but mourn my own.
No more of this, my Muse, lets turn to Hill,
I've something more to tell of parson Hill;
For Fame's posterior trumpet brays aloud,
That Canon Hill is grown excessive proud;
And minds no more (all that Fame says I'll prove),
The Lord of Redlynch than the Lord above;
Forgets old friends, and of his promise fails,
Ne'er shew'd Sir Charles his staring face in Wales.
So joke upon, so teaze, and so abuse him;
Tell all he knows of him, both truth and slander,
Make ev'ry thing he says a double entendre.
To all the servants, as his constant trade is,
Expose him, make him blush before the ladies;
Always take care to shew where he's absurd,
Ask him the meaning of a Latin word;
And use him, since he is no more the same man,
As ill as, had he pow'r, he'd use a layman.
But, dearest Muse, advise him as a friend,
His pride to mod'rate, and his life to mend;
And this short lesson whisper in his ear,
As he his fortune bears, with him we'll bear.
A NEW BALLAD:
Written in the beginning of May, 1743.
Ye Jacobites all,
Who so long have wept over this nation;
And with me you will own,
That England is grown,
To be in a blest situation.
No longer does rule,
But to Norfolk is gone in disgrace;
What mayn't we expect,
When once we reflect,
What wise men are come in his place!
That no one man could
Alone bear the weight of this realm;
So that you might be pleas'd,
And the nation be eas'd,
There's a dozen at least at the helm.
And closely combin'd,
As Liberty's chiefest upholders;
And if they're got higher,
Than you might desire,
It was by the help of your shoulders.
That they've nothing in view,
But the best patriotical ends;
For with them you agreed
In all that they said,
And for twenty long years were their friends.
As you knew'em then,
In action, and honour, as clear;
Sandys ready and bright,
Bath steady and tight,
And Carteret calm and sincere.
Resolving to show
To you who have got them their places;
They've done such a thing,
As may ruin the king,
And of course must regain your good graces.
Is not right divine,
And therefore they know you can't bear it;
And our army so great,
You must thoroughly hate,
Since more than the devil you fear it.
To stop all your cries,
And of ev'ry complaint to disarm ye,
Now they're at the helm,
Quite out of the realm
Have sent both the king and the army.
THE HIGHLANDERS FLIGHT;
A NEW GRUB-STREET BALLAD:
(Written in June, 1743.)
For Austria's chief,
At length was decreed by these islands;
We summon'd our force,
Dragoons, foot and horse,
And a regiment fetch'd from the Highlands.
They were cleverly clad,
And seem'd so well furnish'd for war;
That one would have thought,
They'd as fiercely have fought,
As Croat, Pandour, or Hussar.
The king follow'd after,
But the Highlanders wouldn't go over;
For tho' all of them swear,
Yet none of them care,
To fight for the House of Hanover.
To crossing the sea,
And a doubtful campaign to go thro';
For receiving their pay,
Their sixpence a day,
Was all they thought they had to do.
What he did ere while,
And they follow'd that step of his grace's;
Who seeing from far,
That there must be a war,
Resign'd his commands and his places.
They determin'd to fly,
And with joy they ran home,
To the place whence they come,
To beggary, Oatmeal, and Itch.
Who hinder their flight,
And to Scotland won't let them repair;
They're surely too strict,
For can they inflict
A worse punishment than to go there.
And I wish it were done,
In spight of all Tweedale can say;
Since they won't march or fight,
Disband them out right,
And strip them of clothes and of pay.
That the English of old,
But the Scotch, for their glory,
Are the first in all story,
That run without seeing their foes.
At th' attack of a town,
Where the bullets and bombs might have hit'em;
At the first walls or ditches,
If they'd had any breeches,
They certainly would have---'em.
And never depend
On such Jacobite rascals as these are;
They're for James the 3rd all,
And would fly to his call,
As Lepidus' troops did to Cæsar.
AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY PELHAM, ESQ.
On his being appointed first Commissioner of the Treasury; written and sent from Maddington, Sept. 1743.
Sees crowds of lovers at her side,
Whose eyes confess their flame;
Whose titles, fortune, merit, birth,
Must make her conscious of her worth,
And please the matchless dame:
Approach to swell her pompous train,
She does not blast him with her frowns,
Nor quite rejects his vows, but owns
'Tis some desert to love.
All who to Freedom's cause are true,
However great, attend;
Yet don't despise my distant bow,
But let a nod or smile allow,
You own me for a friend.
'Tis merit's debt I pay, my praise
Is founded on esteem;
Truth ever shall direct my Muse,
Truth guides this verse, truth makes me chuse
A Pelham for my theme.
To private friendship's sacred trust
The Whigs proclaim the public part,
The private—Orford's grateful heart
And able tongue declare.
Old England's genius blest the choice,
And fearless now she stands;
Secure of all that's great and good,
While Pelham's counsels are pursu'd,
And George himself commands.
In such a noble, honest heart,
Regardless of thy power;
To that my utmost wish would bend,
Nor will you blush to own a friend,
That Orford own'd before.
AN ODE TO MR. POPE, ON TWO LATE PROMOTIONS.
Written in January 1743-4.
The manager, his part to fill,
Brings forth some wretched fellow
Who spoils the part, who damns the play,
And thus the cobler of to day,
To-morrow struts Othello:
At Bender desperately fighting,
By Janizarries wrapt in;
His friends destroy'd, his gen'rals slain,
Preferr'd the lowest of his train,
And made his cook a captain:
When in the country, we submit,
Where company's but rare,
To call in servants to our aid,
The butler and my lady's-maid
Make up the wanted pair:
Her booby mate to drive six horses,
T' indulge her haughty heart;
Sir Francis never kept but four,
But as my lady would have more,
He fetch'd two from the Cart:
Where all that's vulgar, dull and low,
How rapidly they rise to Fame,
For the first hour you hear their name,
They're ministers or peers.
Her darling son, Sir John, 's in play,
And rules the Navy-board;
Whilst her dear Nephew, Samuel Sands,
Has kiss'd his sov'reign's lavish hands,
For coff'rer and lord.
No longer spend thy noble fires
On ev'ry nameless name;
No longer make her bards thy sport,
But boldly enter Dulness' court,
And crown her statesmen's fame.
AN ODE HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS WINNINGTON, ESQ.
Who once a year still condescends
That I your servant once again,
That annual honour may obtain,
Accept this annual ode.
Mirth, humour, wit, good-nature, sense,
Make up thy constant train;
We'll banish politics and care,
And scarce remember there's a war
In Germany or Spain.
Nor merit, Pelham's merit, there,
Nor how in each debate you shone,
Or all th' applause, and Fame you've won,
Or all that Sands has lost.
We've found him out, that see him near,
And he our constant scoff is;
But were it not, dear friend, for you,
I could not give the fool his due,
For fear of my damn'd office.
We'll talk by turns in classic taste,
Of woman and of Boys,
And envy who in Gito's arms,
Now feeds his eyes upon his charms,
And grasps forbidden joys.
When to his Venus, Peggy Lee,
But not a word of the rebuke
He met from Love, when Richmond's Duke
Produc'd the readier Tarse.
Make Fox and Williams condescend
My humble roof to grace;
To see how I by thee am blest,
I without thee could have no feast,
Nor without thee a place.
Distinct in op'ning a debate,
And in replying ready;
Since all thy parts tho' strong and clear,
Can't make the wav'ring P—sincere,
Or treach'rous Pultney steady.
HOR. EPISTLE V. LIB. I. IMITATED AND INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS WINNINGTON, ESQ. FROM MR. HENRY HARRIS. COMMISSIONER OF THE WINE LICENCE:
Written in 1742.
IF you, great Winnington, can condescend,To taste the dinner of a grateful friend;
And with thy presence bless my humble roof.
Once more t' adorn thy servant's annual feast,
To-morrow I expect you for my guest;
Claret, the best my little vaults afford,
And well-sav'd hermitage shall grace my board.
My rooms shall all be clean, large fires be made,
My dinner ready, and my table spread;
To-morrow's dedicated to delight,
And wit and wine shall crown the happy night.
Do thou, unbent, this feast of Bacchus keep,
Let Love be silent and Ambition sleep;
For Clora, let thy breast no passion feel,
And Sands unenvy'd hug th' exchequer seal.
Since, dearest Patron, you've increas'd my store,
I will be happier, and I'll spend the more;
For I've no heirs to curse me in the grave,
No wife unjointur'd who persuades to save.
Unlocks the crooked Politician's breast;
Relieves the wretched, makes the coward brave,
Gives riches to the poor, and frees the slave.
Inspir'd by potent bumpers all the night,
Rushout is eloquent, and Bootle bright;
Fazakerly grows candid, Waller clear,
And Lim'rick's face one smile of joy may wear.
Good wine I'll give you, and for all the rest,
If 'tis not fine, it shall be clean at least;
No dirty napkins shall offend your eye,
Nor greasy glasses make you pass them by.
And that our conversation may be free,
Let well-try'd friends compose the company;
And Fox with ev'ry virtue in his breast.
If Yonge can quit his business, or his play,
Or from some doating fair one break away,
Let him be summon'd to the festal day;
And if these a'n't enough to eat my mutton,
I can find room for Gordon, Wight, and Sutton.
But still the guests, the number of them too,
And all that's mine, dear Patron's left to you;
Come, then, along, neglect affairs of state,
And let thy levee all unanswer'd wait.
An Epitaph ON THE LATE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS WINNINGTON, ESQ.
The grave, the gay, the witty, and the wise.
Form'd for all parts, in all alike he shin'd,
Variously great! a genius unconfin'd!
In converse bright, judicious in debate,
In private amiable, in public great:
With all the statesman's knowledge, prudence, art,
With friendship's open, undesigning heart.
The friend and heir here join their duty: one
Erects the busto, one inscribes the stone.
Not that they hope from these his fame should live,
That claims a longer date than they can give;
And, soon effac'd, inscriptions wear away:
But English annals shall their place supply;
And, while they live, his name can never die.
LINES OCCASIONED BY A LATE MOTION.
“TAXES run high,”—the Britons loud complain'd.'Twas moved that luxury should be restrain'd;
To lace our breeches was a mortal sin,
And wear all gold without, and none within.
This meant the ministry, would they confess,
“The more we have ourselves, the king has less;”
For who could fear that luxury would last?
Excises, taxes, sinking funds, are spent,
And sure seven millions are a high rack-rent.
