University of Virginia Library

TOWN FASHIONS.

Friend and Author.
F.
But late arriv'd; just twice twelve years from home,
Resolv'd no more in distant climes to roam;
Untaught, unpractis'd in new fashion'd ways,
School'd in the plain old modes of former days;
And hither drawn by rumours of renown
That Britain's Athens is your polish'd Town ,
I fain would learn each subject of applause,
Each custom, sanction'd by establish'd laws,
To guard my conduct, and direct my way,
Lest error draw my wandering steps astray.

A.
On themes like these, 'tis odds we disagree,
You'll think my strictures harsh; my speech too free.
Few judge alike, by different objects led,
This warms the heart, while that directs the head;
All have their reasoning, few the firm command
Of sober sense when Fashion rules the land.

F.
Fashion gives pleasure; Pleasure's meant for all,
The rich, the poor, the mighty and the small,
Confined to none, but free to every station,—

A.
But, must it not be govern'd by discretion?
Pleasure's a gift I own; who would refuse it?
Take it, and welcome!—spend, but do'nt misuse it.
Free to the great, the lowly, and the proud,
Free to the calm as to the bustling crowd;
Free to the cobbler, singing in his stall,
But not at birth-day court, or birth-night ball;
Free to the Tradesman in his shop or garret,
But not at Splendour's feast with hock and claret;
Free to his daughter chaunting at her needle,
Nay, to the Stroller scraping on his fiddle;
Yet, would not Fashion start, and Wonder stare,
If such were seated near “My Lady's” chair,
Where Rank and Fortune ranged around the table,
Found themselves blended with the common rabble?
Preserve the contrast fairly, and decide
If upstart Finery and puff'd up Pride
Be one whit meeter, when unseemly dress'd,
Uncheck'd by Prudence, by no Shame repress'd,
All sight is lost of Rank—Distinction—Station,
Driven blindfold on by raging Imitation?

F.
When Wealth pours in amain, few wish to spare it.
How runs the proverb, friend? “Win gold and wear it.”

A.
Yes, but should Pride instead of Wealth attend,
How burns “the candle lit at either end?”
Nor think, good Sir, that Wealth's the spur to all
Who frisk and flaunt it round this fashioned mall.
A gaudy outside makes a splendid show,
While nought but rubbish forms the trash below,
A gilded surface oft times makes a glitter
When all beneath is nought but dross or litter.
See—mark yon gay one with important smile,
Deckt out in Fashion's newest, tip-top style;
Attend his home—how splendid all appears!
(The endless toil of days, and months, and years.)
Placed at his board—how rich the banquet shines!
How choice the viands!—how admired the wines!
Two courses follow.

F.
Sure, there's opulence here.

A.
Say rather shew four days in every year.
Peep in the stinted larder, and you'll find
That what we Comfort call, is cast behind:
Four splendid annual banquets just can serve
To gild with Fashion Systems that half starve.

F.
Pride has its pleasure; Vanity its sweet,
But give me Plenty's plainness for my treat,
A social few, and frequent, free to share,
A hearty welcome to snug Comfort's fare.

A.
Give us, kind heaven! (our present breed to mend,)
Some firm Genteel Economists, to spend
Just what they ought to spend, and nothing more,
And act consistent, whether rich or poor.
To balance justly what they can afford,
Careful to guard, but ne'er disposed to hoard;
Social, not mad; attentive, but not keen;
Kind, but not sumptuous; prudent, but not mean,
To share with cordial mind, and liberal hand,
Just what a certain Income can command,
Nor shrink, because that income can't display
Two splendid courses on a festal day.

F.
Such have we known, my friend, while we were young,
When Husband tapt the cask and stopt the bung;
Were such the practice now, I've little doubt
Not half the liquor would run foaming out.

