 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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The WIT's PROGRESS.
Your Genealogists decide,
That Wit to Folly's near ally'd;
Whence 'tis observ'd, that Sense and Wit,
In friendly union seldom hit.
That Wit to Folly's near ally'd;
Whence 'tis observ'd, that Sense and Wit,
In friendly union seldom hit.
At Macro's birth each gossip cries,
“She sees Wit sparkle in his eyes;”
Ev'n at the breast his wit amazes,
And Nurse is lavish of her praises;
Whether he laughs, or cries, or crows,
Uncommon wit her baby shows:
But one thing makes poor Nursy grieve,
“She fears he'as too much wit to live.”
“She sees Wit sparkle in his eyes;”
Ev'n at the breast his wit amazes,
And Nurse is lavish of her praises;
Whether he laughs, or cries, or crows,
Uncommon wit her baby shows:
But one thing makes poor Nursy grieve,
“She fears he'as too much wit to live.”
At School he learning quickly gains,
Yet seldom what he gets retains:
Mischief is Macro's chief delight,
Mischief he studies day and night;
But even in those boyish days,
His breeches' tenant often pays
For Master Macro's witty ways;
Sure prologue to the many woes
His ripen'd wit must yet disclose.
Yet seldom what he gets retains:
Mischief is Macro's chief delight,
Mischief he studies day and night;
But even in those boyish days,
His breeches' tenant often pays
For Master Macro's witty ways;
Sure prologue to the many woes
His ripen'd wit must yet disclose.
At College each raw youth is smit
With Macro's humour, whim, and wit;
By which his vanity's increast;
He thinks himself a Swift at least;
But Macro's so amazing quick,
To One Thing he can never stick:
Meer Superficials suffice;
Macro's too witty to be wise:
Of each Preceptor and grave Soph
His wit is sure to make a scoff;
With him each Fellow's an Old Miss,
Of Masculini Generis:
From Locke or Newton see him run,
With pleasure to enjoy a pun;
And all the sense of Aristotle
Is a mere trifle to a bottle;
This soon brings on the Art of Drinking,
To which succeeds the Want of Thinking,
For when Wit owns the Bottle's sway,
Poor Wit's in a consumptive way:
He drinks, he games, he wenches, swears,
And a most glorious Buck appears.
With Macro's humour, whim, and wit;
By which his vanity's increast;
He thinks himself a Swift at least;
But Macro's so amazing quick,
To One Thing he can never stick:
156
Macro's too witty to be wise:
Of each Preceptor and grave Soph
His wit is sure to make a scoff;
With him each Fellow's an Old Miss,
Of Masculini Generis:
From Locke or Newton see him run,
With pleasure to enjoy a pun;
And all the sense of Aristotle
Is a mere trifle to a bottle;
This soon brings on the Art of Drinking,
To which succeeds the Want of Thinking,
For when Wit owns the Bottle's sway,
Poor Wit's in a consumptive way:
He drinks, he games, he wenches, swears,
And a most glorious Buck appears.
Expell'd from College, Macro soon
Among the Bedford Wits is known;
Here Wit is current sure to pass,
If fix'd with an alloy of brass:
Now like his brother Wits he dreams
Of Glory and Pactolean streams;
But consequences soon declare
'Tis building castles in the air;
For Wit's an hungry entertainment,
It seldom brings us food or raiment:
He writes and spins his cobweb brains,
Small his renown, but less his gains;
His slip-shod Billinsgate-sprung Muse
Is perfect mistress of abuse:
He libels, and our modest Bard
Receives a Cudgel for reward;
His little patrimony flies,
His Wit brings in but poor supplies;
At length in want of board and bed,
He hackney Scribbler turns for bread;
Hunger and ragged Want assail,
And his last lodging is a Jail:
Despis'd by All, and All despising,
Not the least spark of Hope arising;
Like a True Wit he ends his pains,
And foolishly blows out his brains.
Among the Bedford Wits is known;
Here Wit is current sure to pass,
If fix'd with an alloy of brass:
Now like his brother Wits he dreams
Of Glory and Pactolean streams;
But consequences soon declare
'Tis building castles in the air;
For Wit's an hungry entertainment,
It seldom brings us food or raiment:
He writes and spins his cobweb brains,
Small his renown, but less his gains;
His slip-shod Billinsgate-sprung Muse
Is perfect mistress of abuse:
He libels, and our modest Bard
Receives a Cudgel for reward;
157
His Wit brings in but poor supplies;
At length in want of board and bed,
He hackney Scribbler turns for bread;
Hunger and ragged Want assail,
And his last lodging is a Jail:
Despis'd by All, and All despising,
Not the least spark of Hope arising;
Like a True Wit he ends his pains,
And foolishly blows out his brains.
Have you not in a darksome night
A Meteor seen, with rapid flight
Dart thro' the Sky—while Blockheads swear,
The glitt'ring Nothing is a Star:
Ended its unsubstantial fires,
In some foul ditch it soon expires.
A Meteor seen, with rapid flight
Dart thro' the Sky—while Blockheads swear,
The glitt'ring Nothing is a Star:
Ended its unsubstantial fires,
In some foul ditch it soon expires.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |