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

A friend to universal Man,
Is universal good your plan?
God may perhaps your project bless,
But man shall strive to thwart success.
Tho' the grand scheme thy thoughts pursue,
Bespeak a noble generous view,
Where Charity o'er all presides,
And Sense approves what Virtue guides,
Yet wars and tumults will commence,
For Rogues hate virtue, Blockheads sense.

Believe me, Opposition grows
Not always from our real foes,
But (where it seldom ever ends)
From our more dangerous seeming friends.
I hate not foes, for they declare,
'Tis War for War, and dare who dare;

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But your sly, sneaking, worming souls,
Whom Friendship scorns, and Fear controuls,
Who praise, support, and help by halves,
Like Heifers, neither Bulls nor Calves;
Who, in Hypocrisy's disguise,
Are truly as the Serpent wise,
But cannot All the precept love,
And be as harmless as the Dove.
Who hold each charitable meeting,
To mean no more than good sound eating,
While each becomes a hearty fellow
According as he waxes mellow,
And kindly helps the main design,
By drinking its success in wine;
And when his feet and senses reel,
Totters with correspondent zeal;
Nay, would appear a patron wise,
But that his wisdom's in disguise,
And would harangue, but that his mouth,
Which ever hates the sin of drowth,
Catching the full perpetual glass,
Cannot afford a word to pass.

Such, who like true Churchwardens eat,
Because the Parish pays the treat,

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And of their bellyful secure,
O'ersee, or over-look the poor,
Who would no doubt be wond'rous just,
And faithful Guardians of their trust,
But think the deed might run more clever
To them and to their Heirs for ever,
That Charity, too apt to roam,
Might end, where she begins, at home;
Who make all public good a trade,
Benevolence a mere parade,
And Charity a cloak for sin,
To keep it snug and warm within;
Who flatter, only to betray,
Who promise much and never pay,
Who wind themselves about your heart
With hypocritic, knavish art,
Tell you what wond'rous things they're doing,
And undermine you to your ruin;
Such, or of low or high estate,
To speak the honest truth, I hate:
I view their tricks with indignation,
And loath each fulsom protestation,
As I would loath a whore's embrace,
Who smiles, and smirks, and stroaks my face,
And all so tender, fond and kind,
As free of body, as of mind,

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Affects the softness of the Dove,
And p—xes me to shew her Love.

The Maiden wither'd, wrinkled pale,
Whose charms, tho' strong, are rather stale,
Will use that weapon call'd a tongue,
To wound the beauteous and the young.
—What, Delia handsome!—well!—I own
I'm either blind or stupid grown.
—The girl is well enough to pass,
A rosy, simple, rustic lass;
—But there's no meaning in her face,
And then her air, so void of grace!
And all the world, with half an eye,
May see her shape grows quite awry.
—I speak not from an ill design,
For she's a favourite of mine,
—Tho' I could wish that she would wear
A more reserved becoming air;
Not that I hear of indiscretions,
Such folks, you know, make no confessions,
Tho' the World says, that Parson there,
That smock-fac'd Man, with darkish hair,
He who wrote verses on her bird,
The simplest things I ever heard,

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Makes frequent visits there of late,
And is become exceeding great;
This I myself aver is true,
I saw him lead her to his pew.

Thus scandal, like a false quotation,
Misrepresents in defamation;
And where she haply cannot spy
A loop whereon to hang a lye,
Turns every action wrong side out
To bring her paultry tale about.

Thus Excellence of every kind,
Whether of body or of mind,
Is but a mark set up on high,
For knaves to guide their arrows by,
A mere Scotch Post for public itch,
Where Hog, or Man, may scrub his breech.

But thanks to nature, which ordains
A just reward for all our pains,
And makes us stem, with secret pride,
Hoarse Disappointment's rugged tide,
And like a lordly ship, which braves
The roar of winds, and rush of waves,

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Weather all storms, which jealous Hate
Or frantic Malice may create.
'Tis Conscience, a reward alone,
Conscience, who plac'd on Virtue's throne,
Eyes raging men, or raging seas,
Undaunted, firm, with heart at ease.