A.
What! break thro' Custom? at whose stern command
All bend the knee in this obsequious land;
Who, arm'd with terrors, lays down stated rules
That fetter wise men equal with weak fools,—
O'erawes the prudent, and appals the brave,
Makes Reason tremble, Common Sense a slave,
Till all complying, following in a throng,
Obey each dictate, whether right or wrong.
Shall Husbands, then, thus fetter'd, firm restrain
Those tempting joys that whirl each giddy brain,
Repress that rising pride, which, mantling high,
Glows in each cheek, and sparkles in each eye,
When dauntless Vanity disdains to yield
The dear loved honours of the hard fought field
To those whose powers and ample annual store
Exceed pinch'd straining means, ten times and more?
Shall Fashion stoop to spread neat Comfort's board
When Luxury crowns the banquet of—my Lord?
Or shame not blush at placing on the table
No more than what existing means enable?

F.
If not, what follows?

A.
Ay!—there lies thet jest!—
Dash while we may!—let Fortune guide the rest.
“Who can avoid,” cries some vain vulgar dame,
“A second course, when others do the same,
“And some high fashion'd gentry now—you see,
“Despise two courses, and regale with three?”

F.
Disease is often catching;—for a while
It may advance, but must at length recoil:
Sage men with sapient apothegms assure,
When at its height Disease itself will cure.

A.
But our disease, good Sir, is quite uncommon,
It paralyses Man, and maddens Woman,
Confounds the powerful—agitates the weak,
Makes wild delirium play in fitful freak,
Till conquered Reason, chained by magic force,
Lets brain-struck maniacs take their aerial course:
All following shew, like wild geese in a string,
Cackling, and clam'rous, borne on rapid wing,
Alike in feather, attitude, and flight,
Till gathering tempests veil them from our sight.

F.
Tired, and exhausted, trust me! they will cease.

A.
Yes, when distempers to their height encrease,
When danger, dread, distress, and impotence,
Leave nought but bloated Lux'ry for defence.

F.
Luxury, dear Sir, Economists assure us,
Is just the very thing that will secure us.—
Luxury, they say, gives energy to mind,
Awakes the sleeping, and enlights the blind;
Pricks on the sluggish—sets the lame in motion,
And bends the stubborn knee to Wealth's devotion;
Arouses Genius—calls forth bold invention;
Gives bread to millions—points to Trade's extension;
Produces general action, and re-action,
Till all is Comfort—Safety—Satisfaction .
—What's then the ill, with all this stated good?

A.
A serious Want, if rightly understood!
A dreadful bank mid all this modern ranting,
That ends in smoke, if such a thing be wanting!

F.
I fain would hear it?—something surely great!

A.
Sound Morals, Sir, to prop a towering state,
Pure, sterling worth, and honour, to restrain,
With powerful arm, the raging lust of gain.
—Such is the Want! and such may one day prove
The rapid downfall of the Fame we love,
Should spreading Luxury and Wealth, o'erstride
With giant step what props a Nation's pride.

F.
Empires must fall, and powerful States decay:
Life has its limits—Time sweeps all away!—
We'll change the Subject—Some will think it sad.

A.
'Tis not indeed for gay ones, turn'd stark mad.
But do me justice! while I point to ill,
I only wish the present storm to still,
To lull the tempest ere it mounts too high,
And ev'ry art and human power defy,
Ere blighting blasts our native worth consume.—

F.
You mean the storm of Fashion, I presume.

A.
I mean the senseless imitating rage
That marks the motley actors on our stage,
Where each fool gets the same fine speech by heart,
And all perform the same fine studied part;
Where ev'ry puppet squeaks the self same sound,
And ev'ry upstart struts the circle round
With the same step and consequential air,
As if high rank and fortune circled there—

F.
Well! let them act, and laugh at all you see.

A.
What! laugh at Pride, when join'd with misery!
Laugh at disease, when all around me suffer,
And not some lenient, cordial med'cine offer?—
When wilder'd Folly, straining to be fine,
On half serv'd scraps, leaves half fill'd paunch to dine,
Shall not some finger write upon the wall
Comfort's plain feast's the finest feast of all?
When pride-struck Tradesmen, push'd on day by day,
Their trebled taxes, rents, and bills to pay,
O'erstep the bounds of prudence and discretion
To gratify vain shew and ostentation,—
Expend on fashion'd mansion, feast, and flare,
Thrice more than sober Industry can spare,
Deck out each wife and daughter like a Dutchess,
Then shut up Shop and limp on Bankrupt crutches,
Shall not bold Truth, with honest zeal express,
Some serious thoughts such Folly to repress;
Nor Satire, clear in her reflecting glass,
Expose to view a Spendthrift and an Ass?