“The lace you may allow us,” quoth Sir John,
“We soon shall have no coats to put it on.”
He who can pay no whore, must not be lewd.
A Briton once said to a Gaul alert,
“You found the ruffles, and we found the shirt.”
Without the last, few would the first promote,
And who will buy a lace that has no coat?
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN SAMUEL SANDYS, AND EDMUND WALLER, Esqrs.
February 1742-3.
THE ARGUMENT.
[SAMUEL Sandys, as he was going up, and Edmund Waller, as he was going down, met in
Fam'd for their love to business; hate to wit.
First they saluted, then they silence broke,
“When you and I, o'er long accounts sat poring,
“And Rushout, by us, in his chair was snoring,
“My apprehension, Sir, and your explaining,
“Made conversation bright, and entertaining.”
Edmund Waller.
“When you and I together were combin'd,
“My matter to your elocution join'd;
“No wonder all the house adored your speaking.”
Samuel Sandys.
“Now, on Lord Wilmington I often wait,
“Vers'd in affairs, methodically great;
“Business he loves, nor e'er the board does fail,
“True as the clock, tho' slower than a snail.”
Edmund Waller.
“Sometimes with Cotton for an hour I sit,
“But still our conversation's spoil'd by wit;
“To my plain narratives he won't attend,
“Gods, where can such an opposition end?
“Observe, dear Waller, how our fates agree,
“My worthy Countryman's the same to me:
“When on some question, I've a meeting gain'd,
“He cries, ‘He's master on't,’ ere'tis explain'd;
“And absent, when attention I require,
“Whisks round the room, and spits into the fire.”
Edmund Waller.
“There's Bub, who has the face of all this nation,
“By nature form'd the most for application;
“He, notwithstanding which, is damn'd provoking,
“Sometimes coughs out a laugh, and will be joking.”
Samuel Sandys.
“Hard are the cases that you talk about,
“Besides you have the curse of being out;
“Yet, being in employment, makes amends;
“I in the Treasury comfortably feel,
“With double salary, and Exchequer seal.”
Edmund Waller.
“What? do'st thou triumph in thy shameful rise,
“The hire of perfidy, Corruption's price?
“But thou art much o'erpaid for thy disgrace,
“Thou never dared'st have hop'd for such a place,
“By thy own inabilities o'erawed;
“But Carteret pimp'd for it, and Bath was bawd.”
Samuel Sandys.
“What, Mr. Waller! I perceive you're hot,
“The place was mine, however it was got;
“And such a place was welcome, Sir, to me,
“Who did not share the spoils of the South-Sea.”
“Do'st thou pretend to censure my behaviour
“After the steps you've ta'en to gain court-favour?
“Henceforward know me for thy foe, and war
“To thee and thine, I from this hour declare:
“And, Sir, to use your Earl of Bath's own word,
“Throw by the scabbard, when I draw the sword;
“Our party's to this resolution come,
“Not to have war abroad, but war at home.”
Samuel Sandys.
“Your passion, Sir, won't let you see things right,
“And of your reason gets the better quite;
“'Twas by long patience that we both grew wise,
“Here, then, I'll offer you a compromise:
“Sir Robert stood for twenty years, you know,
“In spite of all that we could say or do;
“And if I'm tir'd on't, then I'll give it you.”
Edmund Waller.
“When for that place at court you made your bow,
“I was not half so shock'd as I am now;
“This is a turn, I thought you'd ne'er have chose,
“Can Samuel Sands attempt to be jocose.
“Pull from thy button-hole thy ink-horn then,
“And throw away thy once note-taking pen;
“On turnpike bills no more attendance pay,
“And ev'n from night Committees keep away:
“Make no more motions, from debating cease,
“On Hanoverian forces hold thy peace.
“But on the Treasury-bench securely sit,
“Crack jokes with Pelham till your sides are split,
“And try a wrest with Winnington at wit:
“Then by th' observing house it will be said,
“Sands with his principles has lost his head.”
I over-heard each word of their discourse;
And here my Lollius has it in this letter.
Now, which of these prevail'd, which got the better,
And which deserves to be a party leader—
I leave to thee, impartial candid reader.
An Epigram.
DEEP, deep, in Sandys blundering head,The new Gin project sunk;
“O, happy project,” sage, he cried,
“Let all the realm be drunk.
“'Gainst universal hate and scorn,
“This scheme my sole defence is,
“For when I've beggar'd half the realm,
“'Tis time to drown their senses.”
SANDYS AND JEKYLL;
A NEW BALLAD:
When night and morning meet;
In glided Jekyll's grimly ghost,
And stood at Sandys' feet.
Clad in November's frown;
And clay-cold was his shrivel'd hand,
That held his tuck'd-up gown.
Whom thus the Shade bespoke;
And with a mournful, hollow voice,
The dreadful silence broke:
“The midnight bell now tolls;
“Behold thy late departed friend,
“The Master of the Rolls.
“My form may alter'd be;
“Death cannot make a greater change,
“Than times have wrought in thee.
“And think where it will end;
“Think you have made a thousand foes,
“And have not gain'd one friend.
“Yet you that cause forsook;
“Oft against places hast thou rail'd,
“And yet a place you took.
“With whom you now assent;
“The Court how oft hast thou abus'd,
“And yet to Court you went.
“Yet make that war to cease?
“How could you weep for England's debts,
“Yet make those debts increase?
“Was all your wish, or fear?
“And how could I, old doating fool,
“Believe you were sincere!
“From blissful regions drawn!
“Why teeming graves cast up their dead,
“And why the church-yards yawn,
“The bill thou hast brought in
“Opens this mouth, tho' clos'd by death,
“To thunder against Gin.
“Within thee thou canst find;
“Regard the message that I bring—
“Have mercy on mankind.
“The horrid day I see,
“When thy mean hand shall overturn
“The good design'd by me.
“Shall their career begin;
“And ev'ry parish sucking babe,
“Again be nurs'd with Gin.
“Shall scatter ruin far;
“Gin shall intoxicate, and then,
“Let slip those dogs of war.
“And Desolation's friend;
“What can thy project be in this,
“And what can be thy end?
“Thy sense, thy parts, thy weight;
“Thou know'st this nation must be drunk,
“E're it can think thee great?
“On Pultney's eagle wings;
“Thou wert not form'd for great affairs,
“Nor made to talk with kings.
“Thy patriotism, Sands?
“Think'st thou that gown adorns thy shape,
“That purse becomes thy hands?
“A tragic mask espy'd;
“‘O, what a specious front is here,
“‘But where's the brain' he cry'd.
“And Chancellor art made;
“Sir Robert's place, and Robe, and Seal,
“Thou hast—but where's his head?
“To keep your post you strive;
“In vain like Phaeton attempt,
“A chariot you can't drive.
“And tends to your undoing;
“Each speech you make, your dulness shows,
“And certifies your ruin.
“And brave the storms that blow;
“But, like the reed, bend to the ground,
“And to be safe, be low.
“Each trifling songster's sport;
“Pelham supports thee in the House,
“The Earl of Bath at court.
“In thy own nature's spite;
“So, like the moon, if thou could'st shine,
“'T would be by borrow'd light.
“The glow-worm pales its light;
“Farewell, remember me” it cry'd,
And vanish'd out of sight.
Of knowledge quite bereft;
And has, since that unhappy night,
Nor sense nor mem'ry left.
HERVEY AND JEKYLL.
PART II.
Condemn'd to fast by day,
Until the --- got in his youth,
Be cleans'd and purg'd away.
Ascends her sable throne,
He quits his dismal prison-house,
And stalks thro' all this town.
For his poor country's service;
Last week at Sandys' feet he stood,
And yesternight at Hervey's.
From that which Sands appall'd;
Smiling he op'd the curtains wide,
And thrice on Hervey call'd.
And trembled in his bed;
And would most surely have turn'd pale,
But that he'd put on red.
Thus did the ghost begin;
“And ev'ry trespass blotted out,
“By talking against Gin.
“Shall dark oblivion bring;
“O'er ev'ry tale you told the Queen,
“Or whisper'd to the King.
“That did mankind perplex;
“Your character will now appear,
“As clearly as your sex.
“Could have no weight with thee;
“Since those who have, or have it not,
“In the same vote agree.
“Made in your nature's spite;
“For tho' you know you're in the wrong,
“I think you're in the right.
“But since you're thence rejected;
“You ought to like the part you act,
“Because it is affected.
“Enjoy thy new-born fame;
“All men shall sing thy praises forth,
“And children lisp thy name.
“His former works deny;
“The Craftsman, too, repentant turn,
“And give himself the lie.
“That on your magic tongue,
“Beyond the force or pow'r of gold,
“Such strong persuasion hung.
“Were with attention warm'd;
“Nor like deaf adders, turn'd their ears,
“When you so sweetly charm'd.
“With Laban did agree,
That ev'ry party-colour'd lamb,
“Should be the shepherd's fee.
“Not one behind remain'd;
“And as your speeches' just reward,
“The whole py'd herd you gain'd.
“Against this cursed bill;
“'Twas you made Sherlock pow'r oppose,
“Tho' York continues ill.
“Pursue these glorious ends;
“You've no affections to mislead,
“No party, and no friends.
“Her freedom strove to save;
“Those cares that waited on my life,
“Attend me in the grave.
“You may my words believe;
“Attend then to the last advice,
“That ever I shall give.
“Sometimes with Whigs agree;
“So shall you live like me esteem'd,
“And die bemoan'd like me.”
An Epistle TO THE RIGHT HON. HENRY FOX.
Written in August 1745.
Quam per vatis opus mores animiq: virorum
Adparent------
Hor. Ep. 2, Lib. ii.
RARE, and more rare, my verses still appear,
I scarce produce a poem in a year.
Yet blame not, Fox, or hear me e'er you blame;
My genius droops, my spirit's not the same.
My verse comes harder, and the little fire
I once possess'd, I daily feel expire;
Not as when urg'd by your desire I strung
My willing lyre, and bolder numbers sung;
Daring the patriot's treach'ry to rehearse,
Till statesmen trembled at th' impending verse.
The silent arts of poetry are mine:
And when some striking thought affects my mind,
I rest not till to paper 'tis consign'd.
Then with a parent's fondness I behold
My child escap'd from memory's treach'rous hold;
And smooth'd in verse, and harmoniz'd in rhyme,
I dream 'tis plac'd beyond the reach of time.
The torrent bears, my genius points the way,
I feel the impulse, and with joy obey.
