Trifles :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pagan, Jewish, Roman, and Mahometan Priests properly habited.
Tyranny, in a coat of mail, a Gothic crown on his head, and chains in his hand.
Imposture, a phantom dress'd up by the priests with a cloak, mask, &c.
Truth, a beautiful woman drest in white, with great plainness and simplicity.
Liberty, drest in her hair, with a flowing robe, a wand, &c.
Zeal, has a fool's cap on his head painted with flames, a book in his hand, which he seems to read now and then, casting up his eyes to heaven, and beating his breast with great violence.
Persecution has an axe in one hand and a lighted firebrand in the other.
Ambition is magnificently drest with stars, ribbons, coronets, and other ensigns of civil honour, eying them often.
Corruption has a large bag of money in one hand, and a serpent in the other.
Philosophers in Grecian habits.
The Arts and the Muses from antiquity.

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The curtain rises to solemn musick, but something harsh and dissonant, and discovers a magnificent temple; where a cabal of Egyptian Priests, Jewish Rabbins, Mahometan Mufti's, a Pope, a Cardinal, Jesuit, and Capuchin seem in close combination, and are all earnestly employed in dressing up the figure of Imposture. After a while they seem by their whispering, nodding, winking and sneering amongst themselves, to have adjusted matters very much to their own satisfaction. A large cloak is thrown over the shoulders of the figure, to hide its deformities; a mask of a fine compos'd grave air is clapt upon its ugly visage; and several others, curiously delineated for all occasions are cunningly disposed of beneath the cloak: which done, the Priests withdraw. Then enters a band of ancient Philosophers, porperly habited; who, examining the figure of Imposture with great care, seem to debate amongst themselves with calmness and moderation; and at length, having pull'd off its cloak and mask, and discover'd and expos'd its strange features and monstrous deformities, they
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are just upon the point of demolishing the figure, when the Priests re-enter, leading in Tyranny, with all the ensigns and officers of Civil Power attending him: by the assistance of whom, the Philosophers are driven off the stage, and Imposture is again invested with its cloak and mask. The Priests making obeisance to the Civil Power, seem to beg the continuance of his protection, and the chief of them addresses himself to Tyranny, in the following manner.

RECITATIVE.

Thou, regal power! vicegerent of the skies!
Supreme on earth, and substitute of heav'n!
O stretch thy powerful arm, protect and save
Its sacred ministers! nor let bold man,
With his presumptuous reason, dare to mock
Our holy myst'ries, or dispute our rights.

AIR.

Kings the rights of Priests defending,
More securely hold their own;
Priests to Kings assistance lending,
Merit succour from the throne:
Then give us supreme dominion
Over conscience and the soul;
You shall rule (by our opinion)
Lives and goods without controul,

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Tyranny.

RECITATIVE.

Most reverend fathers! delegates to men
From heaven's high king! ambassadors divine!
Be it as you have said. Teach you mankind
That power unlimited belongs to Kings,
That subjects have no rights but to obey;
Then shall the arm of civil power protect
Your highest claims of reverence; and enforce
Assent to every tenet you shall judge
Conducive to establish Priestly rule
O'er mind and conscience.

AIR.

Thus in fetters doubly binding,
Souls enslaving, bodies grinding,
We the stupid herd shall sway;
And, supreme in wealth and grandeur,
Silence every bold withstander
That shall dare to disobey.

Priest.
But in this grand affair, this high attempt,
To blind, enslave, and fleece a bubbled world;
What instruments, what tools shall we employ?

Tyranny.
Ambition and Corruption be my tools.

Priest.
Be mine blind Zeal and furious Persecution.

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Enter to the Priests, at one door, Zeal and Persecution; and to the Civil Power, at the other, Ambition and Corruption, properly distinguish'd.
Tyranny.
Go forth, ye instruments of our high aims,
And in our cause possess the sons of men.
Cramp and intimidate th' enquiring mind;
With base affections taint the human heart:
And tame the generous spirit that breathes in man,
And prompts him to resist and brave oppression:
So shall that head-strong beast, the multitude,
Yield to the bit, and crouch beneath its burthen.

Zeal, leading Persecution, goes out one way; and Corruption, leading Ambition, the other. Then enter the Muses and the liberal Arts, with proper habits and ensigns, who seem to beg protection of the Priests and the Civil Power; but being commanded to fall down and worship the figure of Imposture, they refuse; upon which they are immediately chain'd and fetter'd, and cast down bound before it.
And now the Civil and Ecclesiastical Powers seem prefectly secure; they shake hands, they embrace, and after a formal solemn dance, in which they alternately bow and reverence each other, they are walking off the stage, when they meet with the Godness of Liberty, who leads in the Philosophers, walks
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boldly up to the figure of Imposture, and striking it with her wand, speaks as follows.
[LIBERTY.]
Hence, Delusion, hence, away;
Nor in Britain dare to stay:
To some foreign land retire,
Where dull ign'rance may admire:
Here, amongst the brave and free,
Truth shall rise, and dwell with me.

Then waving her wand, Imposture immediately sinks; and the goddess of Truth, arry'd in robes of white, yet drest with the greatest plainness and simplicity, arises in its room, whom Liberty addresses in the following
[LIBERTY.]

AIR.

Fairest daughter of the skies,
Hither turn thy radiant eyes;
Thou hast lovers here shall trace,
Every charm and every grace:
Sons of wisdom, who admire,
Sons of freedom, all on fire;
Hither, goddess, hither turn;
Britons for thy beauties burn.

And now the Arts and Muses seem rejoic'd, they rise gradully upon their feet, their chains are taken off by Liberty, who leads up a dance, in which the Philosophers join with the Muses, all of
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them in the dance making frequent obeisance to the Goddess of Truth.
During all this, the powers of Tyranny and Priestcraft are in great dread and confusion. Tyranny threatens with his sword, and the Priest wields a thunder-bolt; but ineffectual and in vain; for at the end of the dance, Truth and Liberty advancing fearless to their opposites, they drop their weapons and submit. After which, Liberty, addressing herself to them, speaks as follows.
[LIBERTY.]
O why, ye powers, that rule the race man,
And you that should instruct him to be wise
And good; why will ye join, O why, in league
Unnatural, to blind and to enslave!
When to reform his morals, and protect
His native rights, are your sole provinces,
From which perform'd, your safety, glory, all
That make kings great, and priests rever'd, arise.

AIR.
He whose heart with social fire
Burns to do what good he can;
Sure, by the celestial sire,
Will be deem'd the worthiest man:
So the patriot warmly prest
In his country's sacred cause,
Of all subjects is the best,
Best deserves his king's applause.

Truth.
Princes, give ear; give ear, ye reverend seers;
And let the words of Truth make deep impression.

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Man was not made for Kings, but Kings for Man.
And that proud tyrant who invades the rights
His hand was scepter'd to defend, becomes
A sovereign rebel. As that Priest, who for
The oracles of heaven gives human creeds,
And, wrapt in mysteries, sneering moral worth,
Delights to puzzle and confound the mind,
Which 'tis his sacred office to enlighten,
Falls from heaven's minister to that of hell;
And for man's teacher under God, becomes,
Under the devil, deputy seducer,

AIR.
Yet how sacred! how divine!
Kings and Priests have power to be!
At the throne, or at the shrine,
Man might bow, and still be free:
Let the Prelate virtue bring,
Let the Prince with goodness sway;
To the Priest and to the King,
All will due obedience pay.

CHORUS.
Power and goodness, when they join,
Make Kings sacred, Priests divine.

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THE ART of PREACHING:

In Imitation of HORACE's Art of Poetry.

Should some strange poet, in his piece, affect
Pope's nervous stile, with Cibber's jokes bedeck'd;
Prink Milton's true sublime with Cowley's wit;
And garnish Blackmore's Job with Swift's conceit;
Would you not laugh? Trust me, that Priest's as bad,
Who in a stile now grave, now raving mad,
Gives the wild whims of dreaming schoolmen vent,
Whilst drowsy congregations nod assent.

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Painters and priests, 'tis true, great licence claim,
And by bold strokes have often rose to fame:
But whales in woods, or elephants in air,
Serve only to make fools and children stare;
And in religion's name if priests dispense
Flat contradictions to all common sense;
Tho' gaping bigots wonder and believe,
The wise 'tis not so easy to deceive.

Some take a text sublime, and fraught with sense,
But quickly fall into impertinence.
On trifles eloquent, with great delight
They flourish out on some strange mystick rite;
Clear up the darkness of some useless text,
Or make some crabbed passage more perplext:
But to subdue the passions, or direct,
And all life's moral duties, they neglect.

Most preachers err (except the wiser few)
Thinking establish'd doctrines, therfore true:
Others, too fond of novelty and schemes,
Amuse the world with airy idle dreams:
Thus too much faith, or too presuming wit,
Are rocks where bigots, or free-thinkers spilt.

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The very meanest dabler at Whitehall
Can rail at papists, or poor quakers maul;
But when of some great truth he aims to preach,
Alas, he finds it far beyond his reach.
Young deacons try your strength, and strive to find
A subject suited to your turn of mind;
Method and words are easily your own,
Or should they fail you—steal from Tillotson.