F.
But must not this disease ere long subside,
In spite of Folly, Vanity, and Pride?—
How can a vampt-up, struggling system last?

A.
In truth, I know not; but 'tis spreading fast.

F.
Will nought impede?

A.
'Tis more than I can tell,
Unless you chain down Madness in its cell.

F.
Will not distress, or want, do just as well?

A.
These pinch already, yet the fit goes on.

F.
Are there not Doctors? calm prescribers?

A.
None!
All are infected!—every class is raging;
Wealth—Splendour—Pleasure, Feasting, all engaging;
All bustling, straining, courting Fashion's smile,
Even Poets grasp at gain to live—in style!

F.
Whence sprung this ill?

A.
Aye! that's the mark!—you've hit it!
I'll shew the root; try hard if out you'll get it:
Were that accomplish'd, things might mend in part,
But pull till doomsday you will nothing start!

F.
Perhaps our joint exertions may succeed;
Point out the tares, and I'll attempt to weed.

A.
All is against us!—every tongue will rail!—
Who likes the hammer hit right on the nail
That comes against him with resistless force?—
Who likes the saddle placed on the right horse
When he must bear it?

F.
Each should have his due.

A.
That may perhaps include the valued few
Who, rul'd by Judgment and unfir'd by Wealth,
Prefer Retirement, Comfort, Morals, Health,
To all the gewgaws of fantastic State,
And feel in Goodness what is truly great;
Who dread to plunge their daughters and their wives
Headlong in gulphs to taint their future lives;
Leave Shew to Coxcombs, Vanity to fools,
And Waste to those who spend by fashion'd rules,
Above the fleeting praise of Wealth's renown,
That lives but one short winter in a Town.

F.
Is this the parent stock you wish to root?

A.
On this, my friend, grows Pride's ingrafted fruit.
Wealth is a magnet—Pleasure is a spur,
Splendour's a Comet; Habit is a bur;
Allur'd, delighted, apish Pride will preach;
Root out Temptation, will not Prudence teach?

F.
Yet, one thing may be argued in defence;
All is not idle Pleasure and Expence;
Youth's Education surely must be given.—

A.
Give it! untainted fresh as dew from heaven,
Give it unfetter'd, moral, liberal, free,
Just as it came, good Sir, to you and me!

F.
Alas! Alas!—these were unfashioned days!
We then had neither midnight Routes nor Plays.

A.
Nor midnight banquets—no, nor midnight din,
Nor private balls till breakfast things come in;
Nor Evening parties till the clock strikes three,
To make lost health and want of sleep agree.
Our daughters then, poor girls! had no such swing;
For Prudence then clipt Pleasure's ardent wing.
Our boys too, luckless! were not then all Men,
Nor e'er deem'd such till after years twice ten;
Nor gam'd, nor swore, nor fed at Luxury's table,
Nor skill'd in half the science of the stable.
No Idlers then, my friend, were known to meet,
Link'd arm in arm, six hours in Prince's Street,
Nor Fruit-shops then, nor Jelly-shops were seen,
To soothe and cheer the tedium of Eighteen:—

F.
Consider, Sir, we once ourselves were young.

A.
Had Fathers then no reprehensive tongue?
Had Mothers then no mild persuasive sway,
To check, or point out Youth's unerring way?
Were all then left to Pleasure's free controul?
Did dress, and shew, and glare pervade the whole?
The young I blame not!—these wake not the string—
Youth has its May-time, so has Nature's spring.
When she, kind Mother! puts her flowerets forth;
Dreads she no East wind, or the nipping North?
Guards she not safe, as Evening's sun descends,
Their tender buds, and kind protection lends,
Shuts up their opening blossoms from the blight
Of baleful mildew and the blasts of night,
Sheds strengthening pure her soft refreshing dews,
That, as they nourish, balmy sweets infuse,
Till safe from danger, warm meridian day
Beams on the full-blown beauties they display.
—Act thus the Mothers of our fashion'd Youth?
Open your eyes, and judge if I speak truth.