Yet Vanity did ne'er allure to Fame,
I had no fondness for an author's name;
My works, like bastards, dropt about the town,
No author claim'd, no bookseller would own.
Ambition had no beauty in my eyes;
Verses like mine would hardly make me rise,
For ev'ry statesman hates poetic blows,
Tho' heavy on the shoulders of their foes;
And doubtful where the Satire may point next,
They laugh, they fear, like, hate, are pleas'd and vex'd.
My verse, my fame, if any, springs from you;
And here I pay my tribute where 'tis due.
Your smiles were all my vanity requir'd,
Your nod was all the fame that I desir'd;
All my ambition was, to gain your praise,
And all my pleasure, you alone to please.
Yet PRUDENCE will be whispering in my ear,
(A croaking voice that I detest and hear;
Whom anxious thoughts preceding still we find,
And Plenty with a niggard horn behind.)
“Why will you write,” she cries, “forsake the Muse,
“Despise her gifts, her influence refuse;
“To me in all thy life, for once attend,
“Prudence to parts, would prove a useful friend.
“I know your wants, and offer you my aid;
“Which still you shun contemptuous and afraid;
“Pleas'd with the praise, some partial few may give,
“The hate and envy of the rest, you live:
“And yield to Satire, when impell'd by wit.”
“Cease Goddess, cease,” I cry, “I'll hear no more,
“I've ever been a rebel to thy power;
“Your caution's right, your arguments are true,
“Th' advice is good, but 'tis unpleasant too.
“Vain are your toils, and fruitless is your aid,
“Whene'er you strive to change what nature made;
“Turn to your altars, on your vot'ries shine,
“See Pelham ever kneeling at thy shrine.
“Thro' you at first, by slow degrees he rose,
“To you the zenith of his power he owes;
“You taught him in your middle-way to steer,
“Impartial, mod'rate, candid, to appear.
“Fearful of enmity, to friendship cold,
“Cautiously frank, and timorously bold;
“And so observant never to offend
“A foe, he quite forgets to fix a friend.
“Long vers'd in politics, but poor in parts,
“The Courtier's tricks, but not the Statesman's arts;
“Some dirty compromise his utmost skill.
“In vain his own penurious soil he till'd,
“In vain he glean'd from Walpole's plenteous field;
“In vain the exchequer robes around him flow,
“The mantle does not make the prophet now.
“Behind him close, behold Newcastle's Grace,
“Haste in his step, and absence in his face;
“Who daily suppliant to thy temple goes,
“And courts the Goddess, as he courts his foes.
“Yet, spite of all thy influence, all thy care,
“His prudence always deviates into fear;
“His natural gifts so low, he strives in vain
“To climb a height, that Dulness can attain;
“Which Rushout reach'd, with long-opposing tir'd,
“On which thy fav'rite, Wilmington, expir'd;
“Secure from changes, and the storms of state.”
But arbitrary Fortune (who derides,
Whate'er Experience frames, or Wisdom guides;
Without whose smiles, all honour, virtue, worth,
Still plead in vain) presided at his birth
Newcastle, then (and yet a child), she blest,
And rapt'rous these prophetic truths exprest;
“Tho' void of honesty, of sense, of art,
“A foolish head, and a perfidious heart.
“Yet riches, honours, pow'r, he shall enjoy,
“Parties shall follow, monarch shall employ;
“Great Britain's seal be to his hand consign'd,
“The Ducal coronet his temples bind.
“He shall betray and lye, but all in vain,
“Spite of himself, his posts he shall maintain;
“No changes shall involve my fav'rite's fall,
“He'll join the current, and be all to all.
“He'll act with Orford, Granville, Bath, or Gower:”
“Prudence, howe'er you smile, howe'er are kind,
“Thy vot'ries ne'er are leaders of mankind;
“Unfit to govern England's restive realm,
“She asks a genius to conduct her helm,
“That dares forsake thy paths, offend thy law,
“Unaw'd by all the fantoms that you draw.
“Thy fav'rites should to Switzerland repair,
“And gently rule some peaceful Canton there;
“Or in the neutral, Adriatic state,
“With her inactive senators debate:
“Think how thy Pelham would in Lucca shine,
“And Sands be in Marino styl'd divine.
“There let'em shine, but Britain's reins demand
“An Orford's, or, at least, a Granville's hand.
“Hence, Goddess, to such supplicants repair,
“Who make thy narrow rules their only care;
“Whose utmost aim is, barely to do well,
“Taught by thy precepts never to excel:
“And own the Muse's more prevailing charms.”
And why not own them? can't her pow'r remove
The curse of poverty, the pangs of love?
Blunt th' edge of pain, unload the weight of care,
Hush loud distress, and mitigate despair?
Have not her smiles, when sunk in private grief,
Turn'd my disorder'd mind, and brought relief;
Bid agonizing thought at distance wait,
Nor dare approach the Muse's sacred seat?
Nor can she only give Affliction ease,
Pleasure is her's, and her's the power to please;
She can amuse a friend's unbended hour,
And ev'ry fair one owns the Muse's pow'r.
Have not my lays made Ilchester attend,
Berkeley approve, and Harrington commend?
The poet triumph'd where the lover fail'd.
But farther still her wide command is shown,
Immortal Fame attends on her alone;
In vain, without her cares, without her smiles,
The Hero conquers, and the Statesman toils:
Their names would soon in dark oblivion lie,
But that the Muse forbids the good to die.
She bids them live—and from the silent tomb,
Draws forth examples for the times to come.
'Tis by her influence, too, her sons survive,
And more than share the vast renown they give;
Still round the Goddess diff'rent laurels grow,
To crown the Hero, and the Poet too.
And while posterity with rapture reads,
Æneas' labours, and Achilles' deeds;
Beyond all piety or feats of arms,
'Tis Virgil pleases and 'tis Homer charms.
Tho' more inclin'd to give desert its praise,
Yet keenest Satire waits upon her lays;
Virtue and Vice are both within her view,
She can reward—but she can punish too:
No abject state can hide, no height secure.
She from the kennel rakes up Chartres' shame;
She plucks down Bath's exalted dirty name;
Her arrows fly thro' every rank of men:
Pelham read this, and dread the lifted pen.
The chosen few whose praise I strive to gain,
Still urge my songs, and still approve the strain.
I dread their censure, but th' applause they give
I feel, for they can judge, but not deceive.
Has my young Walpole, blest with truest taste,
Adorn'd with learning, with politeness grac'd,
When I repeated, thought the moments long,
Friend to the Poet partial to his song?
When Winnington fatigued with public cares,
With me the social hours of friendship shares;
He too awakes the Muse, and bids me write,
Points out the quarry, and directs my flight:
'Twould wrong our friendship, and 't would wrong his sense.
In him we find unite, what rarely meet,
Parts join'd with application, sense with wit;
A piercing eye, a countenance erect,
Quick to invent, judicious to correct;
Warm to attack, but warmer to defend,
The fairest foe, and the sincerest friend;
Above th' intrigues, and windings of a court,
Acknowledg'd merit has his sure support.
His converse new and just delight affords,
Rich in the brightest thoughts and aptest words;
Whene'er he speaks, his audience is charm'd,
Taught by his sense, and by his spirit warm'd.
“But Orford's self, I've seen whilst I have read,
Laugh the heart's laugh, and nod th' approving
“Pardon, great Shade, if, duteous, on thy herse
“I hang my grateful tributary verse:
“If I who follow'd thro' thy various day,
“Thy glorious zenith and thy bright decay,
“With England, Liberty, and Envy mourn.”
His soul was great, and dar'd not but do well,
His noble pride still urg'd him to excel;
Above the thirst of gold—if in his heart
Ambition govern'd, Av'rice had no part.
A genius to explore untrodden ways,
Where prudence sees no track, nor ever strays;
Which books and schools, in vain attempt to teach,
And which laborious art can never reach.
Falsehood and flatt'ry, and the tricks of court,
He left to Statesmen of a meaner sort;
Their cloaks and smiles were offer'd him in vain,
His acts were justice which he dar'd maintain,
His words were truth that held them in disdain.
Open to friends, but ev'n to foes sincere,
Alike remote from jealousy and fear;
Tho' Envy's howl, tho' Faction's hiss he heard,
Tho' senates frown'd, tho' death itself appear'd:
Were right, and Truth and Innocence his friends.
Thus was he form'd to govern and to please,
Familiar greatness, dignity with ease,
Compos'd his frame—admir'd in ev'ry state,
In private amiable—in public great:
Gentle in pow'r—but daring in disgrace,
His love was liberty—his wish was peace.
Such was the man that smil'd upon my lays,
And what can heighten thought or genius raise,
Like praise from him whom all mankind must praise;
Whose knowledge, courage, temper, all surpris'd,
Whom many lov'd, few hated, none despis'd.
Here then I rest, and since it is decreed
The pleasing paths of poetry to tread;
Hear me, O Muse! receive one poet more,
Consenting bend, and pour down all thy store:
No longer constant round Parnassus rove,
But change the scene, and smile on Coldbrook's Grove.
O'er mossy turf more soft than slumber spread;
Expression, thought, and numbers, bring along,
But, above all, let truth attend my song:
So shall my verse still please the men I love,
Make Winnington commend, and my own Fox approve.
On the Earl of Islay altering his Gardens at Whitton, near Hounslow-Heath.
OLD Islay, to shew a most elegant taste,In improving his grounds, purloin'd from the waste;
And order'd the gard'ner to open his views,
By cutting a couple of grand avenues.
With secret delight, he saw the first view end,
In his fav'rite prospect, a church that is ruined;
But, what should the next to his Lordship exhibit,
'Twas the terrible sight of a rogue and a gibbet.
Full many a Campbell who'd died with his shoes on;
All amazed, and aghast, at this ominous scene,
He order'd it straight, to be shut up again,
With a clump of Scotch firs by way of a screen.
A DUCHESS'S GHOST TO ORATOR HANOVER PITT.
Conning harangues for some important day;
Labouring to make the turns harmonious fall,
And to the taste attune 'em of Whitehall:
A sudden noise, career of fancy stops,
And a pale phiz within the curtain pops.
Than quick he dives between the unsavory sheets:
Not proof against the visage of her grace,
Down sinks—till now, that unembarrass'd face.
“But all thy patriot sentiments are fled:
“And I in my atoning project chous'd,
“The latest and the best I e'er espous'd.