Much of its beauty, usefulness, and force,
Depends on rightly timing a discourse.
Before the l---ds or c---mm---ns—far from nice,
Say boldly—Brib'ry is a dirty vice—
But quickly check yourself—and with a sneer—
Of which this honourable house is clear.

Great is the work, and worthy of the gown,
To bring forth hidden truths, and make them known.
Yet in all new opinions, have a care,
Truth is too strong for some weak minds to bear:
And are new doctrines taught, or old reviv'd?
Let them from scripture plainly be deriv'd.

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Barclay or Baxter, wherefore do we blame
For innovations, yet approve the same
In Wickliffe and in Luther? Why are these
Call'd wise reformers, those mad sectaries?
'Tis most unjust: Men always had a right,
And ever will, to think, to speak, to write
Their various minds; yet sacred ought to be
The publick peace, as private liberty.

Opinions are like leaves, which every year
Now flourish green, now fall and disappear.
Once the pope's bulls could terrify his foes,
And kneeling princes kiss'd his sacred toes,
Now he may damn, or course, or what he will,
There's not a prince in Christendom will kneel,
Reason now reigns, and by her aid we hope
Truth may revive, and sickening error droop:
She the sole jude, the rule, the gracious light
Kind heaven has lent to guide our minds aright.

States to embroil, and faction to display,
In wild harrangues, Sacheverel show'd the way.

The fun'ral sermon, when it first began,
Was us'd to weep the loss of some good man;

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Now any wretch, for one small piece of gold,
Shall have fine praises from the pulpit sold:
But whence this custom rose, who can decide?
From priestly av'rice? or from human pride?

Truth, moral virtue, piety, and peace,
Are noble subjects, and the pulpit grace:
But zeal for trifles arm'd imperious Laud,
His power and cruelty the nation aw'd.
Why was he honour'd with the name of priest,
And greatest made, unworthy to be least,
Whose zeal was fury, whose devotion pride,
Power his great god, and interest his sole guide?

To touch the passions, let your stile be plain;
The praise of virtue asks a higher strain:
Yet sometimes the pathetick may receive
The utmost force that eloquence can give;
As sometimes, in elogiums, 'tis the art,
With plain simplicity to win the heart.

'Tis not enough that what you say is true,
To make us feel it, you must feel it too:
Show your self warm'd, and that will warmth impart
To every hearer's sympathizing heart.

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Does generous Foster virtue's laws enforce?
All give attention to the warm discourse:
But who a cold, dull, lifeless, drawling keeps,
One half his audience laughs, the other sleeps.

In censuring vice, be earnest and severe;
In stating dubious points, concise and clear;
Anger requires stern looks and threat'ning stile;
But paint the charms of virtue with a smile.
These different changes common sense will teach,
And we expect them from you if you preach;
For should your manner differ from your theme,
Or in quite different subjects be the same,
Despis'd and laugh'd at, you may travel down,
And hide such talents in some country town.

It much concerns a preacher first to learn
The genius of his audience, and their turn.
Amongst the citizens be grave and slow;
Before the nobles let fine periods flow;
The Temple church asks Sherlock's sense and skill;
Beyond the Tow'r—no matter—what you will.

In facts or notions drawn from sacred writ,
Be orthodox, nor cavil to show wit:
Let Adam lose a rib to gain a wife,
Let Noah's ark contain all things with life,

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Let Moses work strange wonders with his rod,
And let the sun stand still at Joshua's nod,
Let Solomon be wise, and Samson strong,
Give Saul a witch, and Balaam's ass a tongue.

But if your daring genius is so bold
To teach now doctrines, or to censure old,
With care proceed; you tread a dangerous path;
Error establish'd, grows establish'd faith.
'Tis easier much, and much the safer rule
To teach in pulpit what you learnt at school;
With zeal defend what'er the church believes,
If you expect to thrive, or wear lawn sleeves,

Some loudly bluster, and consign to hell
All who dare doubt one word or syllable
Of what they call the faith; and which extends
To whims and trifles without use or ends:
Sure 'tis much nobler, and more like divine,
T' enlarge the path to heaven, than to confine:
Insist alone on useful points, or plain;
And know, God cannot hate a virtuous man.

If you expect or hope that we should stay
Your whole discourse, nor strive to slink away;
Some common faults there are you must avoid,
To every age and circumstance ally'd.

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A pert young student just from college brought,
With many little pedantries is fraught:
Reasons with syllogism, persuades with wit,
Quotes scraps of Greek instead of sacred writ;
Or deep immers'd in politick debate,
Reforms the church, and guides the tottering state.

These trifles with maturer age forgot,
Now some good benefice employs his thought;
He seeks a patron, and will soon incline
To all his notions civil or divine;
Studies his principles both night and day,
And as that scripture guides, must preach and pray.
Av'rice and age creep on: his reverend mind
Begins to grow right-reverendly inclin'd.
Power and preferment still so sweetly call,
The voice of heaven is never heard at all:
Set but a tempting bishoprick in view,
He's strictly orthodox and loyal too;
With equal zeal defends the church and state,
And infidels and rebles share his hate.

Some things are plain, we can't misunderstand;
Some still obscure, tho' thousands have explain'd:

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Those influence more which reason can conceive,
Than such as we thro' faith alone believe;
In those we judge, in these you may deceive:
But what too deep in mystery is thrown,
The wisest preachers chuse to let alone.
How Adam's fault affects all human kind;
How three is one, and one is three combin'd;
How certain prescience checks not future will;
And why almighty goodness suffers ill;
Such points as these lie far too deep for man,
Were never well explain'd, nor ever can.

If pastors more than thrice five minutes preach,
Their sleepy flocks begin to yawn and stretch.

Never presume the name of God to bring
As sacred sanction to a trifling thing.

Before, or after sermon, hymns of praise
Exalt the soul, and true devotion raise.
In songs of wonder celebrate his name,
Who spread the skies, and built the starry frame:
Or thence descending view this globe below,
And praise the source of every bliss we know.

In ancient times, when heaven was to be prais'd,
Our humble ancestors their voices rasi'd,

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And hymns of thanks from grateful bosoms flow'd,
For ills prevented, or for good bestow'd:
But as the church increas'd in power and pride,
The pomp of sound the want of sense supply'd;
Majestick organs then were taught to blow,
And plain religion grew a raree-show:
Strange ceremonious whims, a numerous race,
Were introduc'd, in truth's and virtue's place.
Mysterious turnpikes block up heaven's highway,
And for a ticket, we our reason pay.

These superstitions quickly introduce
Contempt, neglect, wild satire, and abuse;
Religion and its priests, by every fool
Where thought a jest, and turn'd to ridicule.
Some few indeed found where the medium lay,
And kept the coat, but tore the fringe away.

Of preaching well if you expect the fame,
Let truth and virtue be your first great aim.
Your sacred function often call to mind,
And think how great the trust, to teach mankind!
'Tis yours in useful sermons to explain,
Both what we owe to God, and what to man.

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'Tis yours the charms of liberty to paint,
His country's love in every breast to plant;
Yours every social virtue to improve,
Justice, forbearance, charity, and love;
Yours too the private virtues to augment,
Of prudence, temperance, modesty, content:
When such the man, how amiable the priest;
Of all mankind the worthiest, and the best.

Ticklish the point, I grant, and hard to find,
To please the various tempers of mankind.
Some love you should the crabbed points explain,
Where texts with texts a dreadful war maintain:
Some love a new, and some the beaten path,
Morals please some, and others points of faith;
But he's the man, he's the admir'd divine,
In whose discourses truth and virtue join:
These are the sermons which will ever live,
By these our Tonsons and our Knaptons thrive;
How such are read, and prais'd, and how thy sell.
Let Barrow's, Clarke's, and Butler's sermons tell.

Preachers should either make us good or wise,
Him that does neither, who but must despise?
If all your rules are useful, short, and plain,
We soon shall learn them, and shall long retain?
But if on trifles you harangue, away
We turn our heads, and laugh at all you say.

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But priests are men, and men are prone to err,
On common failings none should be severe;
All are not masters of the same good sense,
Nor blest with equal powers of eloquence.
'Tis true: and errors with an honest mind,
Will meet with easy pardon from mankind;
But who persists in wrong with stubborn pride,
Him all must censure, many will deride.

Yet few are judges of a fine discourse,
Can see its beauties, or can feel its force;
With equal pleasure some attentive sit,
To sober reasoning, and to shallow wit.
What then? Because your audience most are fools,
Will you neglect all method, and all rules?
Or since the pulpit is a scared place,
Where none dare contradict you to your face,
Will you presume to tell a thousand lyes?
If so, we may forgive, but must despise.

In jingling Bev'ridge if I chance to see
One word of sense, I prize the rarity:
But if in Hooker, Sprat, or Tillotson,
A thought unworthy of themselves is shown,
I grieve to see it, but 'tis no surprize,
The greatest men are not at all times wise.

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Sermons, like plays, some please us at the ear,
But never will a serious reading bear;
Some in the closet edify enough,
That from the pulpit seem'd but sorry stuff.
'Tis thus: there are, who by ill preaching spoil
Young's pointed sense, or Atterbury's stile;
Whilst others by the force of eloquence,
Make that seem fine, which scarce is common sense.

