The Art of Life In Imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry. In Two Epistles. Epistle the First. By Mr. Miller |
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 | The Art of Life |  |
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THE ART of LIFE.
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Shou'd hum'rous Hogarth, from a knavish Plan,
Sketch out a Portrait-Satire upon Man,
Give it two Legs, and just a Human Shape,
His Grace's Grin expressive of an Ape,
Timon's Swine-Snout, Sir Samuel's Stag-like Front,
Then clap Lord Simper's Ass's Ears upon't;
Wou'dn't you shake your Sides, my Friend, to see
The wild, drole Medley of Absurdity?
Sketch out a Portrait-Satire upon Man,
Give it two Legs, and just a Human Shape,
His Grace's Grin expressive of an Ape,
Timon's Swine-Snout, Sir Samuel's Stag-like Front,
Then clap Lord Simper's Ass's Ears upon't;
Wou'dn't you shake your Sides, my Friend, to see
The wild, drole Medley of Absurdity?
Such, CLARK, is He, whose inconsistent Life
With Truth and Nature daily is at strife;
Turn'd by no Bias, pointed to no Goal,
Spendthrift alike of Body and of Soul;
Whose Thoughts, like sick Men's Dreams, his Actions steer,
Spur'd by vain Hope, or curb'd by groundless Fear;
Diseas'd his nat'ral, dead his moral Pow'rs,
Who lives not, only kills so many Hours.
With Truth and Nature daily is at strife;
Turn'd by no Bias, pointed to no Goal,
Spendthrift alike of Body and of Soul;
Whose Thoughts, like sick Men's Dreams, his Actions steer,
Spur'd by vain Hope, or curb'd by groundless Fear;
Diseas'd his nat'ral, dead his moral Pow'rs,
Who lives not, only kills so many Hours.
Yet, as in Painting so in Life, you'll say
'Tis great sometimes to quit the formal Way;
To let the Genius boldly launch abroad,
Beyond the rigid Pedant's stated Road.
Yes—but the sooner you return again,
If not the bolder, you're the wiser Men.
Some short Excursions all excuse, and make,
But Truth's high Road we must not long forsake.
For as each Flow'r in Nature speaks its Root,
So, born the Man, you must not act the Brute.
Play, when you do, with Reason play the Fool,
Deviate with Judgment, and transgress by Rule;
And not, like witty witless W***n, join
The Rebel, Patriot, Atheist, and Divine.
'Tis great sometimes to quit the formal Way;
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Beyond the rigid Pedant's stated Road.
Yes—but the sooner you return again,
If not the bolder, you're the wiser Men.
Some short Excursions all excuse, and make,
But Truth's high Road we must not long forsake.
For as each Flow'r in Nature speaks its Root,
So, born the Man, you must not act the Brute.
Play, when you do, with Reason play the Fool,
Deviate with Judgment, and transgress by Rule;
And not, like witty witless W***n, join
The Rebel, Patriot, Atheist, and Divine.
Some with such vast Expence and Pomp set out,
They're ruin'd ere they know what they're about:
Where Mountains stood they bid new Plains appear,
Plant Venus Groves, and Fanes to Bacchus rear:
Call distant Streams from ancient Banks astray
To grace their Lawns, and from their Fountains play:
Then range the Borders of the Rhine and Po,
Bedeck'd with all the Stains of Iris' Bow.
Was there a Fund sufficient,—mighty well!
But tell me, Umbra, is it right to sell
Your old paternal Acres, thus to roam,
And bring the Dregs of foreign Climates home?
What tho' you boast your high-trac'd Pedigree,
Or shew your Flanders Lace, and French Toupee,
Will this, pray, stop a surly Cit's Demand?
Cancel a Bond, or pay a Note of Hand?
Why in a Coach and Six first vainly blaze,
Then, blushing, truckle to a One-Horse Chaise?
No, let calm Judgment ev'ry Scene controll,
And make of all Life's Parts one simple Whole.
They're ruin'd ere they know what they're about:
Where Mountains stood they bid new Plains appear,
Plant Venus Groves, and Fanes to Bacchus rear:
Call distant Streams from ancient Banks astray
To grace their Lawns, and from their Fountains play:
Then range the Borders of the Rhine and Po,
Bedeck'd with all the Stains of Iris' Bow.
Was there a Fund sufficient,—mighty well!
