The Curate A Poem. Inscribed to All the Curates in England and Wales. By the Author of the Powers of the Pen |
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 | The Curate |  |
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THE CURATE.
Is there a muse among the tuneful Nine,
Will give her hand, and let me call her mine?
Will deign a little homely cot approach,
And walk with him who cannot keep a coach?
Will take a bard for better or for worse,
And plight her troth before she weighs his purse?
Who knows that Chance is queen of earthly things,
Nor gives her precious self to kneeling kings;
Who knows from instances upon record,
A lord may be a fool, a fool a lord;
Who holds good sense a far more precious dow'r,
Than riches, honours, equipage, or pow'r;
Whose native taste so pure, and so refin'd,
Will own no charms but those that grace the mind:
To kneeling dukes, and supplicating earls,
Mildly replies, “Go—woo young giddy girls,
“Who sigh for tinsel coats, and gilded car,
“And the celestial pressure of a star;
“In vain to hope my favour are you led,
“From the bare merit of a silver-thread;
“The emptiness of forms too plain I see,
“Garters, and crowns themselves, are toys with me;
“Stars shew nor patriot heart, nor statesman's skill,
“Lords, like card-matches, may be made at will;
“And he who ranks as Knighthood's glorious chief,
“Shares the high honour with a loin of beef:
“These gifts among the mob of Fortune fall;
“One grain of honesty is worth them all—
“Cease then to sue on such a vain pretence;
“The dow'ry I demand, is wit, and sense.”
Will give her hand, and let me call her mine?
Will deign a little homely cot approach,
And walk with him who cannot keep a coach?
Will take a bard for better or for worse,
And plight her troth before she weighs his purse?
Who knows that Chance is queen of earthly things,
Nor gives her precious self to kneeling kings;
Who knows from instances upon record,
A lord may be a fool, a fool a lord;
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Than riches, honours, equipage, or pow'r;
Whose native taste so pure, and so refin'd,
Will own no charms but those that grace the mind:
To kneeling dukes, and supplicating earls,
Mildly replies, “Go—woo young giddy girls,
“Who sigh for tinsel coats, and gilded car,
“And the celestial pressure of a star;
“In vain to hope my favour are you led,
“From the bare merit of a silver-thread;
“The emptiness of forms too plain I see,
“Garters, and crowns themselves, are toys with me;
“Stars shew nor patriot heart, nor statesman's skill,
“Lords, like card-matches, may be made at will;
“And he who ranks as Knighthood's glorious chief,
“Shares the high honour with a loin of beef:
“These gifts among the mob of Fortune fall;
“One grain of honesty is worth them all—
“Cease then to sue on such a vain pretence;
“The dow'ry I demand, is wit, and sense.”
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If there's a muse (and sure ye all are so,
For well the real worth of things ye know)
Who not disdains a tatter'd Curate's suit,
Whose richest portion is a silver-lute,
And hopes, without fond flattery to self,
A heart that may atone the lack of pelf,
Be now my helpmate! and assist to string
And tune this lute, the Curate's lot to sing.
For well the real worth of things ye know)
Who not disdains a tatter'd Curate's suit,
Whose richest portion is a silver-lute,
And hopes, without fond flattery to self,
A heart that may atone the lack of pelf,
Be now my helpmate! and assist to string
And tune this lute, the Curate's lot to sing.
While Nature was a girl, a village-maid,
That 'midst the bumpkin world the hoyden play'd,
Loose and unzon'd, and ere her guilty fall,
Rich to exuberance, gave all to all,
The luscious milk free streaming from the breast,
To each whose amorous hand her bosom prest;
Corn, wine, and oil, promiscuous were bestow'd,
And Canaan's blessings all spontaneous flow'd:
No monarch then sat lazy on the throne,
Among the busy hive himself a drone;
No ministers on taxed nations fed,
Nor gorg'd down countries, while the people bled;
No mitred pastor was by law decreed,
To fleece the flock which he disdain'd to feed;
No gutling priest whose gospel is a pye,
Whose heav'n to grunt in Epicurus' stye,
Reap'd the rich harvest of another's toil,
And, tho' he shunn'd the battle, claim'd the spoil.
Man then no patron knew, of none had need;
A fair allotment was to all decreed;
Nature to all reach'd out a parent's care,
And of her gifts gave each an equal share;
No fav'rite was preferr'd to all the rest,
His brothers scorn'd, and only he caress'd;
Bounteous without distinction she was found,
And all her family play'd smiling round.
That 'midst the bumpkin world the hoyden play'd,
Loose and unzon'd, and ere her guilty fall,
Rich to exuberance, gave all to all,
The luscious milk free streaming from the breast,
To each whose amorous hand her bosom prest;
Corn, wine, and oil, promiscuous were bestow'd,
And Canaan's blessings all spontaneous flow'd:
No monarch then sat lazy on the throne,
Among the busy hive himself a drone;
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Nor gorg'd down countries, while the people bled;
No mitred pastor was by law decreed,
To fleece the flock which he disdain'd to feed;
No gutling priest whose gospel is a pye,
Whose heav'n to grunt in Epicurus' stye,
Reap'd the rich harvest of another's toil,
And, tho' he shunn'd the battle, claim'd the spoil.
Man then no patron knew, of none had need;
A fair allotment was to all decreed;
Nature to all reach'd out a parent's care,
And of her gifts gave each an equal share;
No fav'rite was preferr'd to all the rest,
His brothers scorn'd, and only he caress'd;
Bounteous without distinction she was found,
And all her family play'd smiling round.
Such were the days ere Nature's guilty fall,
Life was all honey, unalloy'd with gall;
But Sin, enamour'd of her beauteous face,
Ravish'd young Nature in a lewd embrace.
Of the accurs'd embrace accurs'd the son,
For Insolence of office then begun;
And bastardizing Nature's eldest born
Was Deputation—man taught man to scorn
Brother to tread on brother, and aspire
By office great to trample on his sire:
The lust of pow'r in every bosom burn'd,
And Nature's first equality o'erturn'd.
Life was all honey, unalloy'd with gall;
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Ravish'd young Nature in a lewd embrace.
Of the accurs'd embrace accurs'd the son,
For Insolence of office then begun;
And bastardizing Nature's eldest born
Was Deputation—man taught man to scorn
Brother to tread on brother, and aspire
By office great to trample on his sire:
The lust of pow'r in every bosom burn'd,
And Nature's first equality o'erturn'd.
Earth to her center shook—and Nature's frame
Was chang'd, and now her fruitful womb became
Barren; and all her organs of increase
Well nigh dried up; spontaneous harvests cease;
The purple clusters of the vineyard fail,
Ceres withdraws her bounty from the vale;
Vertumnus, erst the generous vernal king,
Now locks the budding riches of the spring;
Flora, who Nature once so trimly drest,
Now pluck'd the fading roses from her breast;
Pomona's golden stores no more abound,
That gilded o'er the vast horizon round;
All Nature's Agents now the miser play'd,
And scant provision for her children made;
Old Hiems only liberal was found,
Scatt'ring his ice, like morsels, all around.
The hill, the grove, the meadow, and the field,
No more their vegetable treasures yield,
With bounty unconstrain'd—a niggard grown,
Earth will no harvest give, but what is sown;
Will let her breast be torn up with the plow,
And asks the salt-drops of the lab'rer's brow,
Ere she will yield increase, and pay his toil,
With the rich blessings treasur'd in her soil;
For Nature had decreed, that all should learn,
Before they eat, their nourishment to earn.
Was chang'd, and now her fruitful womb became
Barren; and all her organs of increase
Well nigh dried up; spontaneous harvests cease;
The purple clusters of the vineyard fail,
Ceres withdraws her bounty from the vale;
Vertumnus, erst the generous vernal king,
Now locks the budding riches of the spring;
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Now pluck'd the fading roses from her breast;
Pomona's golden stores no more abound,
That gilded o'er the vast horizon round;
All Nature's Agents now the miser play'd,
And scant provision for her children made;
Old Hiems only liberal was found,
Scatt'ring his ice, like morsels, all around.
The hill, the grove, the meadow, and the field,
No more their vegetable treasures yield,
With bounty unconstrain'd—a niggard grown,
Earth will no harvest give, but what is sown;
Will let her breast be torn up with the plow,
And asks the salt-drops of the lab'rer's brow,
Ere she will yield increase, and pay his toil,
With the rich blessings treasur'd in her soil;
For Nature had decreed, that all should learn,
Before they eat, their nourishment to earn.