In every science, they that hope to rise,
Set great examples still before their eyes.
Young lawyers copy Murray where they can;
Physicians Mead, and surgeons Cheselden;
But all will preach, without the least pretence
To virtue, learning, art, or eloquence.
Why not? you cry: they plainly see, no doubt,
A priest may grow right-reverend without.

Preachers and preaching were at first design'd
For common benefit to all mankind.
Publick and private virtues they explain'd,
To goodness courted, and from vice restrain'd:

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Love, peace, and union breath'd in each discourse,
And their examples gave their precepts force.
From these good men, the priests and all their line
Were honour'd with the title of divine.
But soon their proud successors left this path,
Forsook plain morals for dark points of faith;
Till creeds on creeds the warring world inflam'd,
And all mankind, by different priests, were damn'd.

Some ask which is th' essential of a priest,
Virtue or learning? what they ask's a jest:
We daily see dull loads of reverend fat,
Without pretence to either this or that,
But who'd like Herring or like Hoadly shine,
Must with great learning real virtue join.

He who by preaching hopes to raise a name,
To no small excellence directs his aim.
On every noted preacher he must wait;
The voice, the look, the action imitate:
And when compleat in stile, and eloquence,
Must then crown all with learning and good sense.
But some with lazy pride disgrace the gown,
And never preach one sermon of their own;
'Tis easier to transcribe than to compose,
So all the week they eat, and drink, and doze.

As quacks with lying puffs the papers fill,
Or hand their own praise in a pocky bill,

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Where empty boasts of much superior sense,
Draw from the cheated croud their idle pence;
So the great H---nley hires for half a crown,
A quack advertisement to tell the town
Of some strange point to be disputed on:
Where all who love the science of debate,
May hear themselves, or other coxcombs prate.

When dukes or noble lords a chaplain hire,
They first of his capacities enquire.
If stoutly qualify'd to drink and smoke,
If not too nice to bear an impious joke,
If tame enough to be the common jest,
This is a chaplain to his lordship's taste.

If bards to Pope indifferent verses show,
He is too honest not to tell them so.
This is obscure, he cries, and this too rough,
These trifling, or superfluous; strike them off.
How useful every word from such a friend!
But parsons are to proud, their works to mend,
And every fault with arrogance defend:
Think them too sacred to be criticiz'd,
And rather chuse to let them be despis'd.

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He that is wife will not presume to laugh
At priests, or church-affairs; it is not safe.
Think there exists, and let it check your sport,
That dreadful monster call'd a spiritual court.
Into whose cruel jaws if once you fall,
In vain, alas! in vain for aid you call;
Clerks, proctors, priests, voracious round you ply,
Like leeches sticking, till they've suck'd you dry.

Martin in the Tale of a Tub.

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AN EPISTLE TO Mr. POPE,

Occasion'd by his ESSAY on MAN.

Great bard! in whom united we admire,
The sage's wisdom, and the poet's fire:
In whom at once, the great and good commend
The fine companion, and the useful friend:—
'Twas thus the muse her eager flight began,
Ardent to sing the poet and the man:
But truth in verse is clad too like a lie,
And you, at least, would think it flattery;

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Hating the thought, I check my forward strain,
I change my stile, and thus begin again.

As when some student first with curious eye,
Thro' nature's wond'rous frame attempts to pry;
His doubtful reason seeming faults surprise,
He asks if this be just? if that be wise?
Storms, tempests, earthquakes, virtue in distress,
And vice unpunish'd, with strange thoughts oppress:
Till thinking on, unclouded by degrees,
His mind is open'd, fair is all he sees;
Storms, tempests, earthquakes, virtue's ragged plight,
And vice's triumph, all are just and right:
Beauty is found, and order, and design,
And the whole scheme acknowledg'd all divine.

So when at first I view'd thy wond'rous plan,
Leading thro' all the winding maze of man;
Bewilder'd, weak, unable to pursue,
My pride would fain have laid the fault on You.
This false, that ill-exprest, this thought not good,
And all was wrong which I misunderstood.
But reading more attentive, soon I found,
The diction nervous, and the doctrine sound.
Saw man, a part of that stupendous whole,
“Whose body nature is, and God the soul.”
Saw in the scale of things his midle state,
And all his powers adapted just to that.
Saw reason, passion, weakness, how of use,
How all to good, to happiness conduce.

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Saw my own weakness, thy superior power,
And still the more I read, admire the more.

This smile drawn out, I now began
To think of forming some design or plan,
To aid my muse, and guide her wand'ring lay,
When sudden to my mind came honest Gay,
For form or method I no more contend,
But strive to copy that ingenious friend:
Like him to catch my thoughts just as they rose—
And thus I caught them, laughing at thy foes.

Where are ye now—ye criticks, shall I say?
Or owls, who sicken at this God of day?
What! mighty scriblers, will you let him go
Uncensur'd, unabus'd, unhonour'd so?
Step forth, some great distinguish'd daring dunce,
Write but one page, you silence him at once:
Write without fear; you will, you must succeed;
He cannot answer—for he will not read.

Here paus'd the muse—alas! the jade is bit,
She fain would copy Gay, but wants his wit.
She paus'd, indeed—broke off as he had done,
Wrote four unmeaning lines, and then went on.

Ye wits and fools; ye libertines and saints,
Come pour upon the foe your joint complaints.
First, you who oft, with wisdom too refin'd,
Can censure and direct th' Eternal Mind,

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Ingenious wits, who modestly pretend
This bungling frame, the universe, to mend;
How can you bear; in your great reason's spight,
To hear him prove, “Whatever is, is right?
Alas! how easy to confute the song!
If all is right, how came your heads so wrong?

And come, ye solemn fools, a numerous band,
Who read, and read, but never understand,
Pronounce it nonsense—Can't you prove it too?
Good faith, my friends, it may be so—to You.

Come too, ye libertines, who lust for power,
Or wealth, or fame, or greatness, or a whore;
All who true sensual happiness adhere to,
And laugh him out of this old-fashion'd virtue:
Virtue, where he has whimsically plac'd
Your only bliss—How odd is some men's taste!

And come, ye rigid saints, with looks demure,
Who boast yourselves right holy, just, and pure;
Come, and with pious zeal the lines decry,
Which give your proud hypocrisy the lie:
Which own the best have failings, not a few;
And prove the worst, sometimes, as good as You.

What! shall he taint such perfect souls with ill?
Shall sots not place their bliss in what they will?
Nor fools be fools? Nor wits sublime descend
In charity to heaven its works to mend?
Laughs he at these?—'Tis monstrous. To be plain,
I'd have ye write—He can but laugh again.

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Here lifting up my head, surpriz'd, I see
Close at my elbow, flattering Vanity.
From her soft whispers soon I found it came,
That I suppos'd myself not one of them.
Alas! how easily ourselves we sooth!
I fear, in justice, he must laugh at both.

For Vanity abash'd, up to my ear
Steps honest Truth, and these sharp words I hear;
“Forbear, vain bard, like them forbear thy lays;
“Alike to POPE such censure and such praise.
“Nor that can sink, nor this exalt his name,
“Who owes to virtue, and himself, his fame.

In his first Epistle.

ON Good and Ill-Nature.

To Mr. Pope.

In virtue's cause to draw a daring pen,
Defend the good, encounter wicked men:
Freely to praise the virtues of the few,
And boldly censure the degenerate crew.
To scorn, with equal justice, to deride
The poor man's worth, or sooth the great one's pride;
All this was once good-nature thought, not ill;
Nay, some there are so odd to think so still.

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Old-fashion'd souls! your men of modern taste,
Are with new virtue, new politeness grac'd.
Good-nature now has chang'd her honest face,
For smiling flattery, compliment, grimace:
Fool grins at fool, each coxcomb owns his brother,
And thieves and sharpers compliment each other.
To such extent good-nature now is spread,
To be sincere is monstrously ill-bred:
An equal brow to all is now the vogue,
And complaisance goes round from rogue to rogue.
If this be good—'tis gloriously true,
The most ill-natur'd man alive, is YOU.

THE Cave of POPE.

A Prophesy.

When dark oblivion, in her sable cloak
Shall wrap the names of heroes and of kings;
And their high deeds, submitting to the stroke
Of time, shall fall amongst forgotten things:

Then (for the muse that distant day can see)
On Thames's bank the stranger shall arrive,
With curious wish thy sacred grott to see,
Thy sacred grott shall with thy name survive.

183

Grateful posterity, from age to age,
With pious hand the ruin shall repair:
Some good old man, to each enquiring sage
Pointing the place, shall cry, The bard liv'd there,

Whose song was music to the listening ear,
Yet taught audacious vice and folly, shame;
Easy his manners, but his life severe;
His word alone gave infamy or fame.

Sequester'd from the fool, and coxcomb-wit,
Beneath this silent roof the muse he found;
'Twas here he slept inspir'd, or sate and writ,
Here with his friends the social glass went round.

With awful veneration shall they trace
The steps which thou so long before hast trod;
With reverend wonder view the solemn place,
From whence thy genius soar'd to nature's God.

Then, some small gem, or moss, or shining oar,
Departing, each shall pilfer, in fond hope
To please their friends, on every distant shore,
Boasting a relick from the Cave of Pope.

184

ON THE DEATH of Mr. POPE.

Come, ye whose souls harmonious sounds inspire,
Friends to the muse, and judges of her song;
Who catching from the bard his heavenly fire;
Soar as he soars, sublimely rapt along;
Mourn, mourn your loss: he's gone who had the art,
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

Who now shall dare to lift the sacred rod,
Truth's faithful guard, where vice escapes the law?
Who now, high-soaring to the throne of God,
In nature's moral cause his pen shall draw?
Let none pretend; he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

Vice now, secure, her blushless front shall raise,
And all her triumph be thro' Britain borne;
Whose worthless sons from guilt shall purchase praise,
Nor dread the hand that pointed them to scorn;
No check remains; he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

185

Ye tuneless bards, now tire each venal quill,
And from the publick gather idle pence;
Ye tasteless peers, now build and plant your fill,
Tho' splendor borrows not one ray from sense:
Fear no rebuke; he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

But, come, ye chosen, ye selected few,
Ye next in genius, as in friendship, join'd,
The social virtues of his heart who knew,
And stated all the beauties of his mind;
Drop, drop a tear; he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to charm the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

And, O great shade! permit thy humblest friend
His sigh to waft, his greateful tear to pay
Thy honour'd memory; and condescend
To hear, well-pleas'd, the weak yet well-meant lay,
Lamenting thus; he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

186

MODERN REASONING.

An EPISTLE.

Whence comes it, L---, that ev'ry fool,
In reason's spite, in spite of ridicule,
Fondly his own wild whims for truth maintains,
And all the blind deluded world disdains;
Himself the only person blest with sight,
And his opinion the great rule of right?
'Tis strange from folly this conceit should rise,
That want of sense should make us think we're wise:
Yet so it is. The most egregious elf
Thinks none so wise or witty as himself.
Who nothing knows, will all things comprehend;
And who can least confute, will most contend.
I love the man, I love him from my soul,
Whom neither weakness blinds, nor whims controul;
With learning blest, with solid reason fraught,
Who slowly thinks, and ponders every thought:
Yet conscious to himself how apt to err,
Suggests his notions with a modest fear;
Hears every reason, every passion hides,
Debates with calmness, and with care decides;
More pleas'd to learn, than eager to confute,
Not victory, but truth his sole pursuit.

187

But these are very rare. How happy he
Who tastes such converse, L---, with thee!
Each social hour is spent in joys sublime,
Whilst hand in hand o'er learning's Alps you climb;
Thro' reason's paths in search of truth proceed,
And clear the flow'ry way from every weed;
Till from her antient cavern rais'd to light,
The beauteous stranger stands reveal'd to sight.
How far from this the furious noisy crew,
Who, what they once assert, with zeal pursue?
Their greater right infer from louder tongues;
And strength of argument from strength of lungs,
Instead of sense, who stun your ears with sound,
And think they conquer, when they but confound.
Taurus, a bellowing champion, storms and swears,
And drives his argument thro' both your ears;
And whether truth or falshood, right or wrong,
'Tis still maintain'd, and prov'd by dint of—tongue.
In all disputes he bravely wins the day,
No wonder—for he hears not what you say.
But tho' to tire the ear's sufficient curse,
To tire one's patience is a plague still worse.
Plato, a formal sage, debates with care,
A strong opponent, take him up who dare.
His words are grave, deliberate, and cool,
He looks so wise—'tis pity he's a fool.
If he asserts, tho' what no man can doubt,
He'll bring ten thousand proofs to make it out.

188

This, this, and this—is so, and so, and so;
And therefore, therefore,—that, and that, you know,
Circles no angles have; a square has four:
A square's no circle therefore—to be sure.
The sum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.

Oppos'd to him, but much the greater dunce,
Is he who throws all knowledge off at once.
The first, for every trifle will contend;
But this has no opinions to defend.
In fire no heat, no sweetness in the rose;
The man's impos'd on by his very nose;
Nor light nor colour charms his doubting eye,
The world's a dream, and all his senses lie.
He thinks, yet doubts if he's possess'd of thought;
Nay, even doubts his very power to doubt.
Ask him if he's a man, or beast, or bird?
He cannot tell, upon his honest word,
'Tis strange, so plain a point's so hard to prove;
I'll tell you what you are—a fool, by Jove.

Another class of disputants there are,
More num'rous than the doubting tribe by far.
These are your wanderers, who from the point
Run wild in loose harangues, all out of joint.
Vagarious, and confute him if you can,
Will hold debate with any mortal man.
He roves from Genesis to Revelations,
And quite confounds you with divine quotations.
Should you affirm that Adam knew his wife,
And by that knowledge lost the tree of life;

289

He contradicts you, and in half an hour
Most plainly proves—Pope Joan the scarlet whore.
Nor head nor tail his argument affords,
A jumbling, incoherent mass of words;
Most of them true, but so together tost
Without connection, that their sense is lost.

But leaving these to rove, and those to doubt,
Another clan alarms us; face about:
See, arm'd with grave authority they come,
And with great names and numbers strike us dumb.
With these an error ven'rable appears,
For having been believ'd three thousand years.
Reason, nay common sense, to names must fall,
And strength of argument's no strength at all.
But on, my muse, tho' multitudes oppose us,
Alas! truth is not prov'd by counting noses:
Nor fear, tho' ancient sages are subjoin'd;
A lie's a lie, tho' told by all mankind.
'Tis true, I love the ancients—but what then?
Plato and Aristotle were but men.
I grant 'em wise—the wisest disagree,
And therefore no sufficient guides for me.
An error, tho' by half the world espous'd,
Is still an error, and may be oppos'd;
And truth, tho' much from mortal eyes conceal'd,
Is still the truth, and may be more reveal'd.
How foolish then will look your mighty wise,
Should half their ipse dixits prove plain lies!

190

But on, my muse, another tribe demands
Thy censure yet: nor shou'd they 'scape thy hands.
These are the passionate; who in dispute,
Demand submission, monarchs absolute.
Sole judges, in their own conceit, of wit,
They damn all those for fools that won't submit.
Sir Testy (thwart sir Testy if you dare)
Swears there's inhabitants in every star.
If you presume to say this mayn't be true,
You lie, sir, you're a fool and blockhead too.
What he asserts, if any disbelieve,
How folks can be so dull he can't conceive.
He knows he's right; he knows his judgment's clear;
But men are so perverse they will not hear.
With him, Swift treads a dull trite beaten way;
In Young no wit, no humour smiles in Gay;
Nor truth, nor virtue, Pope, adorns thy page;
And Thompson's Liberty corrupts the age.
This to deny, if any dare presume,
Fool, coxcomb, sot, and puppy fill the room.
Hillario, who full well this humour knows,
Resolv'd one day his folly to expose,
Kindly invites him with some friends to dine,
And entertains e'm with a roast sir-loin:
Of this he knew sir Testy could not eat,
And purposely prepar'd it for his treat.
The rest begin—sir Testy, pray fall to—
You love roast beef sir, come—I know you do.
“Excuse me, sir, 'tis what I never eat.”
How, sir! not love roast beef! the king of meat!

191

“'Tis true indeed.” Indeed it is not true;
I love it, sir, and you must love it too.
“I can't upon my word”, Then you're a fool,
And don't know what's good eating, by my soul.
Not love roast beef!—come, come, sirs, fill his plate,
I'll make him love it—Sir, G---d---ye, eat.
Sir Testy finding what it was they meant,
Rose in a passion, and away he went.

RELIGION.

A Simile.

I'm often drawn to make a stop,
And gaze upon a picture shop.
There have I seen (as who that tarries
Has not the same?) a head that varies;
And as in diff'rent views expos'd,
A diff'rent figure is disclos'd.
This way a fool's head is express'd,
Whose very count'nance is a jest;
Such as were formerly at court,
Kept to make wiser people sport.
Turn it another way, you'll have
A face ridiculously grave,
Something betwixt the fool and knave.
Again, but alter the position,
You're frighted with the apparition:

192

A hideous threatening Gorgon head
Appears, enough to fright the dead.
But place it in its proper light,
A lovely face accosts the sight;
Our eyes are charm'd with every feature,
We own the whole a beauteous creature.

Thus true Religion fares. For when
By silly, or designing men,
In false or foolish lights 'tis plac'd,
'Tis made a bugbear, or a jest.
Here by a set of men 'tis thought
A scheme, by politicians wrought,
To strengthen and enforce the law,
And keep the vulgar more in awe:
And these, to shew sublimer parts,
Cast all religion from their hearts;
Brand all its vot'ries as the tools
Of priests, and politician's fools.

Some view it in another light,
Less wicked, but as foolish quite:
And these are such as blindly place it
In superstitions that disgrace it;
And think the essence of it lies
In ceremonious fooleries:
In points of faith and speculation,
Which tend to nothing but vexation.
With these it is a heinous crime
To cough or spit in sermon-time:

193

'Tis worse to whistle on a Sunday,
Than cheat their neighbours on a Monday:
To dine without first saying grace, is
Enough to lose in heaven their places;
But goodness, honesty and virtue,
Are what they've not the least regard to.

Others there are, and not a few,
Who place it in the bugbear view!
Think it consists in strange severities:
In fastings, weepings, and austerities.
False notions their weak minds possess,
Of faith, and grace, and holiness:
And as the Lord's of purer eyes
Than to behold iniquities;
They think, unless they're pure and spotless,
All their endeavours will be bootless;
And dreadful furies in æternum,
In unconsuming fires will burn 'em.