But tell me, Umbra, is it right to sell
Your old paternal Acres, thus to roam,
And bring the Dregs of foreign Climates home?
What tho' you boast your high-trac'd Pedigree,
Or shew your Flanders Lace, and French Toupee,
Will this, pray, stop a surly Cit's Demand?
Cancel a Bond, or pay a Note of Hand?
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Then, blushing, truckle to a One-Horse Chaise?
No, let calm Judgment ev'ry Scene controll,
And make of all Life's Parts one simple Whole.
We're oft deluded by the Shew of Right.
Clito turn'd Coxcomb to be thought Polite;
Harpie for Prudence Avarice mistook;
And Shylock to seem Notable's a Rook;
Sir George from pure Good-nature is a Cully,
And wou'd-be-valiant Bessus is a Bully.
Whilst some, thro' Pride, will singular appear,
And think it mean to be what others are;
Then vary, chop, and shift to that degree,
They're constant still to what they should not be;
Cynicks at Court, in Parliament Buffoons,
Fops at the Hague, and at the Louvre Clowns.
Clito turn'd Coxcomb to be thought Polite;
Harpie for Prudence Avarice mistook;
And Shylock to seem Notable's a Rook;
Sir George from pure Good-nature is a Cully,
And wou'd-be-valiant Bessus is a Bully.
Whilst some, thro' Pride, will singular appear,
And think it mean to be what others are;
Then vary, chop, and shift to that degree,
They're constant still to what they should not be;
Cynicks at Court, in Parliament Buffoons,
Fops at the Hague, and at the Louvre Clowns.
When, void of Art, the Golden Mean we quit,
Flying one Vice, another we commit.
Flying one Vice, another we commit.
Near Hyde-Park-corner a known Sculptor lives,
Who all due Members to his Marble gives;
Nay hits the Nails, and mimicks well the Hair,
But can't, like Rysbrack, stamp the Mien and Air,
Light up the Soul resplendent in the Face,
Or o'er the ripening Form diffuse a Grace.
Rather than act, in Life, his low cold Part,
Void of the Dint of Thought, or Warmth of Heart,
I'd wear Sir F**g's black Hair and greasy Cloaths,
And, H---r, thy Face with Japhet's Nose.
Who all due Members to his Marble gives;
Nay hits the Nails, and mimicks well the Hair,
But can't, like Rysbrack, stamp the Mien and Air,
Light up the Soul resplendent in the Face,
Or o'er the ripening Form diffuse a Grace.
Rather than act, in Life, his low cold Part,
Void of the Dint of Thought, or Warmth of Heart,
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And, H---r, thy Face with Japhet's Nose.
Search your own Pow'rs, your Bent of Genius try,
Thence learn what Life to chuse, and what to fly;
Since you've a thousand Ends you may pursue,
A thousand Prospects opening to your View,
Weigh each with care; each in each Light explore,
Then chuse within the Height that you can soar.
Thus when the Spring's proportion'd to the Wheels,
When what the Part requires the Actor feels,
Method and Grace will ev'ry Step attend,
Refine your Pleasures, and your Toils befriend;
Conduct you on with Caution, yet with Force,
To the wish'd Goal that terminates your Course.
Thence learn what Life to chuse, and what to fly;
Since you've a thousand Ends you may pursue,
A thousand Prospects opening to your View,
Weigh each with care; each in each Light explore,
Then chuse within the Height that you can soar.
Thus when the Spring's proportion'd to the Wheels,
When what the Part requires the Actor feels,
Method and Grace will ev'ry Step attend,
Refine your Pleasures, and your Toils befriend;
Conduct you on with Caution, yet with Force,
To the wish'd Goal that terminates your Course.
Beauty from Order springs, Order from Care
Of still remembring what we are, and where;
With just Regard to Time and Place behave,
Laugh with the Laughers, with the Grave be grave,
To All be all things, but the Fool or Knave.
A harmless Complaisance is still allow'd,
We sometimes must bow down to Baal-Crowd:
With Catius eating—why, I laud the Haunch,
At Silvio's Table am a Sportsman staunch;
With social Heartly venture Mirth and Wit,
But with close Allgripe am a downright Cit:
If with the Dean whose Noddle's hourly rack'd
For musty Jokes, by his great Grannum crack'd,
Whilst o'er his Phiz insipid, creeps a Sneer,
Low-simp'ring, like the Froth on flat Small-beer,
I let him joke; or else, what's worse, he'd write,
And plague the Press in Sense and Nature's spite.