F.
Manners must change with other varying things,
Ours, were pure Nature's, train'd by parent springs.

A.
And had we then less knowledge, sense, or grace?
Whence then this racket for our modern race?
Whence all this annual, rural Emigration,
To give our boys and girls some Education?—
Are times so bad, and manners so impure,
That splendid domes must now our Youth secure?
Are Schools so dangerous, that no girl can tread
Their tainted haunts without parental dread
In this famed town of elegance and ton,
And yet this dreaded spot be run upon?
Who can but smile, and listening, not admire
The constant themes of modern dame and sire,
Who, while they vaunt of systems safe, refined,
Conceive that all who listen are stone blind?
There are, my friend, who say with wisdom's face,
“All Parents now must winter in this place!”
Enquire the reason, Education's all,
Yet, when we analyze great things and small,
We find 'tis not the child brought here to learn,
But full grown Wealth, impatient to discern
Systems, important in this tutored age
To all who tread new Fashion's splendid stage.
The jest is better still, when in defence
These sage one's reason gravely on Expence;
Talk of Economy, and Lord knows what!
In quitting home, and living here—in State,
When one short Winter's ill spent, lost campaigne,
Wastes useless Wealth like Walcheren and Spain.

F.
You'll own exceptions;

A.
Yes, five out of ten.
If more you find, ne'er trust my word again.

F.
Confess, too, danger when no Parent's nigh.

A.
How came, it friend, that neither you nor I,
Early removed from home, experienced harm,
Nor caused parental terror or alarm?
That, nursed in temperance, in retirement bred,
No anxious Cares disturb'd a Father's head,
Save such as Nature, ever wise and kind,
Awakes to yield instruction to the mind,
Nor thought that Pomp and Flare could ever bring
One drop of knowledge from pure Learning's spring.
Far less that home-bred Luxury was able
To yield Instruction at a Father's table.
How came it, too, that every daughter rose
Safe as the shelter'd Violet as it blows
Beneath its parent shade? That rear'd with care,
Plain Sense taught worth, while morals blossom'd fair?
That lured by Precept, by Example led,
Expanding Wisdom felt Instruction's aid,
And opening Reason, musing calm, and free,
Found parent love and rectitude agree.—
Were such all void of Culture—Knowledge, Taste?
Were such the wild weeds of the sterile waste?
Did no experienced hand with skill unfold
Mines rich in treasures, brightening into gold,
From gems faint sparkling clear the dross away,
And radiance yield to cheer Life's future day?
—'Tis true, indeed, none then were forced to learn
For Fashion's sake, things now of high concern;
Things, which to all, important rise to view,
Tho' Nature, startled, shrinks from things so new.
—I may forget:—and yet it strikes me clear,
No Music then was learnt without an Ear,
Nor do I think our Parents were in haste
To make their daughters squall who had no taste.
Some Romps we had, no doubt, as well as Danaes,
Who broke thro' rigid rules, and plagued Duennas;
But sure I am, however daft or glaiked,
No daughter then at public shews went naked.

F.
Why dwell on Fashions?—who can stop their course?
Think you to check them as you would your horse?
Pull as you may, in spite of curb and whip
These jades will on, and take their five-bar leap.

A.
Fashions of frippery, trinkets, gaudes, or toys,
May harmless pass,—they please our girls and boys,
But such, my friend, as we've been just descanting,
Require, I think, some striking moral painting.