But, O how happy are the few,
Who place it in its proper view!
To these it shines divinely bright,
No clouds obscure its native light;
Truth stamps conviction in the mind,
All doubts and fears are left behind,
And peace and joy at once an enterance find.

194

PAIN and PATIENCE.

An ODE

I

To scourge the riot and intemperate lust,
Or check the self-sufficient pride of man,
Offended heaven sent forth, in vengeance just,
The dire inexorable fury, Pain;
Beneath whose griping hand, when she assails,
The firmest spirits sink, the strongest reasoning fails.

II

Near to the confines of th' infernal den,
Deep in a hollow cave's profound recess,
Her courts she holds; and to the sons of men
Sends out the ministers of dire distress:
Repentance, shame, despair, each acts her part;
Whets the vindictive steel, and aggravates the smart.

III

He whose luxurious palate daily rang'd
Earth, air, and ocean, to supply his board;
And to high-relish'd poisons madly chang'd
The wholesome gifts of nature's bounteous lord;
Shall find sick nauseous surfeit taint his blood;
And his abus'd pall'd stomach loath the daintiest food.

195

IV

The midnight reveller's intempreate bowl,
To rage and riot fires his furious brain;
Remorse ensues, and agony of soul,
His future life condemn'd to ceaseless pain:
Gout, fever, stone, to madness heighten grief;
And temperance, call'd too late, affords him no relief;

V

He whose hot blood excites to dangerous joy,
And headlong drives to seek the lewd embrace,
Startled at length, shall in his face descry
The mark indelible of foul disgrace:
Ulcers obscene corrode his akeing bones;
And his high raptures change to deep-felt sighs and groans.

VI

The wild extravagant, whose thoughtless hand,
With lavish tasteless pride, commits expence;
Ruin'd, perceives his waining age demand
Sad reparation for his youth's offence:
Upbraiding riot points to follies past,
Presenting hollow want, fit successor to waste.

VII

He too, whose high presuming health defies
Th' almighty hand of heaven to pull him down;
Who slights the care and caution of the wise,
Nor fears hot summer's rage, nor winter's frown:
Some trifling ail shall seize this mighty man;
Blast all his boasted strength, rack every nerve with pain.

196

VIII

Thus nature's God inflicts, by nature's law,
On every crime its proper punishment;
Creating Pain to keep mankind in awe,
And moral ills by physical prevent:
In wrath still gracious; claiming still our praise,
Ev'n in those very groans our chastisements shall raise

IX

But lest the feeble heart of suffering man
Too low should sink beneath the keen distress;
Lest fell despair, in league with cruel pain,
Should drive him desperate in their wild excess;
Kind Hope her daughter Patience sent from high,
To ease the labouring breast, and wipe the trickling eye.

X

Hail, mild divinity! calm Patience, hail!
Soft-handed, meek-ey'd maid, yet whose firm breath,
And strong perswasive eloquence prevail
Against the rage of pain, the fear of death:
Come, lenient beauty, spread thy healing wing,
And smooth my restless couch, whilst I thy praises sing.

XI

In all this toilesome round of weary life,
Where dulness teazes, or pert noise assails;
Where trifling follies end in serious strife,
And money purchases where merit fails;
What honest spirit would not rise in rage,
If patience lent not aid his passion to asswage?

197

XII

No state of life but must to Patience bow:
The tradesman must have patience for his bill;
He must have Patience who to law will go,
And should he lose his right, more Patience still.
Yea, to prevent or heal full many a strife,
How oft, how long must man have Patience with his wife?

XIII

But heav'n grant Patience to the wretched wight,
Whom pills, and draughts, and bolusses assail!
Which he must swallow down with all his might;
Ev'n then when health, and strength, and spirits fail.
Dear doctors, find some gentler ways to kill;
Lighten this load of drugs, contract yon length of bill.

XIV

When the dull, prating, loud, long-winded dame,
Her tedious, vague, unmeaning tale repeats;
Perplex'd and wand'ring round and round her theme,
Till lost and puzzled, she all theme forgets;
Yet still talks on with unabating speed;
Good gods! who hears her out, must Patience have indeed.

XV

So when some grave, deep-learned, sound divine
Ascends the pulpit, and unfolds his text:
Dark and more dark grows what he would define,
And every sentence more and more perplext;

198

Yet still he blunders on the same blind course,
Teaching his weary'd hearers Patience upon force.

XVI

Without firm Patience who could ever bear
The great man's levee, watching for a smile?
Then, with a whisper'd promise in his ear,
Wait its accomplishment a long, long while;
Yet thro' the bounds of Patience if he burst,
Daniel's long weeks of years may be accomplish'd first.

XVII

O Patience! guardian of the temper'd breast,
Against the insolence of pride and power;
Against the wit's keen sneer, the fool's dull jest;
Against the boaster's lye, told o're and o're;
To thee this tributary lay I bring,
By whose firm aid impower'd, in raging Pain I sing.

Kitty.

A Pastoral.

I

Beneath a cool shade, by the side of a stream,
Thus breath'd a fond shepherd,, his Kitty his theme:
Thy beauties comparing, my dearest, said he,
There's nothing in Nature so lovely as thee.

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II

Tho' distance divides us, I view thy dear face,
And wander in transport o'er every grace;
Now, now I behold thee, sweet-smiling and pretty,
O gods! you've made nothing so fair as my Kitty!

III

Come, lovely idea, come fill my fond arms,
And whilst in soft rapture I gaze on thy charms,
The beautiful objects which round me arise,
Shall yield to those beauties that live in thine eyes.

IV

Now Flora the meads and the groves does adorn.
With flowers and blossoms on every thorn;
But look on my Kitty!—there sweetly does blow,
A spring of more beauties than Flora can show.

V

See, see how that rose there adorns the gay bush,
And proud of its colour, wou'd vie with her blush.
Vain boaster! thy beauties shall quickly decay,
She blushes—and see how it withers away.

VI

Observe that fair lily, the pride of the vale,
In whitness unrivall'd, now droop and look pale;
It sickens, and changes its beautiful hue,
And bows down its head in submission to you.

200

VII

The zephyrs that fan me beneath the cool shade,
When panting with heat on the ground I am laid,
Are less greatful and sweet than the heavenly air
That breaths from her lips when she whispers—my dear.

VIII

I hear the gay lark, as she mounts in the skies,
How sweet are her notes! how delightful her voice!
Go dwell in the air, little warbler, go!
I have musick enough while my Kitty's below.

IX

With pleasure I watch the industrious bee,
Extracting her sweets from each flower and tree:
Ah fools! thus to labour to keep you a live;
Fly, fly to her lips, and at once fill your hive.

X

See there, on the top of that oak, how the doves
Sit brooding each other, and cooing their loves:
Our loves are thus tender, thus mutual our joy,
When folded on each other's bosom we lie.

XI

It glads me to see how the pretty young lambs
Are fondled, and cherish'd, and lov'd by their dams:
The lambs are less pretty, my dearest, then thee;
Their dams are less fond, nor so tender as me.

201

XII

As I gaze on the river that smoothly glides by,
Thus even and sweet is her temper, I cry;
Thus clear is her mind, thus calm and serene,
And virtues, like gems, at the bottom are seen.

XIII

Here various flowers still paint the gay scene,
And as some fade and die, others bud and look green;
The charms of my Kitty are constant as they;
Her virtues will bloom as her beauties decay.

XIV

But in vain I compare her, here's nothing so bright,
And drakness approaches to hinder my sight:
To bed I will hasten, and there all her charms,
In softer ideas, I'll bring to my arms.

202

COLIN's KISSES.

Song I. The Tutor.

Come, my fairest, learn of me,
Learn to give and take the bliss;
Come, my love, here's none but we,
I'll instruct thee how to kiss.
Why turn from me that dear face?
Why that blush, and down-cast eye?
Come, come, meet my fond embrace,
And the mutual rapture try.

Throw thy lovely twining arms
Round my neck, or round my waist;
And whilst I devour thy charms,
Let me closely be embrac'd:
Then when soft ideas rise,
And the gay desires grow strong;
Let them sparkle in thy eyes,
Let them murmur from thy tongue.

To my breast with rapture cling,
Look with transport on my face,
Kiss me, press me, every thing
To endear the fond embrace.
Every tender name of love,
In soft whispers let me hear;
And let speaking nature prove
Every extasy sincere.

203

Song II. The Imaginary Kiss.

When Fanny I saw as she tript o'er the green,
Fair, blooming, soft, artless and kind;
Fond love in her eyes, wit and sense in her mien,
And warmness with modesty join'd:
Transported with sudden amazement I stood,
Fast riveted down to the place;
Her delicate shape, easy motion I view'd,
And wander'd o'er every grace.

Ye gods! what luxuriance of beauty, I cry,
What raptures must dwell in her arms!
On her lips I could feast, on her breast I could die,
O Fanny, how sweet are thy charms!
Whilst thus in idea my passion I fed,
Soft transport my senses invade,
Young Damon step'd up, with the substance he fled,
And left me to kiss the dear shade.

Song III. The Feast.