Labour and Profit then went hand in hand,
And Industry cou'd Fortune's wheel command—
But Passions rose, a mutinying crew,
And the fair order of the world o'erthrew.
Ambition throbbing in some tyrant-breast,
Urg'd one proud man to lord it o'er the rest;
Urg'd on his brethren's neck to raise a throne,
And rob their coffers to enrich his own;
T' assume high office, title, and controul,
And, though by nature equal, rule the whole.
But soon he found, that to erect a throne
Was easier, than to keep it still his own;
For rebel spirits made it toil to reign,
Nor suffer'd slav'ry, without giving pain.—
Thus, from the world's instinctive love of ease,
Sceptres lost more than half their pow'r to please.
And, but for substituted office, kings
And emperors had been unenvy'd things;
Monarchs had flung their sceptres to the seas,
And giv'n up kingdoms to redeem their ease:
But Indolence, enchantment on her tongue,
The joys of kings with syren-sweetness sung.
“Ye mighty Monarchs of the earth attend!
“Receive these golden precepts from a friend!
“Your truest friend! for I will rid your crown
“Of thorns, and give more softness to its down—
“Depute some vassal subject to sustain
“The load of troubles that molest your reign!
“But to yourselves the gain and title keep,
“And from your greatness prove your right to sleep!
“Your right to doze in Morpheus' opiate bow'rs,
“And sink on sofa's of the softest flowers;
“Lull'd to repose by Hybla's murmuring bees,
“And fann'd with young Favonius' essenc'd breeze;
“Yourselves at ease may load your Viceroy's back,
“With cares of state their toughest sinews crack,—
“While they, like Sisyphus, toil up the hill,
“You in your pleasures may be Monarchs still;
“Pandars may send to Cythereän groves,
“To summon all the Graces and the Loves;
“Then let your eye with curious search survey
“The blooming ranks in Beauty's bright array;
“'Till one more lovely than the rest is found,
“Her lilly temples with musk-roses bound,
“Her tresses playing with the wanton breeze,
“Her bosom heaving soft as summer seas;
“White as the snow on Taurus' height her breast,
“Rounded by love, and suing to be prest;
“Whose robe loose-flowing shews her lovely waist,
“Firm tho' unzon'd, and (but in wishes) chaste;
“Crimson'd with blushes, that those parts are shewn,
“Which maiden modesty wou'd keep unknown;
“Charms which a holy anchorite shou'd shun;
“Lest Virtue shou'd by Beauty be undone!
“Charms! that with full enjoyment cannot cloy,
“But stir a sated appetite to joy!
“Charms! at which Venus' cheek with envy fades!
“With her retire to dark embow'ring shades,
“And copious draughts of Cyprian pleasures take—
“—Or, if 'tis too much toil to keep awake,
“Claim ev'ry act of indolence your own,
“And be a sleeping Somnus on the throne;
“Be half-inanimate, and count it gain,
“For too much life wou'd bring you too much pain;
“Gape, yawn, and stretch—but let another close
“Your eylids, and by proxy blow your nose.”—
And Industry cou'd Fortune's wheel command—
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And the fair order of the world o'erthrew.
Ambition throbbing in some tyrant-breast,
Urg'd one proud man to lord it o'er the rest;
Urg'd on his brethren's neck to raise a throne,
And rob their coffers to enrich his own;
T' assume high office, title, and controul,
And, though by nature equal, rule the whole.
But soon he found, that to erect a throne
Was easier, than to keep it still his own;
For rebel spirits made it toil to reign,
Nor suffer'd slav'ry, without giving pain.—
Thus, from the world's instinctive love of ease,
Sceptres lost more than half their pow'r to please.
And, but for substituted office, kings
And emperors had been unenvy'd things;
Monarchs had flung their sceptres to the seas,
And giv'n up kingdoms to redeem their ease:
But Indolence, enchantment on her tongue,
The joys of kings with syren-sweetness sung.
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“Receive these golden precepts from a friend!
“Your truest friend! for I will rid your crown
“Of thorns, and give more softness to its down—
“Depute some vassal subject to sustain
“The load of troubles that molest your reign!
“But to yourselves the gain and title keep,
“And from your greatness prove your right to sleep!
“Your right to doze in Morpheus' opiate bow'rs,
“And sink on sofa's of the softest flowers;
“Lull'd to repose by Hybla's murmuring bees,
“And fann'd with young Favonius' essenc'd breeze;
“Yourselves at ease may load your Viceroy's back,
“With cares of state their toughest sinews crack,—
“While they, like Sisyphus, toil up the hill,
“You in your pleasures may be Monarchs still;
“Pandars may send to Cythereän groves,
“To summon all the Graces and the Loves;
“Then let your eye with curious search survey
“The blooming ranks in Beauty's bright array;
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“Her lilly temples with musk-roses bound,
“Her tresses playing with the wanton breeze,
“Her bosom heaving soft as summer seas;
“White as the snow on Taurus' height her breast,
“Rounded by love, and suing to be prest;
“Whose robe loose-flowing shews her lovely waist,
“Firm tho' unzon'd, and (but in wishes) chaste;
“Crimson'd with blushes, that those parts are shewn,
“Which maiden modesty wou'd keep unknown;
“Charms which a holy anchorite shou'd shun;
“Lest Virtue shou'd by Beauty be undone!
“Charms! that with full enjoyment cannot cloy,
“But stir a sated appetite to joy!
“Charms! at which Venus' cheek with envy fades!
“With her retire to dark embow'ring shades,
“And copious draughts of Cyprian pleasures take—
“—Or, if 'tis too much toil to keep awake,
“Claim ev'ry act of indolence your own,
“And be a sleeping Somnus on the throne;
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“For too much life wou'd bring you too much pain;
“Gape, yawn, and stretch—but let another close
“Your eylids, and by proxy blow your nose.”—
The Syren scarce had her enchantment sung,
The honey still ran trickling from her tongue,
When all the Monarchs of the list'ning throng,
Grown truants at the music of her song,
The nectar'd poison drank—and from that day,
The weighty cares of empire shook away,
And fix'd the load on ministerial Elves,
But kept the crown and sceptre to themselves.—
The honey still ran trickling from her tongue,
When all the Monarchs of the list'ning throng,
Grown truants at the music of her song,
The nectar'd poison drank—and from that day,
The weighty cares of empire shook away,
And fix'd the load on ministerial Elves,
But kept the crown and sceptre to themselves.—
From one great Source the human nature springs,
And Subjects will be indolent as Kings—
Hence ev'ry Viceroy pays a Substitute,
And hence deputed Ministers depute;
Kings hireling Secretaries keep, and these
Must have their Secretaries too, for ease—
Bishops place Rectors thro' their holy sees,
And Rectors mince them into Curacies;
Each petty Principal a Clerk must keep,
And Chimney-sweepers by their Proxies sweep;
A Beggar purchases two wooden legs,
Gives them his Deputy, and thro' him begs.
And Subjects will be indolent as Kings—
Hence ev'ry Viceroy pays a Substitute,
And hence deputed Ministers depute;
Kings hireling Secretaries keep, and these
Must have their Secretaries too, for ease—
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And Rectors mince them into Curacies;
Each petty Principal a Clerk must keep,
And Chimney-sweepers by their Proxies sweep;
A Beggar purchases two wooden legs,
Gives them his Deputy, and thro' him begs.
'Mong all the wretches found on Proxy's list,
That crawl 'twixt heav'n and earth, and scarce subsist;
'Mong all the lots to which the poor is heir,
The hardest portion is the Curate's share.—
That crawl 'twixt heav'n and earth, and scarce subsist;
'Mong all the lots to which the poor is heir,
The hardest portion is the Curate's share.—
This is no raving of disgusted pride,
No random sense by passion misapply'd;
For, bring her to the proof, the Muse shall shew
From various instances, the truth is so.—
No random sense by passion misapply'd;
For, bring her to the proof, the Muse shall shew
From various instances, the truth is so.—
—To mend the feeling, to increase the sore,
Is misery refin'd, and nothing more—
Yet this the Curate's fate—his part demands
More than the contact of a Bishop's hands;
Demands those graces that adorn the mind,
And of refinements asks the most refin'd;
Asks all those classic flow'rs that once did bloom,
In Academus' grove, and antient Rome.
Is misery refin'd, and nothing more—
Yet this the Curate's fate—his part demands
More than the contact of a Bishop's hands;
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And of refinements asks the most refin'd;
Asks all those classic flow'rs that once did bloom,
In Academus' grove, and antient Rome.