“Return, base villain! my retaining fee;
“Bequeath'd to save that country thou would'st sell,
“Refund—not such a Judas roars in hell.
“Threw back the price of him he had betray'd;
“Meant to support, thou turn'st to crush, the cause;
“Usage like this would make the devil preach.
“No weight to words can eloquence impart,
“Tho' ne'er so clear the head, if foul the heart:
“Men's words, the world will by their actions scan:
“The orator must be the honest man.
“No prostitute the generous bosom arms,
“The whore peeps thro' the bloom, and blasts her charms.
“And on its motions sweet persuasion hung:
“But now those lips (and thanks to Sarah's money)
“That in thy country's struggles drop down honey,
“Nor all their flourishes be worth a—.
“But see! the morning streaks the eastern sky:
“Now crows the scaring cock: from hence I hie,
“And leave thee to the lash of lost integrity.”
THE UNEMBARRASS'D COUNTENANCE,
A NEW BALLAD:
Quæsitam meritis.
Hor.
Ascribes his getting, to his parts and merit.
Pope.
The inside quite rotten, the outside near down,
I'll tell you his story, and sing you his fate.
Derry down, &c.
He flatter'd all others in order to rise:
Till out of compassion he got a small place,
Then full on his master he turned his a—.
Derry down, &c.
And swore they were rascals whoever went over:
That no man was honest who gave them a vote,
And all that were for 'em should hang by the throat.
Derry down, &c.
'Gainst Hanover troops and a Hanover king:
He applauded the way to keep Englishmen free,
By digging Hanover quite into the sea.
Derry down, &c.
Tho' many believ'd it would cost him a shame:
But nature had given him, ne'er to be harass'd,
An unfeeling heart, and a front unembarrass'd.
Derry down, &c.
He had got the possession often thousand pound,
He said he car'd not for what others might call him,
He would shew himself now the true son of Sir Balaam.
Derry down, &c.
He now crouch'd and cring'd to, commended and flatter'd;
That in Ireland at least he might get him a place.
Derry down, &c.
Then proclaim'd it aloud that he never could blush;
Recant his invectives, and then in a trice
He would shew the best title to an Irish Vice.
Derry down, &c.
Determin'd to share in whate'er could be got
Said, I scorn all those who cry impudent fellow,
As my front is of brass, I'll be painted in yellow.
Derry down, &c.
And Balaam aspires at an eminent place,
May he soon at Cheapside stand fix'd by the legs,
His front well adorn'd, all daub'd over with eggs.
Derry down, &c.
But now that he's rich, he's the jest of the town:
Then let all men learn by his present disgrace,
That honesty's better by far than a place.
Derry down, &c.
SHORT VERSES, IN IMITATION OF LONG VERSES:
IN AN EPISTLE TO WILLIAM PITT, ESQ.
Namby Pamby Sic parvis componere magna solebam.
Virg.
To thee, O Pitt!
If friend or foe;
Deign to smile on
Lank Lyttleton:
For tho' his lays
May squint two ways;
They're meant for praise.
Thou didst harangue,
While he, in joke,
The cornet broke.
But Hal now flatter'd,
Then whipp'd, then spatter'd,
With fear full fraught,
Thy favour bought:
The patriot ends,
And ye are friends,
Like Cæsar He,
As Tully was, to Thee.
In roads bemir'd,
A fairy-light,
Which they pursue
With eager view,
In hope to win
A friendly inn;
But by mistake,
In some foul lake
Surpris'd they're flung
Of mud or dung,
From whence the Meteor sprung;
So far'd the crew,
Who follow'd you:
On back first laid,
By dire mishap
She gains a c---.
Scarce warm in place,
An errant whore,
You chang'd your style,
Thou turn-coat vile.
From long-sought gain?
Still to entice
A higher price?
No, no, my Pitt!
Once near being bit,
Did not the band
Their king withstand;
And bring him low,
As king could go?
Tho' France did threat
The royal seat:
Tho' rebels dire
Spread sword and fire;
Careless of all
That could befall
They quit the helm:
Cabal, combine,
Revile, resign;
One, one and all,
From London Wall,
To Prim cock-crower of Whitehall.
No more be coy,
Go force your way
To court for play!
Nor fear for shame
Should now reclaim;
Courtier or patriot, thou art still the same.
For the loud call,
By all I mean
The great fourteen;
Like thee large-soul'd,
Despising gold,
From Preston-Pan,
Nor did they yield
Base Falkirk's field;
Far, far from both,
To fight full loth,
They will not go
To lie in snow,
Till William's blade
Hath got thy tongue for aid.
Thrice happy isle!
On thy blest ground,
Twelve thousand pound,
For Stanhope's found;
Three thousand clear,
For Pitt, a year;
So shalt thou thrive,
Industrious hive,
While these and more
Increase thy store.
Reserv'd topay Britannia's patriotband.
As in the East;
For all allow
Thou art sunk now;
Yet soon, when near
The royal ear,
Thou with such things
Shall soothe our kings,
As gain'd huzzas,
Of loud applause
From Sydenham glad,
And C---w mad;
Then shall of war
The Dutch declare.
Then we the Russ
Shall meet and buss.
Then, then shall France
Fall in a trance.
Yield to the strain.
None from that hour,
Shall envy power
In high degree
Of Majesty,
When Pitt a minister shall be.
THE OLD COACHMAN;
A NEW BALLAD:
OR THE TRAVELS OF MR. PULTNEY AND LORD CARTERET TO CLERMONT.
Went down to a feast at Newcastle's together;
No matter what wines, or what choice of good cheer,
'Tis enough that the Coachman had his dose of beer.
Derry down, &c.
The Coachman drove on at a damnable rate;
Cry'd, “Stop, let me out—is the dog an Argyle?”
Derry down, &c.
John stopt short in the dirt and no further could go;
When Cart'ret saw this, he observed, with a laugh,
“This Coachman, I find, is your own, my Lord Bath.”
Derry down, &c.
Deep in mire and rain, and without any light;
Not a path to pursue, nor to guide them a friend,
What course shall they take then, and how will this end?
Derry down, &c.
Who governs in councils, and conquers in wars;
That these were her creatures and votaries true,
Derry down, &c.
“Honest friend, can you drive?”—“What should ail me he said;
“For many a bad season, through many a bad way,
“Old Orford I've driven without stop or stay.
Derry down, &c.
Quoth the Peers—“It was we help'd him out of the dirt;
“This boon for thy master then prithee requite,
“Take us up or else here we must wander all night.”
Derry down, &c.
Drove away to St. James's, and brought them safe in;
Learn hence, honest Britons, in spite of your pains,
That Orford's old coachman still governs the reins.
Derry down, &c.
VERSES
Occasioned by a quarrel between Mr. Fielding and Mrs. Clive, on his intending for her the part of the Bawd in his own Play called the “Wedding Day.”
“A BAWD! a bawd!—where is the scoundrel poet?“Fine work, indeed, by G---d the town shall know it.”
Fielding, who heard and saw her passion rise,
Thus answer'd calmly, “Prithee Clive be wise,
“The part will fit your humour, taste, and size.”—
“Ye lie, ye lie! ungrateful as thou art,
“My matchless talent claims the lady's part;
“And all who judge, by Jesus G—d agree,
“None ever played the gay coquet like me.”
Thus said, and swore, this celebrated Nell,
Now judge her genius—is she Bawd or Belle?
SQUIRE SANDYS'S BUDGET OPEN'D, OR DRINK AND BE D---D;
A NEW BALLAD:
Who late came into place;
I'll tell you a new project,
To win our master's grace.
As a drinking we do go, &c.
We'll take into our pay;
And Britons, to support them,
Shall drink their lives away.
As a drinking they do go, &c.
All Placemen may drink wine;
But tatter'd squires, and merchants,
Shall swill up Gin like swine.
When a drinking they do go, &c.
Why e'en let it be so;
For ev'ry man she loses,
We turn-coats lose a foe.
Then a drinking they may go, &c.
We bellow'd loud at Gin;
But now it is no evil,
For we are now come in.
And a drinking all shall go, &c.
Pronounce us fools and knaves;
Their note shall quickly alter,
We'll make them drunken slaves.
And a drinking they shall go, &c.
Now crowd up ev'ry door,
'T will greatly raise the poor-rates—
Let's poison all the poor.
While a drinking they do go, &c.
That by trade they nothing get;
Then let them sit and drink,
They will drink us out of debt.
As a drinking they do go, &c.
What cause have we to fear?
To licence theft and murder,
We'll raise a fund next year.
So a drinking we will go, &c.
With their black funereal face;
“Ah, Bat you had been welcome,
“If pledged by his grace.”
As a drinking we do go, &c.
Who drink both night and day;
Shall humble haughty France,
Just as we our debts shall pay.
As a drinking we do go, &c.
The mighty Earl of Bath;
Since no man courts his favour,
So no man fears his wrath,
Now a drinking he may go, &c.
But, here comes Pelham—mum;
“Your servant, master Pelham,
“When will Orford come?”
Then a drinking we may go, &c.
And send the glass about;
Here's health to all those in,
And death to all those out.
As a drinking they do go, &c.
THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE RIGHT HON. HENRY PELHAM AND WILLIAM, EARL OF BATH.
THE story goes, as Fame will tattle still,Once on a time 'squire Harry met Lord Will;
“I'll tell you, Hal, a secret worth your ear.
“The Old Man's gone where God knows what's his case,
“And I've declared that I'll accept his place.”—
“And is it so! why let me tell you, brother,
“(Sure one good turn, they say, deserves another)
“I, too, for once, a secret will reveal,
“Which long, indeed, I cannot well conceal:
“Our master, who you know ne'er breaks his word,
“Promis'd I should succeed him at the board—
Will star'd, and cock'd, and cock'd and star'd again;
Pleased Harry blush'd to see his rival's pain.
ON THE COUNTESS OF YARMOUTH MAKING THE CAMPAIGN.
WITH George, what hero can compare,Or who like him a sword can wield;
That dares protect his fav'rite fair,
Amid'st the thunder of the field?
In action Venus he dismiss'd,
Till he had made his foe to flee,
Then slyly after battle kiss'd.
But George, to love and war allied,
Both deities at once admires;
And swelling big with Martial pride,
By Love allays his glowing fires.
A Poetical Epistle, FROM A GREAT MAN IN THE ARMY, AFTER THE BATTLE OF DETTINGEN.
Is in very good case,
Tho' scorch'd by the heat of the fire;
For all the long day,
He heard the guns play,
But would never—no never—retire.
