The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

Amongst you bipeds, reputation
Depends on Rank and Situation;
And men increase in fame and worth,
Not from their merits, but their Birth.
Thus he is born to live obscure,
Who has the sin of being poor;
While wealthy dullness lolls at ease,
And is—as witty as you please.
—“What did his Lordship say?—O! fine!
“The very Thing! Bravo! Divine!”
And then 'tis buzz'd from Route to Route,
While ladies whisper it about,
“Well, I protest, a charming hit!
“His Lerdship has a deal of wit.
“How elegant that double sense!
“Perdigious! vaistly fine! Immense!
When all my lord has said or done,
Was but the letting off a pun.

Mark the fat Cit, whose good round sum,
Amounts at least to half a Plumb;
Whose chariot whirls him up and down
Some three or four miles out of town;
For thither sober folks repair,
To take the Dust, which they call air.
Dull folly (not the wanton wild
Imagination's younger child)
Has taken lodgings in his face,
As finding that a vacant place,
And peeping from his windows, tells
To all beholders, where she dwells.
Yet once a week, this purse-proud cit,
Shall ape the sallies of a wit,
And after ev'ry Sunday's dinner,
To priestly saint, or city sinner,
Shall tell the story o'er and o'er,
H'as told a thousand times before;
Like gamesters, who, with eager zeal,
Talk the game o'er between the deal.

Mark! how the fools and knaves admire
And chuckle with their Sunday 'squire:
While he looks pleas'd at every guest,
And laughs much louder than the rest;

And cackling with incessant grin,
Triples the Double of his chin.

Birth, rank, and wealth, have wond'rous skill;
Make Wits and Statesmen when they will;
While genius holds no estimation,
From luckless want of Situation;
And, if through clouded scenes of life,
He takes dame poverty to wife,
Howe'er he work and teize his brain,
His pound of wit scarce weighs a grain;
While with his Lordship it abounds,
And one light grain swells out to pounds.

Receive, good sir, with aspect kind,
This wanton gallop of the mind;
But, since all things encrease in worth,
Proportion'd to their rank and birth;
Lest you should think the letter base,
While I supply the poet's place,
I'll tell you whence and what I am,
My Breed, my Blood, my Sire, my Dam.

My Sire was Pindar's Eagle, son
Of Pegasus of Helicon;

My Dam, the Hippogryph, which whirl'd
Astolpho to the lunar world.
Both high-bred things of mettled blood,
The best in all Apollo's stud.

Now Critics here would bid me speak
The old horse language, that is Greek;
For Homer made us talk, you know,
Almost three thousand years ago;
And men of Taste and Judgment fine,
Allow the passage is divine.
They were fine mettled things indeed,
And of peculiar strength and breed;
What leaps they took, how far and wide!
—They'd take a country at a stride.
How great each leap, Longinus knew,
Who from dimensions ta'en of two,
Affirms, with equal ardour whirld,
A third, good lord! would clear the world.

But till some learned wight shall shew
If Accents must be us'd, or no,
A doubt, which puzzles all the wise
Of giant and of pigmy size,
Who waste their time, and fancies vex
With asper, lenis, circumflex,

And talk of mark and punctuation,
As 'twere a matter of salvation;
For when your pigmies take the pen
They fancy they grow up to Men,
And think they keep the world in awe
By brandishing a very Straw.
Till they have clear'd this weighty doubt,
Which they'll be centuries about,
As a plain nag, in homely phrase,
I'll use the language of our days;
And, for this first and only time,
Just make a trot in easy rhime.

Nor let it shock your thought or sight,
That thus a quadruped should write;
Read but the papers, and you'll see
More prodigies of wit than me;
Grown men and Sparrows taught to dance,
By monsieur Passerat from France;
The learned dog, the learned mare,
The learned bird, the learned hare;
And all are fashionable too,
And play at cards as well as you.

Of paper, pen, and ink posscss'd,
With saculties of writing blest,

Why should not I then, Hownnyhwm bred
(A word that must be seen, not said)
Rid you of all that anxious care,
Which good folks feel for good and fair,
And which your looks betray'd indeed,
To more discerning eyes of steed;
When in the shape of useful hack,
I bore a poet on my back?

Know, safely rode my master's bride,
The bard before her for my guide.
Yet think not, sir, his awkward care
Ensur'd protection to the fair.
No—conscious of the prize I bore,
My wayward footsteps slipt no more.
For though I scorn the Poet's skill,
My mistress guides me where she will.

Abstract in wond'rous speculation,
Lost in laborious meditation,
As whether 'twould promote Sublime
If Silver could be pair'd in rhime;
Or, as the word of sweeter Tune,
Month might be clink'd instead of moon:
No wonder poets hardly know
Or what they do, or where they go.

Whether they ride or walk the street,
Their heads are always on their feet;
They now and then may get astride
Th' ideal Pegasus, and ride
Prodigious journeys—round a room,
As boys ride cock-horse on a broom.

Whether Acrostics teize the brain,
Which goes a hunting words in vain,
(For words most capitally sin,
Unless their letters right begin.)
Since how to man or woman's name,
Could you or I Acrostic frame.
Or make the staring letters join,
To form the word, that tells us thine,
Unless we'ad right initials got,
S, C, O, T, and so made Scot?
Or whether Rebus, Riddle's brother
(Both which had Dullness for their mother)
Employ the gentle poet's care,
To celebrate some town or fair,
Which all ad libitum he slits
For you to pick it up by bits,
Which bits together plac'd, will frame
Some city's or some lady's name;

As when a worm is cut in twain,
It joins and is a worm again;
When thoughts so weighty, so intense,
Above the reach of common sense,
Distract and twirl the mind about,
Which fain would hammer something out;
A kind discharge relieves the mind,
As folks are eas'd by breaking wind;
Whatever whims or maggots bred
Take place of sense in poet's head,
They fix themselves without controul,
Where'er its seat is on the soul.
Then, like your heathen idols, we
Have eyes indeed, but cannot see.
(We, for I take the poet's part,
And for my blood, am Bard at heart)
For in reflection deep immerst,
The man muse-bitten and be-verst,
Neglectful of externals all,
Will run his head against a wall,
Walk thro' a river as it flows,
Nor see the bridge before his nose.

Are things like these equestrians fit
To mount the back of mettled tit?

Are—but farewell, for here comes Bob,
And I must serve some hackney job;
Fetch letters, or, for recreation,
Transport the bard to our Plantation.

Robert joins compts with Burnam Black.
Your humble servant Hanbury's hack.