This his high calling asks—and yet his lot
Throws him where all refinement is forgot:
Throws him among a rude unletter'd crowd,
Rude and unletter'd, but of purses proud;
Proud and contemptuous to a rusty gown,
Tho' from lawn sleeves all nonsense will go down—
Lovely's that ignorance that begs for light,
And kindly thanks the friend that sets it right—
To such, my soul, thy services thou ow'st,
For this, his gracious gists the Holy Ghost
Show'rs on the delegated Priest, in trust,
To give the meek, and shew that God is just.
From choice, as well as duty, such I'd teach,
And earn the kingdom, which to them I preach—
But the proud Fool, who, to the lack of sense,
The aggravation adds of insolence;
Who vainly thinks that Learning should submit
To gold, or Title take the lead of Wit;
Who thinks that Alma's Sons shou'd bare the head,
And crook the knee unto a thing of lead;
Who, for he's worth some hundred thousand pound,
The richest fool, search all the country round,
Will take it ill his Wealthiness is taught
To own him. Lord who was not worth a groat;
To such, (forgive, meek Saviour of us all,
That in my nature there is so much gall!)
So much my spirit with their pride is vext,
My foot should preach, a kick should be the text.
Turn where you will, you'll find on ev'ry side
The Curate slighted by the Tradesman's pride;
As if they paid their tythes and Easter-dues,
Only to qualisy them to abuse—
Few are th' exceptions of another stamp;
From the Lord-May'r to Tom that lights his lamp.
Throws him where all refinement is forgot:
Throws him among a rude unletter'd crowd,
Rude and unletter'd, but of purses proud;
Proud and contemptuous to a rusty gown,
Tho' from lawn sleeves all nonsense will go down—
Lovely's that ignorance that begs for light,
And kindly thanks the friend that sets it right—
To such, my soul, thy services thou ow'st,
For this, his gracious gists the Holy Ghost
Show'rs on the delegated Priest, in trust,
To give the meek, and shew that God is just.
From choice, as well as duty, such I'd teach,
And earn the kingdom, which to them I preach—
But the proud Fool, who, to the lack of sense,
The aggravation adds of insolence;
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To gold, or Title take the lead of Wit;
Who thinks that Alma's Sons shou'd bare the head,
And crook the knee unto a thing of lead;
Who, for he's worth some hundred thousand pound,
The richest fool, search all the country round,
Will take it ill his Wealthiness is taught
To own him. Lord who was not worth a groat;
To such, (forgive, meek Saviour of us all,
That in my nature there is so much gall!)
So much my spirit with their pride is vext,
My foot should preach, a kick should be the text.
Turn where you will, you'll find on ev'ry side
The Curate slighted by the Tradesman's pride;
As if they paid their tythes and Easter-dues,
Only to qualisy them to abuse—
Few are th' exceptions of another stamp;
From the Lord-May'r to Tom that lights his lamp.
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Wash'd from all dulness in the sacred well,
“Beside whose stream the Muses love to dwell,”
Baptiz'd a Classic, taught each lib'ral art,
That mends the head, or meliorates the heart;
Howe'er despis'd the Curate for his purse,
Religion bred him, Science was his nurse:
Pent in his study, converse he may hold,
Above the reach of Nabobs and their gold,
Where all the gems of India not admit,
The only ticket for access is Wit;
Can with Augustus pass a social hour,
Nor feel one slight from his superior pow'r;
With mighty Julius in his tent can dine,
And fight again his battles on the Rhine;
A classic ev'ning with Mæcenas spend,
Or laugh with Horace, his familiar friend;
Visit young Ammon at the royal feast,
And join the circle an unbidden guest;
Snatch'd up on Homer's wings can spurn the clods
Of earth, and rush to mingle with the gods—
With spirit thus dilated, how it galls
To hear how pert the Undertaker calls!
Loud his complaint that he is made to wait
Five minutes, hearse and coaches at the gate,
By thread-bare fellows—He, forsooth, wou'd have
Curates, like yew-trees, growing to the grave—
“My breath and blood,”—it is too much to bear
The vile mechanic's domineering air.
Note him—he trafficks in his brethren's dust—
If his good neighbours will not die—he must—
Broker to Death, and Taylor to the Dead,
To dress the Body, when the Soul is fled—
Yet are this reptile's taunts so rude, so loud,
You'd swear he sold the Curate with the shroud.—
—Hence to thy shop—prepare the worm his feast,
Nor dare profane the office of the Priest—
(The Muse wou'd find no trouble to her song,
To make exceptions as she goes along;
She knows but one exceptionable case,
And she a woman, who can hold her peace)
Heart-galling treatment! yet is this not all,
Not half the wrongs that to the Curate fall;
Others as sorely hurt his lib'ral soul,
Whose honest pride ill brooks usurp'd controul.
“Beside whose stream the Muses love to dwell,”
Baptiz'd a Classic, taught each lib'ral art,
That mends the head, or meliorates the heart;
Howe'er despis'd the Curate for his purse,
Religion bred him, Science was his nurse:
Pent in his study, converse he may hold,
Above the reach of Nabobs and their gold,
Where all the gems of India not admit,
The only ticket for access is Wit;
Can with Augustus pass a social hour,
Nor feel one slight from his superior pow'r;
With mighty Julius in his tent can dine,
And fight again his battles on the Rhine;
A classic ev'ning with Mæcenas spend,
Or laugh with Horace, his familiar friend;
Visit young Ammon at the royal feast,
And join the circle an unbidden guest;
Snatch'd up on Homer's wings can spurn the clods
Of earth, and rush to mingle with the gods—
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To hear how pert the Undertaker calls!
Loud his complaint that he is made to wait
Five minutes, hearse and coaches at the gate,
By thread-bare fellows—He, forsooth, wou'd have
Curates, like yew-trees, growing to the grave—
“My breath and blood,”—it is too much to bear
The vile mechanic's domineering air.
Note him—he trafficks in his brethren's dust—
If his good neighbours will not die—he must—
Broker to Death, and Taylor to the Dead,
To dress the Body, when the Soul is fled—
Yet are this reptile's taunts so rude, so loud,
You'd swear he sold the Curate with the shroud.—
—Hence to thy shop—prepare the worm his feast,
Nor dare profane the office of the Priest—
(The Muse wou'd find no trouble to her song,
To make exceptions as she goes along;
She knows but one exceptionable case,
And she a woman, who can hold her peace)
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Not half the wrongs that to the Curate fall;
Others as sorely hurt his lib'ral soul,
Whose honest pride ill brooks usurp'd controul.
The Wardens lo! uncivil and unbred!
Unlick'd, untaught, un-all-things—but unfed!—
When Sunday comes, these boors wou'd fain be beaux,
But can't put on good manners with good cloaths;
The vulgar manner, and the warehouse phrase,
Sticks to their tongue in whatsoe'er it says;
And when they don the Sunday suit of lace,
They doff the shopman's Epileptic face;
The greasy night-cap's thrown aside, and now
They buckle up the supercilious brow,
Heap on their leaden pate Sir Cloudesly's wig,
With all the little arts of looking big;
Grow rude to those to whom six days they bow'd;
If they can't be polite, they will be proud;
Will treat all Curates with contemptuous air,
Although the livery of Christ they wear;
“Servant to Christ! and what is that to me?
“I keep a servant too, as well as He:”—
Step to the Vestry—view the offic'd Fool,
You'd swear that there the beast was hard at st***l,
So close he keeps his seat, nor deigns to stir
When Curate comes, nor scarce “your Servant, Sir”—
And tho' they are but sweepers of the pews,
The Scullions of the Church, they dare abuse,
And rudely treat their betters, urg'd by pride,
As Grooms, tho' Horses Servants, mount and ride.
Unlick'd, untaught, un-all-things—but unfed!—
When Sunday comes, these boors wou'd fain be beaux,
But can't put on good manners with good cloaths;
The vulgar manner, and the warehouse phrase,
Sticks to their tongue in whatsoe'er it says;
And when they don the Sunday suit of lace,
They doff the shopman's Epileptic face;
The greasy night-cap's thrown aside, and now
They buckle up the supercilious brow,
Heap on their leaden pate Sir Cloudesly's wig,
With all the little arts of looking big;
Grow rude to those to whom six days they bow'd;
If they can't be polite, they will be proud;
Will treat all Curates with contemptuous air,
Although the livery of Christ they wear;
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“I keep a servant too, as well as He:”—
Step to the Vestry—view the offic'd Fool,
You'd swear that there the beast was hard at st***l,
So close he keeps his seat, nor deigns to stir
When Curate comes, nor scarce “your Servant, Sir”—
And tho' they are but sweepers of the pews,
The Scullions of the Church, they dare abuse,
And rudely treat their betters, urg'd by pride,
As Grooms, tho' Horses Servants, mount and ride.