From her dark Cave, tho' Envy rise
With hollow cheeks, and jaundic'd eyes,
Tho' Hatred league with Folly vain,
And Spleen and Rancour join the train;
Shall Virtue shrink, abash'd, afraid,
And tremble at an idle shade?
Fear works upon the Fool, or Knave,
An honest man is always brave.
While Opposition's fruitless aim
Is as the bellows to the flame,
And, like a Pagan persecution,
Enforces Faith and Resolution.

Tho' Prejudice in narrow minds,
The mental eye of reason blinds;
Tho' Wit, which not e'en friends will spare,
Affect the sneering, laughing air,
Tho' Dullness, in her monkish gown,
Display the Wisdom of a frown,

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Yet Truth will force herself, in spite
Of all their efforts, into light.

See Bigot Monks in Spain prevail,
See Galilæo dragg'd to gaol:
Hear the grave Doctors of the schools,
The Golgotha of learned Fools,
As damnable and impious brand
That art they cannot understand,
And out of zeal pervert the Bible,
As if it were a standing Libel,
On every good and useful plan
That rises in the brain of man.

O Bigotry! whose frantic rage
Has blotted half the classic page,
And in Religion's drunken fit,
Murder'd the Greek and Roman wit;
Who zealous for that Faith's encrease,
Whose ways are righteousness and peace,
With rods and whips, and sword, and axe,
With prisons, tortures, flames and racks;
With persecution's fiery goad,
Enforcing some new-fangl'd mode,
Wouldst pluck down Reason from her throne
To raise some fantom of thy own;

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Alas! thy fury undiscerning,
Which blasts, and stunts, and hews up Learning,
Like an ill-judging zealous friend,
Blasphemes that Wisdom you defend.

Go, kick the prostituted whores,
The nine stale virgins out of doors;
For let the Abbess beat her drum,
Eleven thousand troops shall come;
All female forms, and virgins true,
As ever Saint or Poet knew.
And glorious be the honour'd name
Of Winifrede, of sainted fame,
Who to the Church like light'ning sped,
And ran three miles without her head;
(Well might the modest Lady run,
Since 'twas to keep her maiden one)
And when before the congregation
The Prince fell dead for reparation,
Secure of Life as well as Honour,
Ran back with both her heads upon her.

No matter of what shape or size,
Gulp down the Legendary Lies,
Believe, what neither God ordains,
Nor Christ allows, nor sense maintains;

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Make Saint of Pope, or Saint of Thief,
Believe almost in unbelief;
Yet with thy solemn priestly air,
By book and bell, and candle swear,
That God has made his own elect
But from your stem and savorite sect;
That He who made the world, has blest
One part alone, to damn the rest,
As if th' Allmerciful and Just,
Who form'd us of one common dust,
Had rendered up his own decree,
And lent his attributes to thee.

Thus his own eyes the Bigot blinds,
To shut out light from human minds,
And the clear truth (an emanation
From the great Author of creation,
A beam transmitted from on high,
To bring us nearer to the sky,
While ev'ry path by science trod,
Leads us with wonder up to God)
Is doom'd by Ignorance to make
Atonement at the Martyr's stake;
Tho', like pure gold, th' illustrious dame,
Comes forth the brighter from the flame.

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No persecution will avail,
No inquisition racks, nor gaol;
When Learning's more enlight'ned ray
Shall drive these sickly fogs away;
A thankful age shall pay her more,
Than all her troubles hurt before.
See Shame and Scorn await on those
Who poorly dar'd to be her foes,
But will the grateful voice of fame
Sink Truth, and Galilæo's name?

How wilful, obstinate and blind,
Are the main herd of human kind!
Well said the Wit, who well had tried
That malice which his Parts defied;
When merit's sun begins to break,
The Dunces stretch, and strive to wake,
And amity of Dunce with Dunce,
Fingers out Genius all at once.
As you may find the honey out,
By seeing all the flies about.
All ugly Women hate a toast;
The goodliest fruit is pick'd the most;
The ivy winds about the oak,
And to the fairest comes the smoke.

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Escap'd the dangers of the deep,
When Gulliver fell fast asleep,
Stretch'd on the Lilliputian strand,
A Giant in a pigmy Land;
Watchful against impending harms,
All Lilliput cried out, To arms;
The trumpets echoed all around,
The Captain slept exceeding sound,
Tho' crowds of undistinguish'd size
Assail'd his body, legs and thighs,
While clouds of arrows flew apace,
And fell like feathers on his face.