Polly, when your lips you join,
Lovely ruby lips, to mine;
To the bee the flow'ry field
Such a banquet does not yield;
Not the dewy morning-rose
So much sweetness does inclose;
Not the gods such nectar sip,
As Colin from thy balmy lip:
Kiss me then, with rapture kiss,
We'll surpass the gods in bliss.

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Song IV. The Stolen Kiss.

On a mossy bank reclin'd,
Beauteous Chloe lay reposing,
O'er her breast each am'rous wind
Wanton play'd, its sweets disclosing:
Tempted with the swelling charms,
Colin, happy swain, drew nigh her,
Softly stole into her arms,
Laid his scrip and sheep-hook by her.

O'er her downy panting breast
His delighted fingers roving;
To her lips his lips he prest,
In the extasy of loving:
Chloe, waken'd with his kiss,
Pleas'd, yet frowning to conceal it,
Cry'd, true lovers share the bliss?
Why then, Colin, wou'd you steal it?

Song V. The Meeting Kiss.

Let me fly into thy arms;
Let me taste again thy charms;
Kiss me, press me to thy breast
In raptures not to be exprest.

Let me clasp thy lovely waist;
Throw thy arms around my neck:
Thus embracing and embrac'd,
Nothing shall our raptures check.

205

Hearts with mutual pleasure glowing;
Lips with lips together growing;
Eyes with tears of gladness flowing;
Eyes, and lips, and hearts shall show,
Th' excess of joy that meeting lovers know.

Song VI. The Parting Kiss.

One kind kiss before we part,
Drop a tear, and bid adieu;
Tho' we sever, my fond heart
Till we meet shall pant for you.

Yet, yet weep not so, my love,
Let me kiss that falling tear,
Tho' my body must remove,
All my soul will still be here.

All my soul, and all my heart,
And every wish shall pant for you;
One kind kiss then e'er we part,
Drop a tear, and bid adieu.

Song VII. The Borrow'd Kiss.

See I languish, see I faint,
I must borrow, beg, or steal;
Can you see a soul in want,
And no kind compassion feel?
Give, or lend, or let me take
One sweet kiss, I ask no more;
One sweet kiss, for pity's sake,
I'll repay it o'er and o'er.

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Chole heard, and with a smile,
Kind, compassionate and sweet,
Colin, it's a sin to steal,
And for me to give's not meet:
But I'll lend a kiss, or twain,
To poor Colin in distress;
Not that I'd be paid again,
Colin I mean nothing less.

Song VIII. The Kiss Repaid.

Chloe, by that borrow'd kiss,
I, alas! am quite undone;
'Twas so sweet, so fraught with bliss,
Thousands will not pay that one.

Lest the debt should break your heart,
Roguish Chloe smiling cries,
Come, a hundred then in part,
For the present shall suffice.

Song IX. The Secret Kiss.

At the silent evening hour,
Two fond lovers in a bower
Sought their mutal bliss;
Tho' her heart was just relenting,
Tho' her eyes seem'd just consenting,
Yet she fear'd to kiss.

207

Since this secret shade, he cry'd,
Will those rosy blushes hide,
Why will you resist?
When no tell-tale spy is near us,
Eye not sees, nor ear can hear us,
Who wou'd not be kiss'd?

Molly hearing what he said,
Blushing lifted up her head,
Her breast soft wishes fill;
Since, she cry'd, no spy is near us,
Eye not sees, nor ear can hear us,
Kiss—or what you will.

Song X. The Rapture.

Whilst on thy dear bosom lying,
Cælia, who can speak my bliss?
Who the raptures I'm enjoying,
When thy balmy lips I kiss?
Every look with love inspiers me,
Every touch my bosom warms,
Every melting murmur fires me,
Every joy is in thy arms.

Those dear eyes, how soft they languish!
Feel my heart with rapture beat!
Pleasure turns almost to anguish,
When the transport is so sweet.

208

Look not so divinely on me,
Cælia, I shall die with bliss;
Yet, yet turn those eyes upon me,
Who'd not die a death like this?

Song XI. The Reconciling Kiss.

Why that sadness on thy brow?
Why that starting crystal tear?
Dearest Polly, let me know,
For thy grief I cannot bear.
Polly with a sigh reply'd,
What need I the cause impart?
Did you not this moment chide?
And you know it breaks my heart.

Colin, melting as she spoke,
Caught the fair one in his arms;
O my dear! that tender look,
Every passion quite disarms:
By this dear relenting kiss,
I'd no anger in my thought;
Come, my love, by this, and this,
Let our quarrel be forgot.

As when sudden stormy rain,
Every drooping flowret spoils;
When the sun shines out again,
All the face of nature smiles:
Polly, so reviv'd and cheer'd
By her Colin's kind embrace,
Her declining head up-rear'd,
Sweetly smiling in his face.

209

Song XII. The Mutual Kiss.

Cælia, by those smiling graces,
Which my panting bosom warm;
By the heaven of thy embraces,
By thy wond'rous power to charm;
By those soft bewitching glances,
Which my inmost bosom move;
By those lips, whose kiss entrances,
Thee, and thee alone I love.

By thy God-like art of loving,
Cælia, with a blush, replies;
By thy heavenly power of moving,
All my soul to sympathize;
By thy eager fond caresses,
By those arms around me thrown;
By that look, which truth expresses,
My fond heart is all thy own.

Thus, with glowing inclination,
They indulge the tender bliss;
And to bind the lasting passion,
Seal it with a mutual kiss:
Close, in fond embraces, lying,
They together seem to grow;
Such supreme delight enjoying,
As true lovers only know.

210

THE WIFE.

A FRAGMENT.

The virtues that endear and sweeten life,
And form that soft campanion, call'd a Wife;
Demand my song. Thou who dist first inspire
The tender theme, to thee I tune the lyre.

Hail, lovely woman! nature's blessing, hail!
Whose charms o'er all the powers of man prevail:
Thou healing balm of life, which bounteous heaven,
To pour on all our woes, has kindly given!
What were mankind without thee? or what joy,
Like thy soft converse, can his hours employ?
The dry, dull, drowsy bachelor surveys,
Alternative, joyless nights and lonesome days:
No tender transports wake his sullen breast,
No soft endearments lull his cares to rest:
Stupidly free from nature's tenderest ties,
Lost in his own sad self he lives and dies.
Not so the man, to whom indulgent heaven
That tender bosom-friend, a wife, has given:

211

Him, blest in her kind arms, no fears dismay,
No secret checks of guilt his joys allay:
No husband wrong'd, no virgin honour spoil'd,
No anxious parent weeps his ruin'd child!
No fell disease, no false embrace is here,
The joys are safe, the raptures are sincere.
Does fortune smile? How grateful must it prove
To tread life's pleasing round with one we love!
Or does she frown? The fair, with softening art,
Will sooth our woes, or bear a willing part.

“But are all women of the soothing kind?
“In chusing wives no hazard shall we find?
“Will spleen, nor vapours, pride, nor prate molest?
“And is all fear of cuckoldom a jest?

Grant some are bad: yet surely some remain,
Good without show, and lovely without stain;
Warm without lewdness; virtuous without pride;
Content to follow, yet with sense to guide.
Such is Fidelia, fairest, fondest wife;
Observe the picture, for I draw from life.

Near that fam'd hill, from whose enchanting brow
Such various scenes enrich the vales below;
While gentle Thames, meandering glides along,
Meads, flocks, and groves, and rising towers among,
Fidelia dwelt: fair as the fairest scene
Of smiling nature, when the sky's serene.
Full sixteen summers had adorn'd her face,
Warm'd every sense, and waken'd every grace;

212

Her eye look'd sweetness, gently heav'd her breast,
Her shape, her motion, graceful ease exprest.
And to this fair, this finish'd form, were join'd
The softest passions, and the purest mind.

[_]

Prose passages have been omitted.

218

[OMITTED]

[_]

Cætera desunt.

219

ROME's PARDON:

A TALE.

If Rome can pardon sins, as Romans hold;
And if those pardons may be bought and sold,
If were no sin t' adore and worship gold,
Rochester.

It happen'd on a certain time,
Two Seigniors, who had spent the prime
Of youth in every wickedness,
Came to his holiness to confess;
Of which, the one had riches store,
The other (wicked wretch!) was poor.
But both grown old, had now a mind
To die in peace with all mankind;
And go to heaven a nearer way
Than those who all their life-time pray:
Which may effected be they hope,
By buying pardon of the pope.
So calling fresh to mind their sins,
The rich offender thus begins.

“Most holy father, I have been,
“I must confess, in many a sin.

220

“All laws divine I've thought a joke;
“All human laws for interest broke.
“And to encrease my ill-got store,
“Thought it no crime t'oppress the poor,
“To cheat the rich, betray my friends,
“Or any thing to gain my ends.
“But now grown old, and near to die,
“I do repent me heartily
“Of all my vile offences past,
“And in particular the last,
“By which I wickedly beguil'd
“A dead friend's son, my guardian child,
“Of all his dear paternal store,
“Which was ten thousand pounds or more;
“Who since is starv'd to death by want,
“And now sincerely I repent:
“Which that your holiness may see,
“One half the sum I've brought with me,
“And thus I cast it at your feet,
“Dispose of it as you think meet,
“To pious uses, or your own,
“I hope 'twill all my faults atone.