Hear then, ye Youth, whose Bosoms pant for Fame,
Who'd yield fair Promise of a deathless Name,
Forethink, with care, what's proper to be said,
Or done the present Hour; what's best delay'd;
Judge and rejudge, grasp This, and That despise,
Your Eye still fix'd on the enchanting Prize.
Of still remembring what we are, and where;
With just Regard to Time and Place behave,
Laugh with the Laughers, with the Grave be grave,
To All be all things, but the Fool or Knave.
A harmless Complaisance is still allow'd,
We sometimes must bow down to Baal-Crowd:
With Catius eating—why, I laud the Haunch,
At Silvio's Table am a Sportsman staunch;
With social Heartly venture Mirth and Wit,
But with close Allgripe am a downright Cit:
If with the Dean whose Noddle's hourly rack'd
For musty Jokes, by his great Grannum crack'd,
Whilst o'er his Phiz insipid, creeps a Sneer,
Low-simp'ring, like the Froth on flat Small-beer,
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And plague the Press in Sense and Nature's spite.
Hear then, ye Youth, whose Bosoms pant for Fame,
Who'd yield fair Promise of a deathless Name,
Forethink, with care, what's proper to be said,
Or done the present Hour; what's best delay'd;
Judge and rejudge, grasp This, and That despise,
Your Eye still fix'd on the enchanting Prize.
In coining Fashions ne'er usurp a Sway;
Yet loyally the reigning Mode obey:
But if some fair Occasion gives you room
To grace the Labours of your Country's Loom,
Britannia's Sterling Products to advance,
And banish all the Tinsel Trash of France,
Then, then, ye Albion Chiefs, exert your Might,
The first in Fashion then's the most Polite.
Or if, ye Fair! you'd æmulate a Dress,
Which might a stronger Modesty express,
Tow'rds ev'ry delicate Reserve defy
The vain Approach of the unhallow'd Eye;
Bravely restore, to your immortal Praise,
The decent Garb of chaste Eliza's Days;
Why is to You their Heirs in all beside,
That elegant Simplicity deny'd,
Which Cecil then, and Seymour own'd their Pride?
Or why should Foplings Scoul upon my Pen,
If, wishing foreign Lux'ry to restrain,
It toils to cherish home-bred Arts again,
Since
Sloan and Spenser have enrich'd the Land
With Webs unmatch'd by any foreign Hand.
Yet loyally the reigning Mode obey:
But if some fair Occasion gives you room
To grace the Labours of your Country's Loom,
Britannia's Sterling Products to advance,
And banish all the Tinsel Trash of France,
Then, then, ye Albion Chiefs, exert your Might,
The first in Fashion then's the most Polite.
Or if, ye Fair! you'd æmulate a Dress,
Which might a stronger Modesty express,
Tow'rds ev'ry delicate Reserve defy
The vain Approach of the unhallow'd Eye;
Bravely restore, to your immortal Praise,
The decent Garb of chaste Eliza's Days;
Why is to You their Heirs in all beside,
That elegant Simplicity deny'd,
Which Cecil then, and Seymour own'd their Pride?
Or why should Foplings Scoul upon my Pen,
If, wishing foreign Lux'ry to restrain,
It toils to cherish home-bred Arts again,
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With Webs unmatch'd by any foreign Hand.
The Forest's lofty Sons, who late were seen
Cloath'd in a proud Attire of vernal Green,
Past a few Months, their modest Limbs now show
Clad in a clay-cold Fleece of Virgin Snow;
Ev'n Time itself is but a longer Day,
A passing Stream that hourly glides away;
Whilst we're the Bubbles on the lrquid Plain,
That rise by turns, but to sink down again.
There's nought so fix'd but what a Change must prove,
Lo, to Fleet-Ditch Stocks-Market must remove!
And in its room some future Age will see,
If haply rival Masons may agree,
A tow'ring Mansion for the good Lord-Mayor,
Tho' not the Alderman that's next the Chair.
Whilst that drain'd barren Sluice, whose sable Streams
“Late roll'd her Tribute of dead Dogs to Thames,
Prolifick now, the neighb'ring Ward supplies
With the rich Offspring of th' indulgent Skies.
So this Day's Mode must to To-morrow's yield,
And Yesterday's from That regain the Field.