F.
Who thinks of Morals?—is the word still known?

A.
In faith! 'tis sadly antiquated grown.
Morals and Comfort, words scarce understood,
Are aliens now among our modern brood;
Unknown in practice, and obscure by age,
'Tis time to blot them out of Johnson's page.—
Yet, shall we fold our arms, and calmly see
New-fangled modes and morals disagree,
Without one friendly effort to repress
What's yearly—monthly, tending to excess?
Shall all desert our rural haunts and farms,
To loll and smile in Pleasure's clasping arms,
And no warm strain be sung in the defence
Of rural Comfort, Worth, and Consequence?—
Where dwell they now in this fastidious reign?
Where shall we find them, lost in new-found gain?
When novel modes and manners, brought from Town,
Rush in, and knock calm rural comfort down;
When new-dress'd luxury to the feast repairs,
And kicks good old Simplicity down stairs?—
Oh give me back, ye days of artless Worth,
The blissful Ease that call'd true Pleasure forth!
When lapt in quiet, careless, ardent, gay,
First in retirement's shade I tuned the lay,
And sung of rural pastimes—rural charms,
(As yet an infant in the Muses' arms,)
Nor dreamt, alas! that gewgaws and conceits
Would e'er exclude their unmatched native sweets,
E'er lure from home Simplicity's mild train
In search of Splendour, Etiquette and Gain,
And nought remain to balance lost content,
But City manners, and a trebled rent!

F.
Not quite so fast! good Sir.—Much more remains:
Look to our cultur'd fields! our smiling plains!
Look to our Tenants, struggling now no more,
Rous'd by Exertion; cheer'd with Plenty's store!—
What then our rural strength, or worth consumes?

A.
Look to your spinning Mills and weaving Looms!

F.
Nay! your fastidious!—all now understand
That Arts and Culture move on hand in hand—

A.
To what?

F.
To wealth!

A.
And shall we hence conclude
That what is merely wealthy, must be good?
That what's corruptive, so it yields us gain,
Upholds what strength and Honour must sustain?
What, let me ask you, is the magic power
That renders Britons matchless at this hour?
Appals the hostile, damps the threatening foe,
Shivers whole navies, and lays ramparts low,
But native vigour, nurtured in the shade,
But nerve-strung Labour at his plough and spade,
Trained up in Virtue, Temperance, and Health;—
Spring these, good Sir, from Manufacture's Wealth?
Spring these from Lucre's desolating hand,
That sweeps in shoals our young ones from the land,
Condemn'd to herd, and mingle in the steam
Of rank Contagion's foul polluted stream,
Where Love's pure vow, or Hymen's hallow'd tie,
Ne'er joins the hearts or hands of Infamy,
Till sunk in Vice, all meet their hapless doom,
A ruin'd morning!—an untimely tomb!

F.
Our Manufactures are our Country's pride!

A.
I know it well!—yes! they are deified!—
What's that to me? or what is it to Truth?
What to lost Morals?—what to ruin'd Youth?

F.
What would you have?

A.
Worth,—purity, and Health,
More private Virtue, and less public Wealth!

F.
What comes of Revenue?

A.
Were cramps to seize it,
Believe me, Sir, I should not strive to ease it:
Source of Infection! every vice inflaming,
From licenced Stills, to licenced Lottery gaming!

F.
War must have sinews.

A.
So must Public Weal,—

F.
Statesmen have bounties,—

A.
And no Patriot zeal?

F.
Fleets—Armies—Subsidies, are serious things!

A.
They are!—still more Corruption's poison'd springs.
Dry you these up, and I'll wipe out each score
With much less means, and have some thousands o'er.