Dine at a Parish-feast, and there review
The coarse behaviour of the glutton crew!
Each petty slave in office, greedy carves
The unctuous morsels while the Curate starves.
The coarse behaviour of the glutton crew!
Each petty slave in office, greedy carves
The unctuous morsels while the Curate starves.
Harsh tho' this usage, yet I this could bear,
Tho' rude enough to make a Parson swear;
A maxim might step in and take their part,
As, Injuries come only from the Heart;
And I might pity, rather than resent
Affronts, which as affronts were never meant;
Frankly excuse the slights they shew the Priest,
Nor hope for manners at a Parish-feast;
For rudely snatching custard, tart, or jelly,
Wardens and Girls alike, may plead their belly;
They are but human Wolves, a hungry race,
And Wolves may eat their dinner without grace.
Tho' rude enough to make a Parson swear;
A maxim might step in and take their part,
As, Injuries come only from the Heart;
18
Affronts, which as affronts were never meant;
Frankly excuse the slights they shew the Priest,
Nor hope for manners at a Parish-feast;
For rudely snatching custard, tart, or jelly,
Wardens and Girls alike, may plead their belly;
They are but human Wolves, a hungry race,
And Wolves may eat their dinner without grace.
The Clerk himself is saucy now and then,
But who would quarrel with a mere Amen?
But who would quarrel with a mere Amen?
To errors mild although th' indulgent Muse
Inclines instinctive rudeness to excuse,
Yet who so tame, so slavish, ('tis not meek)
That feels not when the scorner smites his cheek?
Whose blood half-frozen thro' his veins scarce creeps,
Whose spirit tamely under insults sleeps;
Who can unmov'd behold his Honour bleed,
And licks the hands that cuff him, if they feed;
Suffers reproaches from a wretch, whose Sense
Is but Preferment, and his Virtue, Pence;
Whose only science is to fill his bags,
Whose pastime is to tread on worth in rags;
Deep-read in the Divinity of Hell,
Who can the Prince of Pride, in Pride excel,
And truly orthodox in Satan's lore,
Will not forgive the Sin of being poor.—
Inclines instinctive rudeness to excuse,
Yet who so tame, so slavish, ('tis not meek)
That feels not when the scorner smites his cheek?
Whose blood half-frozen thro' his veins scarce creeps,
Whose spirit tamely under insults sleeps;
Who can unmov'd behold his Honour bleed,
And licks the hands that cuff him, if they feed;
19
Is but Preferment, and his Virtue, Pence;
Whose only science is to fill his bags,
Whose pastime is to tread on worth in rags;
Deep-read in the Divinity of Hell,
Who can the Prince of Pride, in Pride excel,
And truly orthodox in Satan's lore,
Will not forgive the Sin of being poor.—
I have not drank of Patience' well so deep,
To lay each feeling of my foul asleep;
I boast not iron ribs, nor heart of steel,
Raw is my flesh, and warm my blood to feel;
If insults come, they touch me as a Man,
And I must shake them from me as I can,
And dare, where'er a crying wrong I see,
Say, tho' a King had done it, Thou art He***
For this th' advent'rous Muse began the Song,
An anxious pleader 'gainst the Curate's wrong.
To lay each feeling of my foul asleep;
I boast not iron ribs, nor heart of steel,
Raw is my flesh, and warm my blood to feel;
If insults come, they touch me as a Man,
And I must shake them from me as I can,
And dare, where'er a crying wrong I see,
Say, tho' a King had done it, Thou art He***
For this th' advent'rous Muse began the Song,
An anxious pleader 'gainst the Curate's wrong.
20
Among the reverend row of M***d heads,
On whom the Church her choicest honours sheds,
Who have in charge as a peculiar care,
That Curates while they pray may live by pray'r;
Who should the profits of the Church divide
'Mong those by whom her service is supply'd;
Are there not some who from strict duty swerve,
Nor give the most to those who most deserve?
Who to themselves a little more have ta'en,
Than Conscience can allow, or Law maintain?
Who pick a few Commendams here and there,
Which to a needy Curate they might spare?
And are there none who wou'd usurp controul,
And fain be B****ps o'er the Clergy's soul,
Wou'd lord it o'er their Judgment, and demand
A Party-Vote, while Conscience is at stand?
And he who dares assert his will is free,
Is doom'd to starve upon a Curacy.—
On whom the Church her choicest honours sheds,
Who have in charge as a peculiar care,
That Curates while they pray may live by pray'r;
Who should the profits of the Church divide
'Mong those by whom her service is supply'd;
Are there not some who from strict duty swerve,
Nor give the most to those who most deserve?
Who to themselves a little more have ta'en,
Than Conscience can allow, or Law maintain?
Who pick a few Commendams here and there,
Which to a needy Curate they might spare?
And are there none who wou'd usurp controul,
And fain be B****ps o'er the Clergy's soul,
Wou'd lord it o'er their Judgment, and demand
A Party-Vote, while Conscience is at stand?
And he who dares assert his will is free,
Is doom'd to starve upon a Curacy.—
Sits there not one upon the holy bench,
Who makes Religion a convenient wench?
Who thinks she should go plain, but can for pay
Prove there's no harm in being somewhat gay;
Can turn the gospel fifty ways for pelf,
And make a Party-man of Christ himself;
Enlisted first in Calvin's canting tribe,
Then fled to Luther for a decent bribe?
Who makes Religion a convenient wench?
21
Prove there's no harm in being somewhat gay;
Can turn the gospel fifty ways for pelf,
And make a Party-man of Christ himself;
Enlisted first in Calvin's canting tribe,
Then fled to Luther for a decent bribe?
Is there not one, who bows the pliant knee,
And worships yellow dirt, his deity?
An humble suitor to a senseless clod,
Tho' proud to Man, and humoursome to God;
Who in a peevish hour (as tetchy boys
In wayward humour fling away their toys)
With his lov'd Idol disagreed, and swore
He ne'er wou'd love it, never, never more—
But Avarice stept in, and made them friends;
They kiss, shake hands, and so the quarrel ends—
Worn by the cares of Us'ry to the bone,
Tho' for the meagre Priest of Plutus known,
He in Christ's doctrine deals, by way of trade,
Money by preaching Poverty is made—
Whose labours were bestow'd upon the bead,
Whose heart, that found itself neglected, fled,
And now a mere, mere head he lives, with Greek
Carv'd on his skull, and furrow'd in his cheek;
Be-greek'd, be-latin'd, and be-hebrew'd too,
Yet from no tongue has learnt what he shou'd do;
Who lives as if life's bus'ness was to write
Learned materials for a school-boy's kite;
Whose left hand cannot one good action quote,
And all the merit of his right, a Note;
A Commentator sage, a Critic nice,
A cobweb'd library, his paradise;
Who, tho' our gracious Master has foretold
The everlasting doors are shut 'gainst gold,
Yet still digs on for gold in Mammon's mines,
And heaps up precious ruin, for it shines;
Thinking he may elude what Christ decreed,
And tho' a Camel fail, that he'll succeed;
And worn with Av'rice hopes like chaff to fly,
And squeeze to Heaven thro' a needle's eye.
And worships yellow dirt, his deity?
An humble suitor to a senseless clod,
Tho' proud to Man, and humoursome to God;
Who in a peevish hour (as tetchy boys
In wayward humour fling away their toys)
With his lov'd Idol disagreed, and swore
He ne'er wou'd love it, never, never more—
But Avarice stept in, and made them friends;
They kiss, shake hands, and so the quarrel ends—
Worn by the cares of Us'ry to the bone,
Tho' for the meagre Priest of Plutus known,
22
Money by preaching Poverty is made—
Whose labours were bestow'd upon the bead,
Whose heart, that found itself neglected, fled,
And now a mere, mere head he lives, with Greek
Carv'd on his skull, and furrow'd in his cheek;
Be-greek'd, be-latin'd, and be-hebrew'd too,
Yet from no tongue has learnt what he shou'd do;
Who lives as if life's bus'ness was to write
Learned materials for a school-boy's kite;
Whose left hand cannot one good action quote,
And all the merit of his right, a Note;
A Commentator sage, a Critic nice,
A cobweb'd library, his paradise;
Who, tho' our gracious Master has foretold
The everlasting doors are shut 'gainst gold,
Yet still digs on for gold in Mammon's mines,
And heaps up precious ruin, for it shines;
Thinking he may elude what Christ decreed,
And tho' a Camel fail, that he'll succeed;
23
And squeeze to Heaven thro' a needle's eye.