Cloath'd in a proud Attire of vernal Green,
Past a few Months, their modest Limbs now show
Clad in a clay-cold Fleece of Virgin Snow;
Ev'n Time itself is but a longer Day,
A passing Stream that hourly glides away;
Whilst we're the Bubbles on the lrquid Plain,
That rise by turns, but to sink down again.
There's nought so fix'd but what a Change must prove,
Lo, to Fleet-Ditch Stocks-Market must remove!
And in its room some future Age will see,
If haply rival Masons may agree,
A tow'ring Mansion for the good Lord-Mayor,
Tho' not the Alderman that's next the Chair.
Whilst that drain'd barren Sluice, whose sable Streams
“Late roll'd her Tribute of dead Dogs to Thames,
Prolifick now, the neighb'ring Ward supplies
With the rich Offspring of th' indulgent Skies.
So this Day's Mode must to To-morrow's yield,
And Yesterday's from That regain the Field.
Whate'er to Courts and Politicks relate,
The Deeds of Kings, and Ministers of State,
Of Depredations, Treaties, and Conventions,
And, 'twixt the In and Out, what dire Contentions,
From sage Debates of Lords and Commons learn—
Yet make it, as your least, your last Concern.
The Deeds of Kings, and Ministers of State,
Of Depredations, Treaties, and Conventions,
And, 'twixt the In and Out, what dire Contentions,
From sage Debates of Lords and Commons learn—
Yet make it, as your least, your last Concern.
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Of old our Citizens complain'd of War,
'Tis now their only Joy, their only Pray'r.
If granted, or in vain our Fleet sent out,
Tho' some dim sighted Politicians doubt,
We trust th' Event will make all Europe know
Don Haddock's England's ablest Plenipo.
'Tis now their only Joy, their only Pray'r.
If granted, or in vain our Fleet sent out,
Tho' some dim sighted Politicians doubt,
We trust th' Event will make all Europe know
Don Haddock's England's ablest Plenipo.
A righteous Rage at our degen'rate Days,
Arm'd Pope with his own keen Iambick Lays,
To scourge th' enormous Folly o' the Times,
And make the Vicious tremble at his Rhimes.
With like Success, but not with like Desert,
Our Sock and Buskin Bards have ap'd his Art;
Each Vice, by turns, flies bleeding from his Stroke,
But Politicks alone their Stings provoke;
Whilst at each squinting Scene, or full-mouth'd Trap,
Pit, Box and Galleries, thunder out a Clap.
Arm'd Pope with his own keen Iambick Lays,
To scourge th' enormous Folly o' the Times,
And make the Vicious tremble at his Rhimes.
With like Success, but not with like Desert,
Our Sock and Buskin Bards have ap'd his Art;
Each Vice, by turns, flies bleeding from his Stroke,
But Politicks alone their Stings provoke;
Whilst at each squinting Scene, or full-mouth'd Trap,
Pit, Box and Galleries, thunder out a Clap.
Hark! Handel strikes the Lyre—He whom the Nine
Have crown'd sole Prince of Harmony Divine:
Now sacred Themes his sacred Strains employ,
And pour upon the Soul Seraphick Joy.
Hear David sooth the Phrensy of the King,
In Sounds as sweet as David's Self could sing;
When Samuel's boding Notes his Heart appall,
We stand aghast, and tremble too with Saul;
And when the solemn Fun'ral March moves on
To plaintive Chords, whilst David joins his Moan
Lamenting Saul and Jonathan his Son,
How are the Mighty fall'n! we sighing cry,
And Tears spontaneous gush from ev'ry Eye.
Now gayer Subjects animate his Strings,
The Lover's Fires, and Victor's Wreaths he sings;
Hark, how the Joy-inspiring Concords roll!
Exalt our Mirth, and all our Cares controul.
Whilst in his Royal Macedonian's Feast
Th'almighty Pow'r of Harmony's exprest,
Our Joy and Grief, our Transport and Despair,
Wait on each Touch, and change with ev'ry Air.
Stupendous Master! now, amaz'd, we see
All that was feign'd of Orpheus true of Thee.
Let Pope and Handel then, with Sister Arts,
At once improve your Joys, and mend your Hearts;
When such Delights your leisure Moments know,
Virtue and Wisdom from Amusement flow.
Have crown'd sole Prince of Harmony Divine:
Now sacred Themes his sacred Strains employ,
And pour upon the Soul Seraphick Joy.