Whose leg a ball took,
Is so frolic and cheary,
So pleasant and airy,
The youngster doth nothing but laugh.
We've got from French beaus,
That I've chang'd my blue coat for a better;
From a cottage wrote I,
With Neiperg close by,
And “Bumper, 'squire Jones” in my letter.
For of the late fight,
In faith I can't write,
Because I know nought of the matter:
But in one or two days,
I'll find out some ways,
To make of it a damnable clatter.
By your leave, a small word,
Without their assistance,
What's English resistance?
With us, before God, 'twas all over.
BRITANNIA'S LAMENTATION AND PETITION.
IN hostile fields, why lives my lord,Now furrow'd his fair front appears;
Ah! 'tis too late to wield that sword
That sheath'd hath been near forty years.
The damps and colds, and endless toils,
That ever wait on martial deeds;
Are they to be repaid with spoils,
Or Fame that fond Ambition breeds?
Return and bless my longing arms,
And let the German strumpet languish;
Oh, flee from dangers and alarms,
And ease my wasted inbred anguish.
Thou, too, my lovely, darling lad,
With plumpy cheeks and sides so round;
Put up thy courage with thy dad,
Nor longer lie on the hard ground.
Not in the heel, nor yet in trenches;
By men thy bravery's believed,
Thou hast the heart of all the wenches.
My tears are streaming for ye both,
Return, while yet my heart is tender;
Let Stair go back, send Argyle over,
'Tis sure too much for poor Hanover.
To counsel all and act her part;
With foreign chiefs, no artful dress
Can lead the Britons on to Fame,
They love their country to excess,
And place it second to no name.
PUBLII OVIDII NASONIS AMORUM
Lib. i. Eleg. 9.
LOVE has its camps (believe my artless strains,Dear Harry) ev'ry lover makes campaigns;
And all that in his soldiers Mars approves,
Venus would wish to grace the man she loves.
Youth in her lover, the fond maid desires;
'Tis youth attacks the fair—attacks the foe,
Old age in both is infamously slow.
Each makes the ground his bed, or stands before,
The general's tent, or cruel fair one's door;
Painful and tedious toil the soldier bears,
Painful and tedious are the lover's cares.
With resolution each pursues his prey,
Nor angry seas, nor mountains stop their way;
O'er Summer's heat and Winter's cold prevail,
They fly o'er lands, and o'er the ocean sail.
Soldiers and lovers watch and ne'er complain
Of chilling frost and snows, and piercing rain.
One on his angry foes is placed a spy,
One on his rival keeps a jealous eye.
One storms a town, and one a house attacks,
This bursts a door, and this a barrier breaks;
The soldier oft invades his sleeping foes,
And deals on unarm'd hosts his fatal blows.
And pass'd from mortal to immortal rest;
So, too, the lovers midnight watches keep,
And profit of the drowsy husband's sleep.
Courage thro' swords and spears oppos'd will pass,
Love forces bars of steel, and walls of brass;
In love like war events are doubtful all,
The vanquish'd rally and the victors fall.
Love's not an easy, or a trifling care,
You must not lose yourself to gain the fair;
Achilles sinks in fair Briseis' charms,
Now Troy attacks, the Greeks repel their arms.
When Hector flys impatient to the field,
His wife must fix his helmet and his shield.
At mad Cassandra's feet Atrides lies,
Yields to dishevell'd locks and frantic eyes.
How foolish Mars was caught in Vulcan's net,
There's not a God but knows and laughs at yet;
Myself was once the idlest rake in town,
And with a common whore have snored till noon.
Taught me the sweet and bitter of intrigue;
To look on easy conquests with disdain,
And value only what with toil we gain.
Hence I'm that prudent, active, lover grown,
Who hunt my prey, thro' ev'ry street in Town;
Who spare no pains, where pain itself is joy,
And wisely all my time in love employ.
Thus I by diligence successful prove—
The surest cure for idleness is Love.
THE SEQUEL: CONTAINING WHAT WAS OMITTED IN THE TRIUMVIRADE, OR BROAD-BOTTOMRY, AT THE ASTERISKS.
Car j'etois seul quand je le fis.
Address'd to Loüis xiv.
But with less of rough Mars than of Venus the fair;
A kind of commander, I ween, in the war,
Yet with limbs safe and sound and his skin without scar;
Adds my life! the stout warrior, Mynheer Albemarle!
Quoth he, “in regard to my ancestor's merit,
“Who came over to England crown gifts to inherit,
“Which imbitter'd the great Revolution so much
“As to give an e'erlasting dislike to the Dutch,
“(Confound 'em a self-interested, odd people!
“O'erwhelm'd with Corruption and practis'd in Quibble)
“E're yet on my palfrey I well could mount up,
“My nice regulations were quickly made known,
“At th' expense of some families ruin'd, in town:
“All under-siz'd fellows I caus'd to sell out
“At half they got in, so to pocket the boot.
“I match'd them so equal in rank and in size,
“That the tips of their noses, their chins, and their eyes
“Form'd three as strait lines, as an artist could strike;
“Their shoulders, their elbows, and bums did the like.
“When Marlb'rough resign'd in resentment and pique,
“Of which he repented, perhaps, in a week;
“As fittest t'eclipse such a warrior as he.
“The council infernal confirm it as done,
“And the more as 'twas kept in suspense by Great John.”
“As nor good, nor great harm, you can do to the state,
“And that 'tis expedient an Earl should eat,
“We confirm, by the strength of our new assum'd pow'rs,”
(Quoth the Three) “little Lordling, the regiment as yours.”
Here they thought to have clos'd—'Till a Wight, bold as ever
Cock'd up, without colour of merit, his beaver;
Too assumingly frank, under front most audacious,
Yet cunningly knowing his int'rest, and cautious;
A convenient acquaintance, tho' apt to deceive,
Slipt up thro' the hole, without orders or leave;
Feign'd he came from the devil; and truly so said,
State-pack-horse, he meant, with mechanical head;
(Attend all ye authors of Britain and witness)
Tho' his brother had all the great qualities, art
Combining with nature, to man could impart;
Yet pack-horse excell'd him, distinguishing loon!
So belov'd thro' our nation, and eke thro' his own.
Attentively mark him! contemplate him well!
How noble his aspect! his air how genteel!
The prettiest fine gentleman sure in the court,
And so Christian withal, of a saint little short!
But his toad-eater-agent thus set forth his case:
“By my country and birth I'm of Ap Shenkin race;
“First preferr'd in the Customs t' a Six-penny Seat
“In the common Long-room, which scarce made me eat.
“So a kind of a captain thro' Drury I rang'd:
“At least was so call'd, as you know at the worse,
“Whoever wears red is a captain of course.
“I gam'd and I whor'd, play'd Levant and such tricks,
“I sometimes got money, but frequently kicks,
“Then married a good ancient dame for my wife,
“And sent her to board to the country for life.
“Was a Westminster justice soon afterwards made,
“And drove on a while, like Sir Thomas, the trade;
“Or Tow'r-Hamlet Sir Clifford, whom erst I have seen
“Sole Groom of the Stole to the Steeds at an inn:
“So had frequent occasion to serve well my betters—
“The affair of Sir Redstring I manag'd by setters.
“And broke the Church charm of ‘for better for worse.’
“'Twas I set the Colonel to honour his head,
“And contriv'd the next mcrning to catch him in bed.
“The knight became grateful and got me a place,
“And sent me to Scotland, by means of his Grace.
“But was heavily quarter'd, however, upon,
“Yet refus'd to tell tales to have Orford undone.
“Or seem'd so to such, who admir'd at my 'scape
“From the fate of poor Paxton, so wond'rously cheap.
“For, in fact, I was sent by the late great—
“To demur as I did, to give room for a bill;
“Since what I'd to say, cou'd but little avail
“To take off the E—l, or cast him in jail.
“But my roguery in seeming t'evade all their questions,
“Did, with Paxton's fidelity, furnish suggestions.
“State-Pack-horse will vouch for the truth of my case.
“You may half, if you please, but not quarter my score
“With some Yea and Nay Member, pimp, bawd, or some whore.
“As, without it, I know one must ne'er think to rise;
“'Tis so in the Customs and so in th' Excise,
“With all Out-house Placemen the same, who can't say,
“In a Ministry's service, nor Yea nor the Nay.
The Triumvirate balanc'd—howe'er to be quiet,
And get rid of the creature, they granted the fiat.
“If to place be preferr'd such a parasite shaver,
“A brace of good authors may surely meet favour,”
Was heard in the hole, as if spoke by a couple;
When something bolts up, not unlike a man double.
Like a brace of good rabbits truss'd up for the spit.
One half-side like Tonus, tall, meagre, and lank,
Balanc'd up on each side by a thin spindle shank,
Inhos'd all in white, their proportion to show,
Like the legs of a doll, and e'en jointed so too.
In the cast-offs of Tonus, beau'd out for his grace,
Ah! cou'd he but get to his cast-off old place.
A visage far north, a bold front did impart,
Yet blushing, as conscious how vain was the heart.
An huge rod of birch, quite as big as some brooms,
As tho' he'd been Deputy Flogger of bums,
He display'd in his hand, magisterially great!
To flog ev'ry Statesman, who'd not make him eat.
As with art did his own dear octangular square.
By Principle Swiss, as he fought for his pay,
Who for Paxton wrote erst is for Wallo to-day:
For this side, and t'other, and both he resolves,
While Ralph howls to Cynthia be silent ye wolves.
One a maker of pamphlets, and t'other of matter
To fill them withal, and for Coffee house chatter.
This a draggle-tail muse in his bosom does nourish,
And that writes the Hist'ry of England in flourish.
The boys were all drown'd, and the rest ran away.
Independent Electors of Westminster both!
Without property, vote, house, maxim, or troth.
One cloak cover'd both, ill compos'd of raffriffry,
Old England, or Broadbottom Journal, by Jeff'ry:
With letters initial and dashes all ran over,
Hanover, Hanover, Hanover, Hanover:
Till the nauseated reader, no longer cou'd brook
The hoarse cuckow note, all bestain'd them with puke.
Then a couple of more Independent Electors,
Broadbottom Mæcenases both and protectors
Appear'd; one, forsooth, an Esquire by his name,
O! Ye buboes and shankers retire at his fame!
Mock doctor, mock mason, and mock politician.