Is there not one so base, so false of heart,
A very Roscius in a Traitor's part?
Who will his Patron's confidence betray,
And sell him to his enemy for pay;
A draper of the Church's sacred lawn,
Which he must smuggle, tho' his soul He pawn;
And has his Conscience drugg'd so well, that He
Can smoothly preach up Christian Charity,
And glows with zeal lest Christ shou'd suffer harm,
—Let Hell burn those, whom Faith makes but lukewarm;
And lest some ills Religion shou'd betide,
Himself wou'd condescend the Church to guide,
And ask nor scrip, nor purse, nor pay, nor see,
But be content with ---'s See;
Devoutly crooks the hinges of the knee
To him who moves the springs of Ministry;
Let the Court-sunshine with diverted ray,
On outcasts beam once more propitious day;
Let him who late felt nothing from the Crown
But gracious smiles, now wither in a frown;
Good B***p Shimei courts his Patron's foes,
—The insect lives, but where Favonius blows.
A very Roscius in a Traitor's part?
Who will his Patron's confidence betray,
And sell him to his enemy for pay;
A draper of the Church's sacred lawn,
Which he must smuggle, tho' his soul He pawn;
And has his Conscience drugg'd so well, that He
Can smoothly preach up Christian Charity,
And glows with zeal lest Christ shou'd suffer harm,
—Let Hell burn those, whom Faith makes but lukewarm;
And lest some ills Religion shou'd betide,
Himself wou'd condescend the Church to guide,
And ask nor scrip, nor purse, nor pay, nor see,
But be content with ---'s See;
Devoutly crooks the hinges of the knee
To him who moves the springs of Ministry;
Let the Court-sunshine with diverted ray,
On outcasts beam once more propitious day;
24
But gracious smiles, now wither in a frown;
Good B***p Shimei courts his Patron's foes,
—The insect lives, but where Favonius blows.
Ye British laws! why is it you forbid
To drag to light each villain that lies hid?
To call him by his real name, no sham,
His name baptismal—Tom, Dick, Will, or Sam—
To point them out, that all the world may know
The precious villains wheresoe'er they go—
—It must not be—then let invention try
His name by apt Allusion to supply:
How shall we call this consecrated dirt?
The Dev'l turns Sponsor, and cries, Janus S***t.
To drag to light each villain that lies hid?
To call him by his real name, no sham,
His name baptismal—Tom, Dick, Will, or Sam—
To point them out, that all the world may know
The precious villains wheresoe'er they go—
—It must not be—then let invention try
His name by apt Allusion to supply:
How shall we call this consecrated dirt?
The Dev'l turns Sponsor, and cries, Janus S***t.
I see each Chaplain roll an angry eye,
I hear each Chaplain pettishly reply,
“Pray, where, Sir Verjuice, are such B***ps found?
“There are none such, search all the kingdom round—
“As well seek Ice in Hell, and find as soon—
—Granted, good Scarf—“Where then, Sir?” In the Moon.—
I hear each Chaplain pettishly reply,
“Pray, where, Sir Verjuice, are such B***ps found?
“There are none such, search all the kingdom round—
25
—Granted, good Scarf—“Where then, Sir?” In the Moon.—
The Muse, a Lunatic herself, ascends
To Luna's Orb on wings that Wilkins lends;
Finds there are haughty Priests and Prelates there,
Whom, tho' she cannot mend, she will not spare;
Return'd again to Earth, how pleas'd is she,
To find that Saints preside o'er ev'ry See!
To Luna's Orb on wings that Wilkins lends;
Finds there are haughty Priests and Prelates there,
Whom, tho' she cannot mend, she will not spare;
Return'd again to Earth, how pleas'd is she,
To find that Saints preside o'er ev'ry See!
Now, gentle Readers, you've a Key to find,
Whenever She is dark, the Muse's Mind;
And when I draw a Bishop, or a Dean,
Be sure, it is no one on Earth I mean.—
Whenever She is dark, the Muse's Mind;
And when I draw a Bishop, or a Dean,
Be sure, it is no one on Earth I mean.—
Ye mitred Readers! if so young a Muse
May hope Right Reverend Sages will peruse
The trifle of her Song, and condescend
To hear her bring her story to an end,
Altho' the Muse's Drawing shou'd be true,
What are your Cousins of the Moon to You?
To prove your innocence, restrain your rage—
Perhaps She prates like Parrots in a cage,
And calls out Knave and Villain to a throng,
While only Men of Virtue pass along;
Perhaps the random outlines of her pen
Are Magic Lanthorn figures, and not Men;
Are but fantastic Children of the Brain,
The airy “Pensioners of Fancy's train,”
Wove in Imagination's loom, unseen
Of ev'ry eye, except the eye of Spleen;
These Lunar B***s may be Saints—may all
Be meek as Moses, and devout as Paul,
Pure as the premier Seraphim on high,
As wise as Oracles, as grave as I;
Be wash'd with show'rs of Heav'n's ambrosial dews,
And right good Christians, tho' as rich as Jews:
They may be such, and Rumour is their foe—
Glad were the Muse, if she shou'd find it so;
For, in good faith, she is no sland'rous Dame,
And loves to praise, far better than to blame:
But He who throws the picture from his view,
And sorely wincing, proves the Likeness true,
Let him not shake his hoary locks at me,
'Tis Conscience whispers to him, “Thou art He.”
May hope Right Reverend Sages will peruse
The trifle of her Song, and condescend
To hear her bring her story to an end,
26
What are your Cousins of the Moon to You?
To prove your innocence, restrain your rage—
Perhaps She prates like Parrots in a cage,
And calls out Knave and Villain to a throng,
While only Men of Virtue pass along;
Perhaps the random outlines of her pen
Are Magic Lanthorn figures, and not Men;
Are but fantastic Children of the Brain,
The airy “Pensioners of Fancy's train,”
Wove in Imagination's loom, unseen
Of ev'ry eye, except the eye of Spleen;
These Lunar B***s may be Saints—may all
Be meek as Moses, and devout as Paul,
Pure as the premier Seraphim on high,
As wise as Oracles, as grave as I;
Be wash'd with show'rs of Heav'n's ambrosial dews,
And right good Christians, tho' as rich as Jews:
They may be such, and Rumour is their foe—
Glad were the Muse, if she shou'd find it so;
27
And loves to praise, far better than to blame:
But He who throws the picture from his view,
And sorely wincing, proves the Likeness true,
Let him not shake his hoary locks at me,
'Tis Conscience whispers to him, “Thou art He.”
Base is that pleasure, which a little mind
Can in maligning others fortunes find.
If Apemantus say, I wou'd defeat
The cause of greatness, for I am not great,
And look on Prelates with an envious eye,
Manners forbid, or Truth might give the lie.
My heart's too proud to think that I am less,
Because another meets with more success;
To think I can no race of glory run,
Because I am not Fortune's fav'rite Son;
With joy my soul can pay, to justice true,
Honour's fair tribute, where she thinks it due.
My cheek with Envy's canker never fades,
If Greatness follows but as Merit leads;
Is prosperous Vice worth envy? 'twere as well
To envy Satan's Monarchy of Hell—
Can in maligning others fortunes find.
If Apemantus say, I wou'd defeat
The cause of greatness, for I am not great,
And look on Prelates with an envious eye,
Manners forbid, or Truth might give the lie.
My heart's too proud to think that I am less,
Because another meets with more success;
To think I can no race of glory run,
Because I am not Fortune's fav'rite Son;
With joy my soul can pay, to justice true,
Honour's fair tribute, where she thinks it due.
My cheek with Envy's canker never fades,
If Greatness follows but as Merit leads;
28
To envy Satan's Monarchy of Hell—
I am not so enamour'd of dispraise,
To credit all the tongue of Slander says;
Malice has not so tainted me with gall,
'Cause some are bad, to think amiss of all;
Nor is the Muse so niggard of fair fame,
To think there are no Prelates who may claim
The blest reward that will to Saints be paid,
Whose cause fair Charity herself wou'd plead,
For naked, hungry wretches cloath'd and fed,
For comfort giv'n to the sick man's bed;
For captives freed, the weary set at rest,
Oppression thwarted, injuries redrest;
For sinners taught the way of living well,
And souls by preaching Christ, redeem'd from Hell:
Yes, there may be among the mitred throng,
Prelates, to whom these praises may belong;
New Ridleys, and new Latimers may grace,
And add a lustre to their sacred place;
Who, should our Holy Faith more Martyrs need,
Wou'd, for the Holy Faith, or burn or bleed;
And, by their patient suffering, prove they hold
The Virtue of a Bishop with the Gold.