F.
Where lies Corruption?

A.
Some think in the Great,
Some in Court power, or Ministers of State;—

F.
Take care!—talk thus, you're mark'd a Democrate.

A.
Why, as to that, 'tis all the same to me;
Thank heaven!—from Party tinge, I'm wholly free.

F.
You sometimes take a side when Party's strong.

A.
Not I, in truth!

F.
How then?

A.
I hold my tongue,
Because I know both sides are in the wrong;
Because, I'm certain, argue as I will,
The theme of Party will be Party still:
Yet trust me, friend! tho' neither Whig nor Tory,
I'm not indifferent to my Country's glory,
Nor yet, with all its riches, so elate,
But what I sometimes tremble for its fate!

F.
Your Country, Sir, will tell you one and all,
'Tis next to certain, that it ne'er can fall.

A.
Indeed!—what proofs?

F.
Nought can our skill withstand,
Rents still are rising; and still rise our Lands.

A.
—Umph!—will this last forever?

F.
Can it cease
When year by year our rural gains encrease?
When for each pound the acre brought before,
The thriving Cultivator now gets four?

A.
All true, good Sir!—but will you not agree
That for each pound the Landlord now gets three?
Where then the mighty difference, save, to him
Who, treble loaded, sails in gaudy trim
Streight to the port, where Pleasure, nothing shy,
Expends what Labour yearly must supply?

F.
All this is fit, and prosp'rous to a nation,
By this Wealth circ'lates, free from all stagnation;—
Nought should impede its course—You would not sure?

A.
I would do much vain empty pride to cure!
I would do much increasing pomp to check,
And lure plain Sense and sober Reason back;
To place calm Worth, respected, honour'd, known,
Not in a crowd, but on its rural throne;
Not in vain Waste, and glittering parade,
But with Benevolence, smiling in the shade;
To circulate wide the wealth that Fortune yields,
Not in a Town, but round our cultur'd fields:
There let it flow! and liberal let it run,
From patriot Father, down to patriot Son;
Glide copious, pure, where Dignity's true lord
Adorns the banquet, and inspires the board,
Where Hospitality, unchill'd by pride,
Invites plain worth and Freedom to its side,
And smiling, whispers to each grateful guest,
That nought but Kindness ornaments the feast.
Should this blest change arrive, (though much I dread,
It never will, as modern manners spread.)
Where is Wealth stopt?—where, tell me the stagnation
That checks the general flow of circulation?
Are Towns the only channels where it runs?

F.
Yes, for your fashion'd daughters, wives, and sons

A.
Add, if you please, our late new fashion'd Factors.
Our land-surveyors, purchasers, contractors;
Our new found Builders—Feuers—Innovators,
—In short, good Sir, our Legal Speculators.—
Pleased with no profits, to no trade confined,
No gainful business satisfies the mind;
Now here—now there, with eagle eye they turn,
Some new wrought mine of riches to discern,
Find some things tempting, joined with some things scaring,
Despise the last, and dash at what is daring,
Plunge in the stream!—all future dangers scorn,
—“'Tis make a spoon,” they cry, “or spoil a horn.”
Such are the times, my friend, and such you'll find them,
I've painted pictures true—but who will mind them?
Immerged in Pleasure, Fashion, Splendour, Profit,
Paint what I may, will not our fine folk scoff it?
Push'd on by gain, and desp'rate speculation,
Will not some agent pen my accusation?
Draw up a long memorial of my crime;
And have me lodged in Bridewell for a time;
And bent on treble rents and shews in Town,
Will not some squire or sheep-laird knock me down?
As for your Manufactures, some things worse
Might still be said, but that I dread the curse
Of thousands starting up in the defence
Of pounds and shillings gain'd at—sad expence!

F.
Come,—things are not so bad as you would make them!

A.
I wish they were not, but I can't mistake them.
Were it not tiresome (having rhimed so long)
I could instruct you with no idle song;
A simple, moral Tale, and somewhat new,
And, trust me! not more moral just, than true.

F.
Pray let us have it!—'tis not oft we meet,
A moral, simple Tale's no common treat;
'Twill cheer the social hour, and shut care out
As well as midnight banquet, ball, or route.

A.