His worthy associate as smart as a carrot,
As pert as a magpy, and loud as a parrot;
The Orator's genuine little game cock,
As good as e'er crow'd, or as strutted, or struck.
Inclos'd, as it were, in an odd masquerade,
Expressive, I deem, of his new-fashion'd trade;
Capuchin'd were his shoulders, his head in the cowl,
While a Broadbottom hoop went below round the whole.
“I am” (for to speak he'd a wonderful itch,
And as nimble his tongue as his fingers to stitch)
Quoth he, “an hoop-petticoat maker for fo'ks,
“Smock-under-coats too, capuchins and short cloaks,
“Fine masquerade dresses shap'd out with an air;
“Egad! I cou'd fit you all three to an hair.
“To dance Bobbin Joan in, or figure the haye,
“Made of Jeff'ry's state pamphlets, and Ralph's Gazetteers
“His Champions, his Craftsmen, and all their Picqueers!
“What a contrast they'd form, with their pro and their con?
“Here for Bluestring a patch, there against him and John.
“For Hanover this, and for old England that,
“Plain Abuse on the King, and some hints for the State.
“And yet is your masque, as you are, much more true,
“For who will expect to find Statesmen in you?
“Tho' I vary in spelling my name now and then,
“Sometimes without u and sometimes without n.
“Which indeed I can do in a very good stile.
“Yet my little fine boy has a third in the paper,
“(God love it! how much like the sire and how dapper!)
“'Tis I pay the reck'ning, whenever we meet,
“For to treat is my province, and theirs is to write.
Then, turning about on their honours his breech,
To the Placemen address'd both his face and his speech,
Shook hands with them 'round, and familiarly
“We have knock'd, at the last, this great man on the head.
“We shall do very well, as our matters now fall-in,
“Believe, my good friends, little Broadbottom Palmerston.
“We shall now see our fleet even Paris attack,
“And a Vernon flag'd out for old foul-weatherjack.
“For where there's a Navy, an Army's a joke.
“The septennial revers'd, and enquiries set up,
“All Placemen expell'd, and for Robin a rope.
“Rare times! as the speech-makers all of the House
“Are in posts, and none left to say, boh to a goose.
“Your custom, is all that I ask, for my wife,
“Her commodity's wond'rously good, on my life.
“She's to all Independent Electors genteel,
“Her friends, e'er they buy, are all welcome to feel.”
Then Esquire, less renown'd for his plaisterbox trade,
Than for annual custom of mock cavalcade,
Who, as tir'd of his forceps, his lancet and probe,
His syringe, his pharmacy, bandage and daub;
Had apply'd to spread out a good plaister of State,
To cure ev'ry ail in a Minister's pate.
And to Greenwich row down for a place with the tide.
Quoth Ralph, “To the Cofferer's office I'll fly.”
Quoth the third, “To the old Cotton library I,”
For the long promis'd patent, so usefully earn'd
By my eminent self, so well known 'mong the learn'd!
If they grant it, my pen and my country I'll drop;
If not, they shall know I a'n't easy to stop.
And, quoth little state Palmerston, “I'll home to my shop.”
An Epigram, ON QUIN, THE COMEDIAN.
WHEN Quin, of all grace, and all dignity void,Murdered Cato the censor, and Brutus destroy'd;
He strutted, he mouthed, you no passion could trace
To his action, deliv'ry, or plumb-pudding face.
He was suffer'd, because we of actors had dearth;
But, when Foote, with strong judgment, and genuine wit,
Upon all his peculiar absurdities hit;
When Garrick arose with those talents and fire,
Which nature and all the nine Muses inspire;
Poor Guts was neglected, or laugh'd off the stage,
So bursting with envy, and tortur'd with rage:
He damn'd the whole town in a fury, and fled,
Little boys an extinguisher clapp'd on his head.
Yet we never shall Falstaff behold so well done,
With such character, humour, such spirit, such fun;
Glutton, parasite, pander, pimp, letcher, or liar;
He felt as he spoke, Nature's dictates are true,
When he acted the part, his own picture he drew.
An Epigram ON LORD ANSON AND HIS LADY.
AS Anson, his voyage to my Lady was reading,And recounting his dangers, (thank God, she's not breeding)
He came to the passage, where, like the old Roman,
He stoutly withstood the temptation of Woman;
The Baroness smiled when, continuing, he said,
“Think what terror must there fill the poor lover's head!”
“Alack,” quoth my Lady, “he had nothing to fear,
“Were that Scipio as harmless as you are, my dear.”
III. VOL. III.
ON BENEVOLENCE:
AN EPISTLE TO EUMENES.
Once more I try the patience of your ear.
Not oft I sing; the happier for the town,
So stunn'd already they're quite stupid grown
With monthly, daily—charming things I own.
Happy for them, I seldom court the Nine;
Another art, a serious art, is mine.
Of nauseous verses offer'd once a week,
You cannot say I did it, if you're sick.
'Twas ne'er my pride to shine by flashy fits
Amongst the Daily Advertiser wits.
Content if some few friends indulge my name,
So slightly am I stung with Love of Fame,
Not for the praise of all the magazines.
And, if our Sire Apollo pleases, write.
You smile; but all the train the Muse that follow,
Christians and dunces, still we quote Apollo.
Unhappy still our Poets will rehearse
To Goths, that stare astonish'd at their verse;
To the rank tribes submit their virgin lays:
So gross, so bestial, is the lust of praise!
And write to those who most my subject feel.
Eumenes, these dry moral lines I trust
With you, whom nought that's moral can disgust.
With you I venture, in plain home-spun sense,
What I imagine of Benevolence.
What strikes you most is the low selfish mind.
The steady miser can his years employ;
Without one friend, howe'er his fortunes thrive,
Despis'd and hated, how he bears to live.
With honest warmth of heart, with some degree
Of Pity that such wretched things should be.
You scorn the sordid knave—He grins at you,
And deems himself the wiser of the two.—
'Tis all but taste, howe'er we sift the case;
He has his joy, as every creature has.
'Tis true, he cannot boast an angel's share,
Yet has what happiness his organs bear.
Thou likewise mad'st the high seraphic soul,
Maker Omnipotent! and thou the owl.
Heav'n form'd him too, and doubtless for some use;
But Crane-court knows not yet all nature's views.
Makes life insipid, bestial, or divine.
Better be born, with Taste, to little rent,
Than the dull monarch of a continent.
Can Fortune make one favourite happy?—No.
As well might Fortune in her frolic vein,
Proclaim an oyster sovereign of the main.
Without fine nerves, and bosom justly warm'd,
An eye, an ear, a fancy, to be charm'd,
In vain majestic Wren expands the dome;
Blank as pale stucco Rubens lines the room;
Lost are the raptures of bold Handel's strain;
Great Tully storms, sweet Virgil sings, in vain.
The beauteous forms of nature are effac'd;
Tempè's soft charms, the raging watry waste,
Each greatly-wild, each sweet romantic scene
Unheeded rises, and almost unseen.
To soothe the toils of life's embarrass'd way.
These the fine frame with charming horrors chill,
And give the nerves delightfully to thrill.
But of all taste the noblest and the best,
The first enjoyment of the generous breast,
Scenes of content, and happy turns of fate.
Fair views of nature, shining works of art,
Amuse the fancy: but those touch the heart.
Chiefly for this proud epic song delights,
For this some riot on th' Arabian Nights.
Each case is ours: and for the human mind
'Tis monstrous not to feel for all mankind.
Were all mankind unhappy, who could taste
Elysium? or be solitarily blest?
Shock'd with surrounding shapes of human woe,
All that or sense or fancy could bestow,
You would reject with sick and coy disdain,
And pant to see one cheerful face again.
So much delight the man of generous mould;
How happy they, the great, the godlike few,
Who daily cultivate this pleasing view!
This is a joy possess'd by few indeed!
Dame Fortune has so many fools to feed,
To yield her smiles where Nature smil'd before.
To sinking worth a cordial hand to lend;
With better fortune to surprise a friend;
To cheer the modest Stranger's lonely state;
Or snatch an orphan family from fate;
To do, possess'd with virtue's noblest fire,
Such generous deeds as we with tears admire;
Deeds that, above Ambition's vulgar aim,
Secure an amiable, a solid fame:
These are such joys as Heaven's first favourites seize;
These please you now, and will for ever please.
The will, the power, th' occasion must conspire.
Yet few there are so impotent and low,
But can some small good offices bestow.
Small as they are, however cheap they come,
They add still something to the gen'ral sum:
And him who gives the little in his power,
The world acquits; and heaven demands no more.
Yet no relief, no comfort can bestow.
Unhappy too, who feels each kind essay,
And for great favours has but words to pay;
Who, scornful of the flatterer's fawning art,
Dreads ev'n to pour his gratitude of heart;
And with a distant lover's silent pain
Must the best movements of his soul restrain.
But men sagacious to explore mankind
Trace ev'n the coyest passions of the mind.
In good and bad, Distress demands it still.
This, with the generous, lays distinction low,
Endears a friend, and recommends a foe.
Not that resentment never ought to rise;
For even excess of virtue ranks with vice:
And there are villanies no bench can awe,
That sport without the limits of the law.
No laws th' ungenerous crime would reprehend,
Could I forgot Eumenes was my friend.
The wretch who blasts a helpless virgin's fame.
Where laws are dup'd, 'tis nor unjust nor mean
To seize the proper time for honest spleen.
An open candid foe I could not hate,
Nor even insult the base in humbled state;
But thriving malice tamely to forgive—
'Tis somewhat late to be so primitive.
But I detain you with these tedious lays,
Which few perhaps would read, and fewer praise.
No matter: could I please the polish'd few
Who taste the serious or the gay like you,
The squeamish mob may find my verses bare
Of every grace—but curse me if I care.
Besides, I little court Parnassian fame;
There's yet a better than a poet's name.
'Twould more indulge my pride to hear it said
That I with you the paths of honour tread,
Than that amongst the proud poetic train
No modern boasted a more classic vein,
Or that in numbers I let loose my song,
Smooth as the Thames, and as the Severn strong.
THE WIFE AND THE NURSE:
A NEW BALLAD.
I
VICE once with Virtue did engage,To win Jove's conqu'ring son;
So, for th' Alcides of our age,
As strange a fray begun.
II
His wife and ancient nurse between,Arose this wond'rous strife:
The froward Hag, his heart to win,
Contended with his wife.
III
His wife, an island-nymph most fair,Bore plenty in her hand;
A crown adorns her regal hair,
Her graces love command.