“Friend, quoth the pope, I'm glad to see
“Such true repentance wrought in thee;
“But as your sins are very great,
“You have but half repented yet:
“Nor can your pardon be obtain'd,
“Unless the whole which thus you've gain'd,
“To pious uses be ordain'd.

221

“All! cry'd the man, I thought that half
“Had been a pretty price enough.

“Nay, quoth the pope, sir, if you hum
“And haw at parting with the sum,
“Go, keep it, do; and damn your soul:
“I tell you, I must have the whole.
“'Tis not a little thing procures
“A pardon for such sins as yours.
Well—rather than be doom'd to go,
To dwell with everlasting woe,
One wou'd give any thing, you know:
So th' other half was thrown down to't,
And then he soon obtain'd his suit;
A pardon for his sins was given,
And home he went assur'd of heaven.

And now the poor man bends his knee;
“Most holy father, pardon me,
“A poor and humble penitent
“Who all my substance vilely spent,
“In every wanton' youthful pleasure;
“But now I suffer out of measure;
“With dire diseases being fraught
“And eke so poor not worth a groat.

“Poor! quoth the pope, then cease your suit,
“Indeed you may as well be mute;

222

“Forbear your now too late contrition,
“You're in a reprobate condition.
“What! spend your wealth, and from the whole
“Not save one souse to save your soul?
“O, you're a sinner, and a hard one,
“I wonder you can ask a pardon:
“Friend, they're not had, unless you buy 'em,
“You're therefore damn'd, as sure I am—
“Vice-gerent to the king of heaven:
“No, no, such sins can't be forgiven.
“I cannot save you if I wou'd,
“Nor would I do it if I cou'd.

Home goes the man in deep despair,
And dy'd soon after he came there;
And went, 'tis said, to hell: But sure
He was not damn'd for being poor!
But long he had not been below,
Before he saw his friend come too;
At this he was in great surprize,
And scarcely could believe his eyes:
“What, friend, said he, are you come too?
“I thought the pope had pardon'd you.
“Yes, quoth the man, I thought so too;
“But I was by the pope trapan'd—
“The devil could not read his hand.

223

AN EPISTLE TO STEPHEN DUCK, AT His First Coming to Court.

Forgive me, Duck, that such a muse as mine,
Brings her weak aid to the support of thine;
In lines, which if the world should chance to see,
They'd find I pleaded for myself—in thee.

Yet some indulgence sure they ought to shew
An infant poet, and unlearn'd as you;
Unskill'd in art, unexercis'd to sing;
I've just but tasted the Pierian spring:
But tho' my stock of learning yet is low;
Tho' yet my numbers don't harmonious flow,
I fain wou'd hope it won't be always so.
The morning sun emits a stronger ray,
Still as he rises tow'rds meridian day:

224

Large hills at first obstruct the oblique beam,
And dark'ning shadows shoot along the gleam;
Impending mists yet hover in the air,
And distant objects undistinct appear.
But as he rises in the eastern sky,
The shadows shrink, the conquer'd vapours fly;
Objects their proper forms and colours gain;
In all her various beauties shines th' enlighten'd plain.

So when the dawn of thought peeps out in man,
Mountains of ign'rance shade at first his brain?
A gleam of reason by degrees appears,
Which brightens and encreases with his years;
And as the rays of thought gain strength in youth,
Dark mists of error melt and brighten into truth.

Thus asking ign'rance will to knowledge grow;
Conceited fools alone continue so.
On then, my friend, nor doubt but that in time
Our tender muses, learning now to climb,
May reach perfection's top, and grow sublime.
The Iliad scarce was Homer's first essay;
Virgil wrote not his Æneid in a day:
Nor is't impossible a time might be,
When Pope and Prior wrote like You and Me.
'Tis true, more learning might their works adorn,
They wrote not from a pantry nor a barn:
Yet they, as well as we, by slow degrees
Must reach perfection, and to write with ease.

225

Have you not seen? yes, oft you must have seen,
When vernal suns adorn the woods with green,
And genial warmth, enkindling wanton love,
Fills with a various progeny the grove,
The tim'rous young, just ventur'd from the nest,
First in low bushes hop, and often rest;
From twig to twig, their tender wings they try,
Yet only flutter when they seem to fly.
But as their strength and feathers more increase,
Short flights they take, and fly with greater ease:
Experienc'd soon, they boldly venture higher,
Forsake the hedge, to lofty trees aspire;
Transported thence, with strong and steady wing
They mount the skies, and soar aloft, and sing.

So you and I, just naked from the shell,
In chirping notes our future singing tell;
Unfeather'd yet, in judgment, thought, or skill,
Hop round the basis of Parnassus' hill:
Our flights are low, and want of art and strength.
Forbids to carry us to the wish'd-for length.
But fledg'd, and cherish'd with a kindly spring,
We'll mount the summit, and melodious sing.

226

AN EPITAPH.

Here lie the remains of Caroline,
Queen consort of Great Britain.
Whose virtues
Her Friends, when living, knew and enjoy'd;
Now dead, her foes confess and admire.
Her ambition aspired to Wisdom,
And attain'd it;
To knowledge,
And it fill'd her mind.
Patroness of the Wife.
And a friend of the Good,
She look'd, and modest Merit rais'd its head;
She smil'd, and weeping Woe grew glad.
Religion, plain and simple,
Dignify'd her mind,
Despising forms and useless pageantry.
Morals, clear and refin'd,
Dwelt in her heart,
And guided all her actions.
Virtue she lov'd, beneath her smile it flourish'd;
She frown'd on Vice, and it was put to shame.

227

In fine,
Her Life was a publick blessing;
Her Death is an universal loss.
O reader! if thou doubtest of these things,
Ask the cries of the Fatherless, they shall tell thee,
And the tears of the Widow shall confirm their truth:
The sons of Wisdom shall testify of her,
And the daughters of Virtue bear her witness;
The voice of the Nation shall applaud her,
And the heart of the King shall sigh her praise.

228

NO RICHES.

Humbly Inscrib'd To the Right Honble ------

To succour all whom grief or cares oppress,
To raise neglected merit from distress,
The dying arts t' encourage and revive,
And independent of mankind to live;
This, this is Riches' grand prerogative.
These all the wise and good with joy pursue,
And thousands feel, and bless their power in you.

But stay, my muse, nor rashly urge thy theme,
Examine well thy candidates for fame;
Thy verse is praise. Consider—very few
Can justly say one single line's their due:
Scorn thou with generous freedom to record,
Without his just credentitals, duke or lord:
An honest line prefer to a polite,
So shall thy praise no conscious blush excite.

229

But as to paint a lovely female face,
With every charm adorn'd, and every grace,
Requires a finer hand, and greater care,
Than the rough features of a H---r;
So praise than satire asks a nicer touch;
But finisht well, there's nothing charms so much.
A shining character when drawn with art,
Like beauty, whilst it pleases, wins the heart,

Mecænas first the noble list shall grace,
Learning's great patron merits the first place.
O dear to every muse! to every art!
Virtue's chief friend! supporter of desert!
Is there a man, tho' poor, despis'd, opprest,
Yet whose superior genius shines confest;
Whether the useful arts his soul inspire,
Or the politer muse's sacred fire,
Learning and arts t'encourage and extend?
In thee he finds a patron and a friend.
Wealth thus bestow'd returns in lasting fame,
A grateful tribute to the donor's name.

Next him from whom true virtue meets reward,
Is he who shows to want a kind regard.
Carus, tho' blest with plenty, ease, and health,
His every want supply'd from boundless wealth,
Yet feels humanity: his soul o'erflows
To see, or hear, or think on others woes.
Is there a wretch with pinching want opprest?
His pain, till eas'd, is felt in Carus' breast.

230

Does any languish under dire disease?
Carus prescribes, or pays the doctor's fees.
Has sad misfortune fatal ruin thrown,
And some expiring family undone?
Carus repairs, and makes the loss his own.
To hear the widow's or the orphan's cries,
His soul in pity melts into his eyes:
O manly tenderness! good-natur'd grief.
To feel, to sympathize, and give relief.

Sure gods are Carus' debtors. Gold thus given,
Lies out at interest in the bank of heaven.

But where's th' advantage then, will Corvus say,
If wealth is only lent to give away?
Corvus, were that the sole prerogative,
How great, how godlike is the power to give!
Thou canst not feel it: True, 'tis too divine
For such a selfish narrow soul as thine.
Comes is rich, belov'd by all mankind,
To chearful hospitality inclin'd;
His ponds with fish, with fowl his woods are stor'd,
Inviting plenty smiles upon his board:
Easy and free, his friends his fortune share,
Ev'n travelling strangers find a welcome there;
Neighbours, domesticks, all enjoy their parts,
He in return possesses all their hearts.

Who, foolish Corvus, who but thee will say,
That Comes idly throws his wealth away?

231

Is then the noble privilege to give,
The sole advantage we from wealth receive!
Whilst others wants or merits we supply,
Have we ourselves no title to enjoy?
Doubtless you have. A thousand different ways
Wealth may be self-enjoy'd, and all with praise.
Whom truth and reason guides, or genius fires,
Never need fear indulging his desires.
But shou'd pretending coxcombs, from this rule,
Plead equal privilege to play the fool;
The muse forbids. She only gives to sense
The dangerous province to contrive expence.
Marcus in sumptuous buildings takes delight,
His house, his gardens charm the ravish'd sight:
With beauty use, with grandeur neatness joins,
And order with magnificence combines.
'Tis costly: True, but who can blame th' expence,
“Where splendor borrows all her rays from sense?