F.
Proceed!—I like your Tale, tho' much my fears
Predict this system lasts not nineteen years.

A.
Much fewer, Sir, may close my warning Tale,
If one expected prosperous year should fail.
That year arrived,—another following came,
Profits unfelt—Expences still the same;
Two rents unpaid—the Bank account unsettled,
Tradesmen impatient, and the landlord nettled,
No friend to bail—unaided, and opprest,—
Need I proceed?—you surely guess the rest.

F.
Where went our ruin'd Farmers?

A.
Old, and poor,
Near to the confines of a dreary moor
Both Cottars lived, neglected, and unknown,
Save when the Parish paid their pittance down.

F.
And James, and Mary?

A.
Every prospect fled,
James, stunn'd and heartless, earn'd his daily bread,
Not in the cultured field, or breezy lawn
Where Youth and vigour hail'd the morning dawn,
Nor in the Chase, where flush'd o'er hill and dale,
Health feels the influence of the freshening gale,
Nor in the whispering shade and secret bower
Where mutual Love enjoy'd the trysted hour,
And pure, untainted, ardent and sincere,
Binds heart to heart, and points to Hymen near;
But lonely, cheerless, withering in his bloom,
James plied the shuttle at his dreary loom,
Low, airless, dank, placed on an earthen floor,
Where Health soon fades, to bud and bloom no more!
Where vigour sinks beneath the wasting blight
Of dire Debauch, repeated night by night,
Till pallid hue, and nerveless strength proclaim
A fate—unheeded mid Commercial fame!

F.
I dread to ask, my friend, “The Clydesdale Rose,”
The Parent's hope that soothed them to repose?

A.
Driven from their Farm, unaided and unfed,
To yield them food, young Mary desp'rate fled
Where worth, and vice, and sex, commingled, find
Gain to entice, and poison to the mind;
Where nursed Corruption, blasting all around,
Inflicts ere long its deep and deadly wound,
Lays Virtue low, while female charms decay,
Quick as the twilight of a tropic day!—

F.
Name this corruption—this contagious ill!

A.
The Crowded Congress of a Cotton Mill:
Here, driven by want, affection, and despair,
Here, midst Infection's pestilential air,
Breathed all the sweets which modest Virtue drew
From filial Love, mild Worth, and Friendship true.

F.
And did they fly?

A.

F.
Alas! alas!—such Tales make morals sick!
Your themes at length have touch'd me to the quick!
Yet mark me, friend! however just and true,
Such subjects suit not all—nor yet a few!—
Trade must have gain, however dearly bought,
Wealth must have pleasures—Pleasures banish thought.
The young will sneer; the harden'd old will frown,
The grave philosophise, and cut Truth down,
Maid, Wife, and Widow, tainted with the times,
Will loathe your Morals, and decry your rhimes,
Regard you as a meddling, dangerous spy,
And meet you with a cold, suspicious eye;
Expel you from each board and festal dome—

A.
Well, if they do, I can live snug at home,
Receive plain friends, who smiling take their seat,
Nor scorn plain liquors, nor despise plain meat,
Can chat o'er Toddy just as well as Wine,
And laugh as gay as those who sumptuous dine.
On some occasions; such as gala days,
When an old valued Friend a visit pays,
Prompted by kindness, I may, dashing, sport
An extra dish, and give a glass of port,
With long saved Sherry wash old mutton down,
And Meux's best a social banquet crown.—
As for your custards, creams, and tarts, and jellies,
My friends and I are such unfashion'd fellows,
We care not if such plaguey ostentation
Were henceforth fairly banish'd from the nation.

F.
What yearly income may support this plan?

A.
Not near three hundred, and some more than one.

F.
Well! you're at least an independent man.

A.
Yes, and what's more, contented, happy, gay,
Except when Fools and Finery cross my way;
Except when subjects, such as sung, intrude,
Flash o'er my mind and gentler thoughts exclude,
O'ercloud the cheering beams that Nature gave,
And turn, too oft, the sprightly to the grave!

F.
There, you're to blame!—mind what old sages say,
“Fools will be fools until their dying day.”