IV
With modest dignity she stood;Fast down her lovely face
A stream of swelling sorrow flow'd,
A righteous cause to grace.
V
The tatter'd nurse, of aspect grum,Look'd prouder still than poor,
With lofty airs inspir'd by—mum—
The queen of beggars, sure:
VI
Mud was her dwelling, lean her plight,Her life on heaths she led;
With wreaths of turnip-tops bedight;
Her eyes were dull as lead.
VII
Yet thus the Caitiff, proud and poor,Our hero-judge address'd—
“Thy fondness all to me assure,
“To me, who loves thee best.
VIII
“I am thy aged nurse, so kind,“Who ne'er did cross thy will;
“Thy wife to all thy charms is blind,
“Perverse and thwarting still.
IX
“Give me her clothes,” (continued she),“With thy assistance soon
“Her costly robe may shine on me,
“On her my rags be thrown.
X
“Seize on her store of boasted gold,“Which she with jealous fear
“From thee still grudging would with-hold,
“And trust it to my care.”
XI
This caught the judge's partial ear.The lady of the isle
Spake next: “Thyself at least revere,
“And spurn this Caitiff vile.
XII
“With thine my int'rest is the same,“For thee my sailors toil;
“They for thy safety, pow'r, and fame,
“Enrich my spacious isle.
XIII
“Think too upon thy solemn vow,“When thou didst plight thy love,
“Thou cam'st to save me; wilt thou now
“Thy self my ruin prove?
XIV
“How was I courted, how ador'd!“More happy as thy bride;
“For thee, my safeguard, love and lord,
“I slighted all beside.
XV
“Do thou still act a guardian's part,“Nor be thy love estrang'd;
“Treat me but kindly and my heart
“Shall e'er remain unchang'd.
XVI
“By thee abandon'd, must I bend“Beneath thy nurse's scorn?
“No; live with me thyself, and send
“To her thy youngest born.
XVII
“Let not her mud-built walls thy stay“Before my tow'rs invite;
“Do not, beyond my verdure gay,
“In her brown heaths delight.
XVIII
“Do not her dingy streams prefer“To all my rivers clear;
“Good Heavens! looks poverty in her
“Than wealth in me more fair?”
XIX
The judge here lets his fury out,Unable to contain;
He frowns, he rolls his eyes about;
And to his wife began:
XX
“If she be poor, I'll make her rich;“Thy treasure she shall hold:
“Thou art a low, mechanic b---ch,
“Besides a cursed scold.
XXI
“My nurse is of imperial race,“By trade was never stain'd:
“What thou dost boast of is disgrace:
“Nurse, thou thy cause hast gain'd.”
XXII
Polite and candid, thus the judge:His creatures watch his call,
To raise (alas!) this dirty drudge
On his fair Consort's fall.
XXIII
Who first obeys th' unjust decree,Regardless of his fame,
To spoil and rob with cruel glee
That lovely island-dame?
XXIV
Hard by, a ready wight, beholdAspiring, rash, and wild;
Of parts too keen to be controll'd
By wisdom's dictates mild.
XXV
Still from the midnight-goblet hot,He fires his turgid brain,
With jarring schemes, from wine begot,
To ravage land and main.
XXVI
With these wild embryos, shapeless all,Without head, tail, or limb,
He lures his master to his call,
While both in fancy swim.
XXVII
He now receives th' absurd commandThis beauteous Queen to spoil:
Ah! deed unseemly for his hand,
A native of her isle.
XXVIII
He runs and strips her gracious browsOf her Imperial Crown
To dress the Hag, who quickly throws
Her turnip-garland down.
XXIX
Yet smiling greets the Queen, and swearsHe only means her good,
That exigencies of affairs
May want her heart's best blood.
XXX
Thus spoil'd, she sinks with sorrow faintBefore th' insulting Hag,
And, lest she publish her complaint,
Is menac'd with a gag.
XXXI
There lying, of her clothes she's stript,Her money too, we're told,
Into the judge's hand was slipt,
Ah! shameful thirst of gold!
XXXII
Against Apollo Midas oldGave judgment; did he worse
Than one who to his wife, for gold,
Could thus prefer his nurse?
XXXIII
Ah! yet recall her cruel fate,Mistaken judge, thy friend
Here warns thee; dangers soon or late
On Avarice attend.
XXXIV
In thy wife's ruin yet beholdThou dost thyself destroy;
Then cease to barter love, for gold
Which thou canst ne'er enjoy.
PLAIN THOUGHTS IN PLAIN LANGUAGE:
A NEW BALLAD.
1743.
I
ATTEND, ye brave BritonsOf every degree,
All you who deserve,
And resolve to be free;
Plain Thoughts will suffice,
And Plain Language will do,
When all we assert
Is known to be true.
Derry down, &c.
II
To save our old laws,A new monarch we took;
And well for those laws
An old tyrant forsook:
And should our old England
Again be at stake,
A curse on the slaves
Who the new won't forsake.
Derry down, &c.
III
This monarch, unskilledIn the nation's affairs,
A lover of wealth,
And a foe to all cares,
Resign'd to his statesmen
His kingdom itself,
And wink'd at their plunder
To share in the pelf.
Derry down, &c.
IV
He purchas'd abroad,While his ministers jobb'd;
And Hanover flourish'd,
While Britain was robb'd:
And when he chang'd hands
For a fresh set of men,
Where those took a shilling,
These villains took ten.
Derry down, &c.
V
This monarch deceas'd,His son did succeed;
A Prince more august,
Never came of his breed;
For tho' at his birth,
Lying wags had a fling,
He soon prov'd himself
The true son of a king.
Derry down, &c.
VI
Like measures he follow'd,Like servants he had;
And all things grew worse,
That before were too bad:
For Walpole still rul'd
With corruption and gold,
The monarch he bought,
And the nation he sold.
Derry down, &c.
VII
With armies at home,And with foreign troops paid;
With laws that cramp'd freedom,
As taxes cramp'd trade:
With maxims quite new,
He pursu'd his base ends,
And help'd our old foes
To oppress our old Friends.
Derry down, &c.
VIII
At length when CorruptionDrain'd treasuries dry,
And none would be bought—
For none offer'd to buy,
The courtiers quit leaders
They follow'd for pay,
And leaders turn courtiers,
Worse rascals than they.
Derry down, &c.
IX
My tale, Oh ye Britons!This moral does bring,
However descended,
A king is a king;
Whenever they're taken,
Most statesmen are knaves;
And patriots at court
Are the lowest of slaves.
Derry down, &c.
PLACE-BOOK FOR THE YEAR 1745:
A NEW BALLAD.
I
SINCE with the new year a new change hath begun,In spite of the father, in spite of the son;
Since those who were new, to more new must give way,
We all must confess that each dog has his day.
Derry down, &c.
II
But hold, let our verse in just order begin,To tell how at court all those heroes came in,
Those heroes who mean, like the old ones, to fool us,
How receiv'd by the Captain and hopeful Iulus.
Derry down, &c.
III
Sir Clement stood ready, his gloves in his hand,When Bedford appear'd at the head of the band,
A sailor who ne'er lov'd salt water before;
Should you ask us why now?—look behind and see Gower.
Derry down, &c.
VI
See Gower, who the court had oppos'd thick and thin,Was out, then was in, then was out, and now in;
He kiss'd hands—then look'd pensive—as much as to say,
“I can't judge which is best, to go or to stay.”
Derry down, &c.
V
Next in lollop'd Sandwich, with negligent grace,For the sake of a lounge, not for love of a place,
Quoth he, “Noble captain, your fleets now shall nick it,
“For I'll sit at your board, when at leisure from Cricket.”
Derry down, &c.
VI
The circle divides—who could fill such a spaceBut Broadbottom Cotton's broad rump, and broad face?
The King turn'd—let a f---t, which he strove for to smother,
—'Twas only Bum Royal saluting his brother.
Derry down, &c.
VII
Cries Jackey, “Great Sir, since I'm nam'd Chambermaid.“I henceforth will bely what I've hitherto said,
“Of Hogsheads to James I have drank not a few,
“But now paid, I will drink full as many to you.”
Derry down, &c.
VIII
Quoth Philips “No Roman the Welch could subdue,“But behold, Sir, I yield to your money—not you;
“Henceforth let Sir William assert, if he can,
“That his honest true Britons are true to a man.”
Derry down, &c.
IX
Next Pitt who has lately commenc'd to be loyal,Stood shiv'ring like Pelham, expecting kick royal;
He star'd, and he gap'd, and a speech would have made,
But only could say,—“I'm not us'd to the trade.”
Derry down, &c.
X
Gods! how we're perplex'd by promotions and claims!I'd sing of new measures, I'm sick of new names,
To write of fresh Placemen each year was a folly,
I'm tir'd of the text—leave the subject to Colley.
Derry down, &c.
OLD ENGLAND's TE DEUM.
WE complain of Thee, O King, we acknowledge Thee to be an Hanoverian.All Hungary doth worship Thee, the Captain Everlasting.
To Thee all Placemen cry aloud, the House of Lords, and all the Courtiers therein.
To Thee Carteret and Bath continually do cry,
Warlike, warlike, warlike Captain General, of the Armies! Brunswick and Lunenburgh are full of the brightness of our coin.
The venal company of Peers praise Thee.
The goodly fellowship of Ministers praise Thee.
The noble Army of Hanoverians praise Thee.
Thine honourable, true and steady Son.
Also my Lady Yarmouth the comforter.
Thou art a glorious Prince, O King!
Thou art the ever charming Son of the Father.
When thou tookest upon Thee to deliver this nation, thou didst not abhor thy Father's example.
When thou hadst overcome the sharpness of want, thou didst open the smiles of thy favour to all believers in a Court.
Thou sittest at the right hand of --- in the Treasury of the Father.
We believe that thou shalt come to be our scourge.
We therefore pray Thee provide for thy servants, whom thou hast fed with thy renown.
Make them to be numbered with thy slaves in livery everlasting.
O King, spare thy people of England.
Govern them as Thou hast done us.
And confine them to their turnips for ever.
Day by day we sing ballads unto Thee.
And we bawl against Hanover, ever world without end.
Vouchsafe O King, to keep us this year without thy Hanoverians.
The Lord have Mercy upon us; the Lord have Mercy upon us.
O King let thy Mercy lighten our taxes, as our Credit should be in Thee.
O King in Thee have I trusted, let me not be confounded.