Such there may be, altho' to me unknown,
Who may these virtues challenge for their own:
(And Truth must own, there stands full many a name
As yet unblotted on the roll of fame,
On whom the breath of slander never blew—
Such Sherlock was, and Terrick, such are you;
Such many more, tho' not my lot to know)
But Conscience best will find out who is so—
To Conscience then I leave you, while the Muse
The Curate's life thro' other paths pursues.
To credit all the tongue of Slander says;
Malice has not so tainted me with gall,
'Cause some are bad, to think amiss of all;
Nor is the Muse so niggard of fair fame,
To think there are no Prelates who may claim
The blest reward that will to Saints be paid,
Whose cause fair Charity herself wou'd plead,
For naked, hungry wretches cloath'd and fed,
For comfort giv'n to the sick man's bed;
For captives freed, the weary set at rest,
Oppression thwarted, injuries redrest;
For sinners taught the way of living well,
And souls by preaching Christ, redeem'd from Hell:
Yes, there may be among the mitred throng,
Prelates, to whom these praises may belong;
New Ridleys, and new Latimers may grace,
And add a lustre to their sacred place;
29
Wou'd, for the Holy Faith, or burn or bleed;
And, by their patient suffering, prove they hold
The Virtue of a Bishop with the Gold.
Such there may be, altho' to me unknown,
Who may these virtues challenge for their own:
(And Truth must own, there stands full many a name
As yet unblotted on the roll of fame,
On whom the breath of slander never blew—
Such Sherlock was, and Terrick, such are you;
Such many more, tho' not my lot to know)
But Conscience best will find out who is so—
To Conscience then I leave you, while the Muse
The Curate's life thro' other paths pursues.
Ye pursy Rectors! overbearing crew!
Much hath the Curate to complain of you—
Much reason of complaint that you neglect
To give his worth, and office, fair respect;
Forget he is your Equal, often more,
Unless you plume upon the Money score.
Ye wou'd be Masters, Tyrants, and wou'd have
The Minister of Jesus, be your Slave;
And, for the scanty pittance that you pay,
Which scarce amounts to eighteen pence a day,
Expect the Curate shou'd all drudg'ry do,
On errands run, or black your Honour's shoe;
In his Crape-Livery at your table wait,
Clean knives and forks, but never sit to eat.
Though of the Church, your common Mother, born
Brothers, you treat the Brother's tie with scorn,
And rarely, very rarely, condescend,
If Fortune is his foe, to be his Friend;
—Fye, fye—ye haughty Priests! and is it so
Ye have learnt Christ, to be a Brother's foe!
Much hath the Curate to complain of you—
Much reason of complaint that you neglect
To give his worth, and office, fair respect;
30
Unless you plume upon the Money score.
Ye wou'd be Masters, Tyrants, and wou'd have
The Minister of Jesus, be your Slave;
And, for the scanty pittance that you pay,
Which scarce amounts to eighteen pence a day,
Expect the Curate shou'd all drudg'ry do,
On errands run, or black your Honour's shoe;
In his Crape-Livery at your table wait,
Clean knives and forks, but never sit to eat.
Though of the Church, your common Mother, born
Brothers, you treat the Brother's tie with scorn,
And rarely, very rarely, condescend,
If Fortune is his foe, to be his Friend;
—Fye, fye—ye haughty Priests! and is it so
Ye have learnt Christ, to be a Brother's foe!
But soft—presumptuous Muse!—a lower strain—
And learn to whisper, if you must complain;
Let not the Pagan hear you say aloud,
Some Priests of humble Jesus can be proud—
—Vain is the Caution—What shou'd be the fear,
Tho' Pagans and their Scoundrel Gods should hear?
What's there in Form, that Form shou'd Essence blot?
Our God is pure, although some Priests are not.
And learn to whisper, if you must complain;
Let not the Pagan hear you say aloud,
Some Priests of humble Jesus can be proud—
31
Tho' Pagans and their Scoundrel Gods should hear?
What's there in Form, that Form shou'd Essence blot?
Our God is pure, although some Priests are not.
Mistake not, Critic!—'tis no rankling spite,
No private quarrel urg'd my pen to write
Against the Rector Tribe—for be it known,
I ne'er receiv'd one insult from my own;
And many others, men of worthy note,
Exceptions to her charge the Muse could quote,
Who can amalgamate with chymic art,
The Rector's Income with the Curate's Heart—
But they not need it—Conscience will acquit,
And hold her shield against the darts of Wit;
For let the Scorner censure, fleer, and flout,
If men are honest, they can find it out:
I am not to my private wrongs confin'd,
But feel as Man shou'd feel for all Mankind;
And there are Priests who can like Popes oppress;
From them th' indignant Muse demands redress—
No private quarrel urg'd my pen to write
Against the Rector Tribe—for be it known,
I ne'er receiv'd one insult from my own;
And many others, men of worthy note,
Exceptions to her charge the Muse could quote,
Who can amalgamate with chymic art,
The Rector's Income with the Curate's Heart—
But they not need it—Conscience will acquit,
And hold her shield against the darts of Wit;
For let the Scorner censure, fleer, and flout,
If men are honest, they can find it out:
I am not to my private wrongs confin'd,
But feel as Man shou'd feel for all Mankind;
And there are Priests who can like Popes oppress;
From them th' indignant Muse demands redress—
32
Behold Nugoso! wriggling, shuffling on,
A mere Church-puppet, an Automaton
In Orders; note its tripping, mincing pace—
Religion creams and mantles in its face!
'Tis all Religion from the top to toe!
—But Milliners and Barbers made it so—
It wears Religion in the modish way,
It brushes, starches, combs it every day;
For our prim Doctor is but such a Saint
As Sign-post daubers o'er a brothel paint;
An Effigy, a reverend Bust, whose head
Is but a Perriwig, and bronzed Lead;
Whose Orthodoxy lies in outward things,
In beavers, cassocks, gowns, bands, gloves and rings:
It shews its Learning by its Doctor's Hood,
And proves its Goodness—'cause its cloaths are good;
Preaches (nor think Invention frames the lie)
Its Christmas-Sermon on a Christmas-Pye,
Orthodox-Pudding next, and in the rear,
(Salvation thrown aside) a good New Year.
A mere Church-puppet, an Automaton
In Orders; note its tripping, mincing pace—
Religion creams and mantles in its face!
'Tis all Religion from the top to toe!
—But Milliners and Barbers made it so—
It wears Religion in the modish way,
It brushes, starches, combs it every day;
For our prim Doctor is but such a Saint
As Sign-post daubers o'er a brothel paint;
An Effigy, a reverend Bust, whose head
Is but a Perriwig, and bronzed Lead;
Whose Orthodoxy lies in outward things,
In beavers, cassocks, gowns, bands, gloves and rings:
It shews its Learning by its Doctor's Hood,
And proves its Goodness—'cause its cloaths are good;
Preaches (nor think Invention frames the lie)
Its Christmas-Sermon on a Christmas-Pye,
Orthodox-Pudding next, and in the rear,
(Salvation thrown aside) a good New Year.
33
Search but the North, the South, the West, the East
Of this great Town, you'll find this Pastry-Priest;
Yet shall this Ape of Form, this Fashion's Fool,
Pretend to keep an Apostolic School;
Shall dare with insolent Rectorial pride,
Its Curate, spite of all his virtues, chide,
And scoffing, cry,—“You ne'er can find the way
“To Heaven”—“Why?”—“Your Stockings are too “gay;
“Your Wig is not quite orthodoxly curl'd,
“To hope for favour in another world;
“Your Cassock is too rusty—and your Gown
“Is for the Court of Jesus much too brown.
“Your Band is not half starch enough—your Hat
“Too fiercely cock'd—th' Apostles wore them flat;
“Pray in your Coat too!—worse than all the rest—
“God's not at Home, Sir, if the Priest's undrest—
“Mend and reform—in Cloaths—for no one goes
“To Heav'n's gay Court, except Canonic-beaux.”