Sylvio retirement loves; smooth crystal floods,
Green meadows, hills and dales, and verdant woods
Delight his eye; the warbling birds to hear,
With rapture fills his soul, and charms his ear.
In shady walks, in groves, in secret bowers,
Plan'd by himself, he spends the peaceful hours:
Here serious thought pursues her thread serene,
No interrupting follies intervene;
Propitious silence aids th' attentive mind,
The God of nature in his works to find.

232

If this t' enjoy affords him most delight,
Who says that Sylvio is not in the right?

Publius in curious paintings wealth consumes,
The best, the finest hands adorn his rooms;
Various designs, from each enliven'd wall,
Meet the pleas'd eyes, and something charms in all.
Here well-drawn landskips to the mind convey
A smiling country, or a stormy sea;
Towns, houses, trees, diversify the plain,
And ships in danger fright us from the main.
There the past actions of illustrious men,
In strong description charm the world agen:
Love, anger, grief, in different scenes are wrought,
All its just passions animate the draught.
But see new charms break in a flood of day,
See Loves and Graces on the canvas play;
Beauty's imagin'd smiles our bosom warm,
And light and shade retains the power to charm.

Who censures Publius, or condemns his cost,
Must wish the noble art of painting lost.

Whilst Publius thus his taste in painting shews,
Critus admires her sister art, the muse.
Homer and Virgil, Horace and Boileau
Teach in his breast poetick warmth to glow.
From these instructed, and from these inspir'd.
Critus for taste and judgment is admir'd.
Poets before him lay the work of years,
And from his sentence draw their hopes and fears.

233

Hail, judge impartial! noble critick, hail!
In this thy day, good writing must prevail:
Our bards from you will hence be what they shou'd,
Please and improve us, make us wise and good.

Thus bless'd with wealth, his genius each pursues,
In building, planting, painting, or the muse.
O envy'd power!—But you'll object and say,
How few employ it in this envy'd way?
With all his heaps did Chremes e'er do good?
No: But they give him power, if once he wou'd:
'Tis not in riches to create the will,
Misers, in spite of wealth, are misers still,
Is it for gold the lawless villian spoils?
'Tis for the same the honest lab'rer toils.
Does wealth to sloth, to luxury pervert?
Wealth too excites to industry, to art:
Many, no doubt, thro' power of wealth oppress,
But some, whom heaven reward, delight to bless!
Then blame not gold, that men are proud or vain,
Slothful or covetous; but blame the man.
When right affections rule a generous heart,
Gold may refine, but seldom will pervert.

234

THE PETITION.

The various suppliants which address
Their pray'rs to heaven on bended knees,
All hope alike for happiness,
Yet each petition disagrees.
Fancy, not judgment, constitutes their bliss;
The wise, no doubt, will say the same of this.

Ye Gods, if you remember right,
Some eighteen years ago,
A form was made divinely bright,
And sent for us t' admire below:
I first distinguish'd her from all the rest,
And hope you'll therefore think my title best.

I ask not heaps of shining gold,
No, if the Gods vouchsafe
My longing arms may her infold,
I'm rich, I'm rich enough!
Riches at best can hardly give content;
But having her, what is there I can want?

I ask not, with a pompous train
Of honours, all th' world t' outbrave;
The title I wou'd wish to gain,
Is,—Her most fav'rite slave:

235

To bow to her, a greater bliss wou'd be
Than kings and princes bowing down to me.

To rule the world with power supreme,
Let meaner souls aspire;
To gain the sov'reignty from them
I stoop not to desire:
Give me to reign sole monarch in her breast,
Let petty princes for the world contest.

Let libertines, who take delight
In riot and excess,
Thus waste the day, thus spend the night,
Whilst I to joys sublimer press:
Clasp'd in her snowy arms such bliss I'd prove,
As never yet was found, or felt in love.

In short, I ask you not to live
A tedious length of days;
Old age can little pleasure give,
When health and strength decays:
Let but what time I have be spent with her's,
Each moment will be worth a thousand years.

236

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

Hence, hence all dull cares,
All quarrels and jarrs,
Ye factious disturbers of pleasure, avoid!
Content, love, and joy,
Shall their powers employ,
To bless the glad bridegroom and beautiful bride.
Anger shall ne'er presume
To come within this room;
No doubt nor anxious fear,
Nor jealous thought shall enter here.
Ill-nature, ill-manners, contention, and pride,
Shall never, shall never the union divide.
O the pleasing, pleasing raptures,
Read in Hymen's nuptial chapters!
Love commencing,
Joys dispensing;
Beauty smiling,
Wit beguiling;
Kindness charming,
Fancy warming;

237

Kissing, toying,
Melting, dying;
O the pleasing, pleasing raptures!

THE ADVICE.

Dost thou, my friend, desire to rise
To honour, wealth, and dignities?
Virtue's paths, though trod by few,
With constant steps do thou pursue.
For as the coward-soul admires
That courage which the brave inspires;
And his own quarrels to defend,
Gladly makes such a one his friend;
So in a world which rogues infest,
How is an honest man caress'd!
The villians from each other fly,
And on his virtue safe rely.

238

A Lamentable CASE.

Submitted to the Bath Physicians.

Ye fam'd physicians of this place,
Hear Strephon's and poor Chole's case.
Nor think that I am joking;
When she wou'd, he cannot comply,
When he wou'd drink, she's not a-dry;
And is not this provoking?

At night, when Strephon comes to rest,
Chloe receives him on her breast,
With fondly-folding arms:
Down, down he hangs his drooping head,
Falls fast asleep, and lies as dead,
Neglecting all her charms.

Reviving when the morn returns,
With rising flames young Strephon burns,
And fain, wou'd fain be doing:
But Chloe now, asleep or sick,
Has no great relish for the trick,
And sadly baulks his wooing.

239

O cruel and disast'rous case,
When in the critical embrace
That only one is burning!
Dear docters, set this matter right,
Give Strephon spirits over night,
Or Chloe in the morning.

A Lady's SALUTATION

to her Garden in the Country.

Welcome, fair scene; welcome, thou lov'd retreat,
From the vain hurry of the bustling great.
Here let me walk, or in this fragrant bower,
Wrap'd in calm thought improve each fleeting hour.
My soul, while nature's beauties feast mine eyes,
To nature's God contemplative shall rise.

What are ye now, ye glittering, vain delights,
Which waste our days, and rob us of our nights?
What your allurements? what your fancy'd joys?
Dress, equipage, and show, and pomp, and noise.
Alas! how tasteless these, how low, how mean,
To the calm pleasures of this rural scene?

Come then, ye shades, beneath your bending arms
Enclose the fond admirer of your charms;
Come then, ye bowers, receive your joyful guest,
Glad to retire, and in retirement blest;

240

Come, ye fair flowers, and open ev'ry sweet;
Come, little birds, your warbling songs repeat,
And O descend to sweeten all the rest,
Soft smiling peace, in white-rob'd virtue drest;
Content unenvious, ease with freedom join'd,
And contemplation calm, with truth refin'd:
Deign but in this fair scene with me to dwell,
All noise and nonsense, pomp and show farewell.

And see! O see! the heav'n-born train appear!
Fix then, my heart; thy happiness is here.

The Progress of LOVE.

A SONG.

Beneath the myrtle's secret shade,
When Delia blest my eyes;
At first I view'd the lovely maid
In silent soft surprise.
With trembling voice, and anxious mind,
I softly whisper'd love;
She blush'd a smile so sweetly kind,
Did all my fears remove.
Her lovely yielding form I prest,
Sweet maddening kisses stole;
And soon her swimming eyes confest
The wishes of her soul:

241

In wild tumultuous bliss, I cry,
O Delia, now be kind!
She press'd me close, and with a sigh,
To melting joys resign'd.

SONG.

[Man's a poor deluded bubble]

Man's a poor deluded bubble,
Wand'ring in a mist of lies,
Seeing false, or seeing double,
Who wou'd trust to such weak eyes?
Yet presuming on his senses,
On he goes most wond'rous wise:
Doubts of truth, believes pretences;
Lost in error, lives and dies.

An Epigram, occasion'd by the Word one Prior, in the Second Volume of Bishop Burnet's History.

One Prior!—and is this, this all the fame
The poet from th' historian can claim!
No; Prior's verse posterity shall quote,
When 'tis forgot one Burnet ever wrote.

242

An Epigram.

[Cries Sylvia to a reverend dean]

Cries Sylvia to a reverend dean,
What reason can be given,
Since marriage is a holy thing,
That there are none in heaven?

There are no Women, he reply'd;
She quick returns the jest—
Women there are, but I'm afraid
They cannot find a Priest.

The Kings of Europe.

A JEST.

Why pray, of late, do Europe's kings
No jester in their courts admit?
They're grown such stately solemn things.
To bear a joke they think not fit.

But tho' each court a jester lacks,
To laugh at monarchs to their face;
All mankind behind their backs
Supply the honest jester's place.