Valour be to the Father, common sense to the Son, and a young bed-fellow to the Countess of Yarmouth; as was not in the beginning, is not now, nor is ever like to be, world without end:
THE MERRY CAMPAIGN;
OR THE WESTMINSTER AND GREEN-PARK SCUFFLE:
A NEW COURT BALLAD.
And eke our Commons all;
A woful scuffle late there was,
Near Litigation-hall.
Bold Crowle he took his way;
His Lordship's bones might rue that night,
The drubbing of that day.
Brave Crowle th' attack begun,
Which from his Lordship's batter'd sconce
Soon made the blood to run.
Full fraught with fury dire,
His breast glow'd with indignant shame,
To be drubb'd by a 'squire.
On head, back, sides, and all;
Good Lord! how echo'd then the rooms!
Near Litigation-hall.
Cry'd out with might and main,
A plot upon the ministry,
We all shall here be slain.
Whence came the dreadful sound;
And saw the champions stout engag'd,
With many a bleeding wound.
Ye bold and hardy wights:
Know ye not these walls sacred are
To peace, and peaceful knights.
You caus'd here these alarms,
You would be ta'en in custody,
Of serjeant 'clep'd at arms.
Did farther harm prevent;
God knows there how much precious blood
Had otherwise been spent.
And bloody vengeance vow'd,
On him who had him thus abus'd,
To cane him 'fore a crowd.
And these words strait did write,
Which by a brother Peer he sent,
His second in this fight.
“I mean thy blood to spill,
“Because we will not parted be,
“On Constitution-hill.
“As I have one provided,
“That all our quarrels there at once
“May fairly be decided.”
And for the lawyer sent,
Who to him instantly repairs,
Suspecting the event.
Was not the least dismay'd;
But, with a bold undaunted air,
Thus to the Peer he said:
“With as much joy receive,
“As would a condemn'd criminal,
“At Tyburn, a reprieve.
“Arm'd with my trusty steel,
“We soon shall see if he's a man
“Whose arm my blood can spill.”
Unto the Park he flies,
Where long he had not been before
The two Peers he espies.
“Shall now revenged be,
“Or by my fall or thine”—this said,
He drew full manfully.
And many thrusts were made,
On both sides, but no deadly wounds
Were given, as is said.
Straitway ran in and clos'd,
And much blood had been shed, had not
Their seconds interpos'd.
“And what a lawyer too!
“But, thanks to Fate! they parted were,
“Nor did much harm ensue.
“And peace and plenty send,
“And grant that all domestic broils
“May have as harmless end.”
LABOUR IN VAIN.
A SONG, AN HUNDRED YEARS OLD.
I
YE patriots, who twenty long yearsHave struggled our rights to maintain;
View the end of your labours and fears,
And see them all ended in vain.
II
Behold! in the front stands your Hero,Behind him his patriot train;
Hear him rail at a tyrant and Nero;
Yet his railing all ended in vain.
III
Then see him attack a Convention,And calling for vengeance on Spain;
What pity such noble contention
And spirit should end all in vain!
IV
That the Place-bill he got for the nation,Was only a shadow, is plain;
For now 'tis a clear demonstration,
The substance is ended in vain.
V
His bloody and horrible vow,Which once gave the Courtiers such pain,
No longer alarums them now,
For his threats are all ended in vain.
VI
What though the Committee have found,That Or---d's a traitor in grain;
Yet wiser than they may compound,
And justice be ended in vain.
VII
How certain would be our undoing,Should the people their wishes obtain?
Then to save us from danger of ruin,
He has ended our wishes in vain.
VIII
Then let us give thanks and be glad,That he knew how our passions to rein,
And wisely prevented the bad,
By ending the good all in vain.
IX
About Brutus let Rome disagree,We won't from our praises refrain;
Our Brutus has more cause than he
To declare even virtue in vain.
X
Three thousand five hundred a year,He valu'd it not of a grain;
His scorn of such filth is most clear,
Since that too he ended in vain.
XI
Corruption he hates like a toad,And calls it the National Bane,
Yet damn'd T---s, his virtue to load,
Say, that all is not ended in vain.
XII
He rejects all employments and places,And thinks ev'ry pension a stain;
Yet T---s, with their damn'd sly faces,
Say, that all is not ended in vain.
XIII
In spite of his caution and care,To avoid the appearance of gain,
Say those Tories, his wife has a share,
And all is not ended in vain.
THE EXPIRING SWAN,
ON LOSING HER MATE.
Written in 1741.
His warmer beams withdrew;
Inviting kindly all to rest,
And bid the plains adieu;
Bright Luna's charms display'd,
The Goddess deck'd in silver ray,
Supply'd the day decay'd.
A dying Swan complain'd;
While sad departing love's her theme,
Her mournful throat thus strain'd:
“Philander's loss I mourn;
“Was ever I with others seen,
“Why am I thus alone.
“By man's unlucky game;
“A victim fell, or he'd been here,
“Who never slack'd his flame.
“My love shall egg me on;
“When in Elysium happy we,
“We'll glide the Halcyon.
“And all the feather'd train;
“Of Love's kind passion have a care,
“Lest you like me complain.
“Alas, to part I weep;
“Thy rush and ozier oft our shade,
“Where murmurs lull'd our sleep.
“Ye purling streams adieu!
“Since then the gay Philander's dead,
“Sylvia's no more with you.”
Then from the stream retired;
Her grave she made where rushes are,
And, sighing, there expired.
TO CHLOE:
A PERSUASIVE TO LOVE.
SINCE Nature ne'er acted in vain,Say, Chloe, why are you so fair?
Was beauty designed to give pain,
And wit only meant for a snare?
No, no, you were form'd to delight,
And here all your business is love;
What Nature design'd must be right,
Her dictates we are bound to approve.
Haste, then, let us time now employ,
And ev'ry refinement improve;
Make life a full circle of joy,
Its centre immutable love.
In pleasure we'll sport ev'ry day,
And ne'er take account of our hours;
Let time fly as swift as he may,
The present must always be ours.
THE FAIR MORALIST.
AS late by Thames's verdant side,With solitary pensive air,
Fair Chloe search'd the silver tide,
With pleasing hope and patient care:
Forth as she cast the silken fly,
And musing stroll'd the bank along;
She thought no list'ning ear was nigh,
While thus she tun'd her moral song:
“The poor unhappy thoughtless fair,
“Like the mute race are oft undone;
“These with a gilded fly we snare,
“With gilded flatt'ry those are won.
“Careless, like them, they frolic round,
“And sportive toss th'alluring bait;
“At length they feel the treach'rous wound,
“And struggle to be free too late.
“Of gaudy colours lurks a hook!
“Cautious the bearded mischief view,
“And ere you leap, be sure to look.”
More she'd have sung, when, from the shade
Rush'd forth gay Damon, brisk and young;
And, whatsoe'er he did, or said,
Poor Chloe quite forgot her song.
On Pope's having just published his Dunciad.
AT length Pope conquers; Hervey, Wortley, yield,And nameless numbers cover all the field:
Just so of old, or Roman story lies,
Domitian triumph'd o'er a host of flies.
VERSES BY SIR C. HANBURY WILLIAMS,
ADDRESSED TO HIS DAUGHTER THE COUNTESS OF ESSEX.
Your sex's much-lov'd enemy;
For other foes we are prepar'd,
And Nature puts us on our guard:
In that alone such charms are found,
We court the dart, we nurse the hand;
And this, my child, an Æsop's Fable
Will prove much better than I'm able.
Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough,
And sitting there at ease,
Was going to indulge her taste,
In a most delicious feast,
Consisting of a slice of cheese.
Pass'd by that way
In search of prey;
When to his nose the smell of cheese,
Came in a gentle western breeze;
No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better:
He bless'd th' auspicious wind,
And strait look'd round to find,
What might his hungry stomach fill,
And quickly spied the Crow,
Upon a lofty bough,
Holding the tempting prize within her bill.
But she was perch'd too high,
And Reynard could not fly:
She chose the tallest tree in all the wood,
What then could bring her down?
Or make the prize his own?
Nothing but flatt'ry could.
He soon the silence broke,
And thus ingenious hunger spoke:
“Oh, lovely bird,
“Whose glossy plumage oft has stirr'd
“Thy form was Nature's pleasing care,
“So bright a bloom, so soft an air,
“All that behold must love.
“But, if to suit a form like thine,
“Thy voice be as divine;
“If both in these together meet,
“The feather'd race must own
“Of all their tribe there's none,
“Of form so fair, of voice so sweet.
“Who'll then regard the linnet's note,
“Or heed the lark's melodious throat?
“What pensive lovers then shall dwell
“With raptures on their Philomel?
“The goldfinch shall his plumage hide,
“The swan abate her stately pride,
“And Juno's bird no more display
“His various glories to the sunny day:
“Then grant thy Suppliant's prayer,
“And bless my longing ear
“With notes that I would die to hear!”
The tale, and was with joy deceiv'd;
In haste to show her want of skill,
She open'd wide her bill:
She scream'd as if the de'el was in her;
Her vanity became so strong
That, wrapt in her own frightful song,
She quite forgot, and dropt her dinner:
The morsel fell quick by the place
Where Reynard lay,
Who seized the prey
And eat it without saying grace.
“My end's obtain'd,
“The prize is gain'd,
“And now I'll change my note.
“Vain, foolish, cheated, Crow,
“Lend your attention now,
“A truth or two I'll tell you;
“For, since I've fill'd my belly,
“Of course my flatt'ry's done:
“And spoke so well only to hear you croak?
“No, 'twas the luscious bait,
“And a keen appetite to eat,
“That first inspir'd, and carried on the cheat.
“'Twas hunger furnish'd hands and matter,
“Flatterers must live by those they flatter;
“But weep not, Crow; a tongue like mine
“Might turn an abler head than thine;
“And though reflection may displease,
“If wisely you apply your thought,
“To learn the lesson I have taught,
“Experience, sure, is cheaply bought,
“And richly worth a slice of cheese.”
VERSES,
Written by Sir C. H. Williams, on seeing a Man with a heavy Load on his Back and an Oak Leaf in his Hat on the 29th of May— Communicated by Wm. Coombes, Esq., Henley on Thames.
“Or King, or Restoration?
“'Twill make no difference to you,
“Whoever rules the nation.
“Still bend thy back with toil;
“Still must thou trudge the self-same road,
“While great ones share the spoil.”
The Works of the Right Honourable Sir Chas. Hanbury Williams | ||