—It chatters, prattles, snivels, whines, and cants,
More tedious than a world of Maiden Aunts.—
Of this great Town, you'll find this Pastry-Priest;
Yet shall this Ape of Form, this Fashion's Fool,
Pretend to keep an Apostolic School;
Shall dare with insolent Rectorial pride,
Its Curate, spite of all his virtues, chide,
And scoffing, cry,—“You ne'er can find the way
“To Heaven”—“Why?”—“Your Stockings are too “gay;
“Your Wig is not quite orthodoxly curl'd,
“To hope for favour in another world;
“Your Cassock is too rusty—and your Gown
“Is for the Court of Jesus much too brown.
“Your Band is not half starch enough—your Hat
“Too fiercely cock'd—th' Apostles wore them flat;
“Pray in your Coat too!—worse than all the rest—
“God's not at Home, Sir, if the Priest's undrest—
“Mend and reform—in Cloaths—for no one goes
“To Heav'n's gay Court, except Canonic-beaux.”
34
More tedious than a world of Maiden Aunts.—
Thou Saint-seducing Gold! whom canst not Thou
Apostates make, and at thy Altars bow?
The holy Priest shall, when Thou bidd'st, resign
His God, and pay his Homage at thy Shrine;
Shall, when the Pastor's Office he'd transfer,
Make no enquiry into character,
Consult no profit which his flock may reap
From the deputed shepherd, but how cheap;
And when two offer, good, and bad—success
Awaits the bad, if he will serve for less;
So much the interest of this World controuls,
He'll save a Guinea, if he saves no Souls!
Apostates make, and at thy Altars bow?
The holy Priest shall, when Thou bidd'st, resign
His God, and pay his Homage at thy Shrine;
Shall, when the Pastor's Office he'd transfer,
Make no enquiry into character,
Consult no profit which his flock may reap
From the deputed shepherd, but how cheap;
And when two offer, good, and bad—success
Awaits the bad, if he will serve for less;
So much the interest of this World controuls,
He'll save a Guinea, if he saves no Souls!
Example here might prove the charge is true,
But Priests in shoals come rushing to my view,
That the Muse knows not which of these Divines
Shall jingle as the instance of her lines.
Dives, Avarus, Gripus, fifty more,
Who play the part which Judas play'd before;
Perplex her choice, altho' she cou'd not err,
So proper each, which-e'er she did prefer;
The reader may, perchance, relieve her doubt,
And 'mong his neighbours, find an instance out.
But Priests in shoals come rushing to my view,
That the Muse knows not which of these Divines
Shall jingle as the instance of her lines.
35
Who play the part which Judas play'd before;
Perplex her choice, altho' she cou'd not err,
So proper each, which-e'er she did prefer;
The reader may, perchance, relieve her doubt,
And 'mong his neighbours, find an instance out.
Though vast the sum of evils that fill up
The measure of the Curate's bitter cup;
Though much distress, much grief of heart he knows,
From them whom Poverty have made his foes,
He might bear firmly up, nor condescend,
While innocence and virtue call him friend,
At Fortune's shrine his stubborn knee to bend;
'Might give her sneer for sneer, and frown for frown,
Tho' the Imperial Goddess of the Town,
On Plutus' Altars with disdain might tread,
And fling his Crown and Sceptre at his head;
Although his heart for Riches never pants,
Attentive but to Nature's simple wants,
And could without one longing wish behold;
Oceans of liquid pearl with shores of gold;
See ships of amber on the orient flood,
Full fraught with all that Avarice calls good,
With all that female Vanity calls fair,
Or spendthrift Luxury thinks worth his care;
Tho' with contempt he could survey these toys,
And think them gewgaws only fit for boys,
Yet may he have one purpose in his soul;
Which may his carelessness for Wealth controul,
On treasur'd Gold may prostitute his eye,
And steal for Miser's heaps a secret sigh—
Love may have touch'd him, and the finest dart
Of Cupid's quiver rankle in his heart—
And He too generous of soul to bear,
That the rude band of want shou'd touch his Fair—
No—the dear object whom his heart adores,
Must never enter at Misfortune's doors;
For her sake only he for wealth may pine,
Plutus might lead him on to Hymen's shrine.
Rich in each grace, in each emollient art,
In ev'ry quality that mends the heart;
By ev'ry Attic elegance refin'd,
With which fair Science decorates the mind;
With sentiments for earth almost too good,
Ting'd with a decent sinack of flesh and blood;
Companion meet in Ida's grove to sit,
And entertain the Muses with his wit;
Shou'd some accomplish'd Fair One catch his eye,
And with her virtues teach his heart to sigh;
Shou'd she of passion yield the kind return,
And with a mutual love of merit burn;
Though they both sicken, by Love's Stroke undone,
And growing languid with the Paphian Sun,
Hold tender parley with despairing eyes,
While glance with glance is answer'd, sigh with sighs,
And each imprison'd Heart wou'd burst his chest,
Ardent to throb in one united breast;
Though more they feel than Cupid's Martyrs knew,
More than enamour'd Poet ever drew;
Though all Love's Ætna in their bosom flames,
And glides thro' ev'ry vein in burning streams;
Though married thus by Nature, angry fate
Forbids the Curate shou'd have such a mate.
Sir John is haughty—and, with high disdain,
Rejects alliance with so poor a swain—
“Presumptuous wretch! to dare with no pretence,
“But Honesty untainted, and good Sense,
“Good Wit, good Nature, and sincerest Love,
“Presume to look at one so much above
“His level and degree—Shou'd dare approach,
“And ask my daughter's hand without a Coach!
“'Tis nonsense, stuff, impertinence, and worse,
“To talk of loving with an empty purse—
“Pennyless fellows to pretend to feel,
“And talk of darts more sharp than pointed steel;
“—Whip me such vagrants thro' fair Cyprus' isle—
“Before my Daughter's, first get Fortune's Smile—
“Put to your Doves, good Venus—and adieu!
“In vain your pretty Self for Curates sue.”—
The measure of the Curate's bitter cup;
Though much distress, much grief of heart he knows,
From them whom Poverty have made his foes,
He might bear firmly up, nor condescend,
While innocence and virtue call him friend,
At Fortune's shrine his stubborn knee to bend;
'Might give her sneer for sneer, and frown for frown,
Tho' the Imperial Goddess of the Town,
On Plutus' Altars with disdain might tread,
And fling his Crown and Sceptre at his head;
Although his heart for Riches never pants,
Attentive but to Nature's simple wants,
36
Oceans of liquid pearl with shores of gold;
See ships of amber on the orient flood,
Full fraught with all that Avarice calls good,
With all that female Vanity calls fair,
Or spendthrift Luxury thinks worth his care;
Tho' with contempt he could survey these toys,
And think them gewgaws only fit for boys,
Yet may he have one purpose in his soul;
Which may his carelessness for Wealth controul,
On treasur'd Gold may prostitute his eye,
And steal for Miser's heaps a secret sigh—
Love may have touch'd him, and the finest dart
Of Cupid's quiver rankle in his heart—
And He too generous of soul to bear,
That the rude band of want shou'd touch his Fair—
No—the dear object whom his heart adores,
Must never enter at Misfortune's doors;
For her sake only he for wealth may pine,
Plutus might lead him on to Hymen's shrine.
41
In ev'ry quality that mends the heart;
By ev'ry Attic elegance refin'd,
With which fair Science decorates the mind;
With sentiments for earth almost too good,
Ting'd with a decent sinack of flesh and blood;
Companion meet in Ida's grove to sit,
And entertain the Muses with his wit;
Shou'd some accomplish'd Fair One catch his eye,
And with her virtues teach his heart to sigh;
Shou'd she of passion yield the kind return,
And with a mutual love of merit burn;
Though they both sicken, by Love's Stroke undone,
And growing languid with the Paphian Sun,
Hold tender parley with despairing eyes,
While glance with glance is answer'd, sigh with sighs,
And each imprison'd Heart wou'd burst his chest,
Ardent to throb in one united breast;
Though more they feel than Cupid's Martyrs knew,
More than enamour'd Poet ever drew;
42
And glides thro' ev'ry vein in burning streams;
Though married thus by Nature, angry fate
Forbids the Curate shou'd have such a mate.
Sir John is haughty—and, with high disdain,
Rejects alliance with so poor a swain—
“Presumptuous wretch! to dare with no pretence,
“But Honesty untainted, and good Sense,
“Good Wit, good Nature, and sincerest Love,
“Presume to look at one so much above
“His level and degree—Shou'd dare approach,
“And ask my daughter's hand without a Coach!
“'Tis nonsense, stuff, impertinence, and worse,
“To talk of loving with an empty purse—
“Pennyless fellows to pretend to feel,
“And talk of darts more sharp than pointed steel;
“—Whip me such vagrants thro' fair Cyprus' isle—
“Before my Daughter's, first get Fortune's Smile—
“Put to your Doves, good Venus—and adieu!
“In vain your pretty Self for Curates sue.”—
43
His warmth of passion all in vain he pleads,
In vain he shews he inwardly he bleeds,
Shews the dove feathers with his heart's blood red,
For Cupid drew his arrow to the head;
In vain he urges 'tis not pow'r, nor pelf,
But the attractive beauties of herself
Have won his heart—that all the world beside
Were poor to him, if Phyllis is deny'd;
All, all is vain—the answer had been rude,
If Christ himself without a Jointure su'd.
In vain he shews he inwardly he bleeds,
Shews the dove feathers with his heart's blood red,
For Cupid drew his arrow to the head;
In vain he urges 'tis not pow'r, nor pelf,
But the attractive beauties of herself
Have won his heart—that all the world beside
Were poor to him, if Phyllis is deny'd;
All, all is vain—the answer had been rude,
If Christ himself without a Jointure su'd.
The time wou'd fail to tell of each offence
Of affectation born, and want of sense;
How ev'ry Fop affects to jeer and gibe,
To smoke the Parson, and to gall his kibe;
To tip the wink, to start the bawdry toast,
To laugh at Christ, and sneer the Holy Ghost,
To act the Infidel, deny a God,
But all his Argument a Shrug and Nod.
Of affectation born, and want of sense;
How ev'ry Fop affects to jeer and gibe,
To smoke the Parson, and to gall his kibe;
To tip the wink, to start the bawdry toast,
To laugh at Christ, and sneer the Holy Ghost,
To act the Infidel, deny a God,
But all his Argument a Shrug and Nod.
44
Balbutio, half a Beau and half a Belle,
Lisps tiny jokes against that Bugbear, Hell;
And when the Snuff-box has manur'd his wit,
To be made happy he will not submit
But his own way.—What's Heaven to a Beau?
He can find better company below,
And tho' so modest that he wou'd not dare
To meet in private some inviting fair,
Yet is this thing all amorous and lewd,
Where to be amorous is to be rude,
And wheresoe'er he meets a grave Divine,
He toasts his Whore, with “Demme—She is fine!
Lisps tiny jokes against that Bugbear, Hell;
And when the Snuff-box has manur'd his wit,
To be made happy he will not submit
But his own way.—What's Heaven to a Beau?
He can find better company below,
And tho' so modest that he wou'd not dare
To meet in private some inviting fair,
Yet is this thing all amorous and lewd,
Where to be amorous is to be rude,
And wheresoe'er he meets a grave Divine,
He toasts his Whore, with “Demme—She is fine!
View yon gay Circle! Fashion's brilliant Reign,
Where it is Sin and Treason to go plain—
Where Virtue is defin'd a beauteous Face,
And Merit nothing means but—Flanders Lace;
Where all the value of the Head's without,
Like precious Jewels in a swinish Snout;
Where sparkling Di'monds are preferr'd to Brains,
And Jigs and Hornpipes to soft Lydian Strains;
Where Wit and Sense are held in disrepute,
And Learning lies in an embroider'd Suit.
Shou'd some poor Curate aukward, and ill drest,
The glittering Circle join—the ill-bred jest,
The whisper, titter, wink runs thro' the ring—
“A Parson (sure's) a strange, queer, aukward thing,
“A clumsy, rustic Cretur—Well, I vow,
“I've seen a Plough-boy make a better Bow—
“—Good Doctor! burn your books, and learn to dance,
“Shake off old Greece, and study modern France—
“Can Harry Stotle teach the Art to kiss?
“Can Pleto give a Lady real Bliss?
“Can Logic teach you the expiring Sigh,
“To squeedge the Hand, and roll the dying Eye?
“Can cool Philosophy's dry hand impart
“The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart?
“Can Homer, with the musty Tale of Troy,
“Give modern Helens true substantial Joy?
“A Lady's Appetite asks rich repast,
“To diet on a Scholar, is to fast.”
Truce, gentle Fair Ones—truce—your jeering spare!
He may be honest, tho' his Coat is bare—
Though his Bow's aukward, yet sincere his Heart,
And He a Man of Honour, tho' no Smart,
Did you the trick possess his Mind to know,
You'd find within he is a moral Beau.
Where it is Sin and Treason to go plain—
Where Virtue is defin'd a beauteous Face,
And Merit nothing means but—Flanders Lace;
Where all the value of the Head's without,
Like precious Jewels in a swinish Snout;
45
And Jigs and Hornpipes to soft Lydian Strains;
Where Wit and Sense are held in disrepute,
And Learning lies in an embroider'd Suit.
Shou'd some poor Curate aukward, and ill drest,
The glittering Circle join—the ill-bred jest,
The whisper, titter, wink runs thro' the ring—
“A Parson (sure's) a strange, queer, aukward thing,
“A clumsy, rustic Cretur—Well, I vow,
“I've seen a Plough-boy make a better Bow—
“—Good Doctor! burn your books, and learn to dance,
“Shake off old Greece, and study modern France—
“Can Harry Stotle teach the Art to kiss?
“Can Pleto give a Lady real Bliss?
“Can Logic teach you the expiring Sigh,
“To squeedge the Hand, and roll the dying Eye?
“Can cool Philosophy's dry hand impart
“The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart?
“Can Homer, with the musty Tale of Troy,
“Give modern Helens true substantial Joy?
46
“To diet on a Scholar, is to fast.”
Truce, gentle Fair Ones—truce—your jeering spare!
He may be honest, tho' his Coat is bare—
Though his Bow's aukward, yet sincere his Heart,
And He a Man of Honour, tho' no Smart,
Did you the trick possess his Mind to know,
You'd find within he is a moral Beau.
These, and a thousand grating ills beside,
To the Town-Curate's thorny life betide.
To the Town-Curate's thorny life betide.
Not so our Village-Brethren—happier they
Sing at their work, and in the vineyard play;
Their task accomplish'd, and their duty done,
They sport like children in the evening sun;
No slights they know, no injury sustain,
Of no rude rabble's insolence complain;
But stand on fair Equality, none higher,
And smoke, and play back-gammon with the 'Squire.
Sing at their work, and in the vineyard play;
Their task accomplish'd, and their duty done,
They sport like children in the evening sun;
No slights they know, no injury sustain,
Of no rude rabble's insolence complain;
But stand on fair Equality, none higher,
And smoke, and play back-gammon with the 'Squire.
47
So the blythe shepherd in Arcadia's plains,
While his flock grazes, chaunts his rural strains;
The wolf at distance, and serene the day,
His work is pleasure, and his bus'ness play.
While his flock grazes, chaunts his rural strains;
The wolf at distance, and serene the day,
His work is pleasure, and his bus'ness play.
Ye honest Curates! wheresoe'er ye are,
Whate'er your lot is, learn that lot to bear!
Though Royal Favour never on you shone,
Nor cast-off M***ss gave a B***p's throne;
Though Fortune will not take you for her heir,
Nor think you Fools enough to need her Care,
Repine not at the humble place you hold!
Happiness is not to be bought with Gold.
Sigh not for Mitres, they're not worth your care,
They're lin'd with thorns, although they look so fair—
Virtue can live without them, nor wou'd chuse
To gain a Mitre her Content to lose.
Few are the wants of life—bed, raiment, food—
And its chief luxury is doing good.
Whate'er your lot is, learn that lot to bear!
Though Royal Favour never on you shone,
Nor cast-off M***ss gave a B***p's throne;
Though Fortune will not take you for her heir,
Nor think you Fools enough to need her Care,
Repine not at the humble place you hold!
Happiness is not to be bought with Gold.
Sigh not for Mitres, they're not worth your care,
They're lin'd with thorns, although they look so fair—
Virtue can live without them, nor wou'd chuse
To gain a Mitre her Content to lose.
Few are the wants of life—bed, raiment, food—
And its chief luxury is doing good.
48
Curates in this may with Archbishops vie,
With Princes may contend in Charity;
May strive with Monarchs in the deeds of Grace,
And challenge them to run th' immortal Race.
With Princes may contend in Charity;
May strive with Monarchs in the deeds of Grace,
And challenge them to run th' immortal Race.
FINIS.
| The Curate | |