Hear David sooth the Phrensy of the King,
In Sounds as sweet as David's Self could sing;
When Samuel's boding Notes his Heart appall,
We stand aghast, and tremble too with Saul;
And when the solemn Fun'ral March moves on
To plaintive Chords, whilst David joins his Moan
Lamenting Saul and Jonathan his Son,
How are the Mighty fall'n! we sighing cry,
And Tears spontaneous gush from ev'ry Eye.
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The Lover's Fires, and Victor's Wreaths he sings;
Hark, how the Joy-inspiring Concords roll!
Exalt our Mirth, and all our Cares controul.
Whilst in his Royal Macedonian's Feast
Th'almighty Pow'r of Harmony's exprest,
Our Joy and Grief, our Transport and Despair,
Wait on each Touch, and change with ev'ry Air.
Stupendous Master! now, amaz'd, we see
All that was feign'd of Orpheus true of Thee.
Let Pope and Handel then, with Sister Arts,
At once improve your Joys, and mend your Hearts;
When such Delights your leisure Moments know,
Virtue and Wisdom from Amusement flow.
If these first Principles, which all respect,
I know not, or I, knowing 'em, neglect;
If in the Picture of my Life you view
Neither the Drawing, nor the Col'ring true;
If, alike ign'rant to conduct or plan,
I blunder on—why am I stil'd a Man?
Or why, thro' bashful Folly do I slight,
The Artist's Pen, that points me to the Right.
I know not, or I, knowing 'em, neglect;
If in the Picture of my Life you view
Neither the Drawing, nor the Col'ring true;
If, alike ign'rant to conduct or plan,
I blunder on—why am I stil'd a Man?
Or why, thro' bashful Folly do I slight,
The Artist's Pen, that points me to the Right.
With that due Rank which Heav'n has fated thee,
Still let thy language, and thy Garb agree;
I hate a prink'd-out Valet should produce
His Lord's fine Phrase, unwitting of its Use;
And rage to find a Pillar of the State,
Dress like a Valet, like a Valet prate;
Not but sometimes, should Phœbus deign his Fire,
A Duck or Dodsley may to Rhyme aspire;
And Noble Lords, for sake of wholsom Glee,
Facetious Bodens, club their Jokes with thee.
Still let thy language, and thy Garb agree;
I hate a prink'd-out Valet should produce
His Lord's fine Phrase, unwitting of its Use;
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Dress like a Valet, like a Valet prate;
Not but sometimes, should Phœbus deign his Fire,
A Duck or Dodsley may to Rhyme aspire;
And Noble Lords, for sake of wholsom Glee,
Facetious Bodens, club their Jokes with thee.
A turn'd-out Courtier, or an exil'd Chief,
In mild Remonstrances should speak their Grief:
If anxious to engage the Factious Throng,
Or raise our just Resentments for their Wrong.
In mild Remonstrances should speak their Grief:
If anxious to engage the Factious Throng,
Or raise our just Resentments for their Wrong.
'Tis not enough your Life should barely prove
Decent and just, adorn it too with Love.
Love interesting, gen'rous, unconfin'd,
That Social Chain which links us to the Kind;
Illumines all we do, and all we speak,
Beams in the Eye, and smiles upon the Cheek,
Employs each Hand, engages ev'ry Heart
To act the Parent's, Friend's, or Patron's Part;
Shines like the Sun impartial o'er the whole,
With Rays attractive joining Soul to Soul.
Decent and just, adorn it too with Love.
Love interesting, gen'rous, unconfin'd,
That Social Chain which links us to the Kind;
Illumines all we do, and all we speak,
Beams in the Eye, and smiles upon the Cheek,
Employs each Hand, engages ev'ry Heart
To act the Parent's, Friend's, or Patron's Part;
Shines like the Sun impartial o'er the whole,
With Rays attractive joining Soul to Soul.
We laugh or weep, as our Companions do,
Transplant their Looks, nay catch their Passions too.
If then you'd make me Partner in your Woe,
With unfeign'd Anguish first your Tears must flow,
Then your Misfortunes melt my pitying Breast,
And sympathetick Sorrows stand confess'd.
But Nature's honest Dictates if you slight,
And neither feel, nor speak your Part aright,
Bedoz'd I slumber, or I laugh downright.
Transplant their Looks, nay catch their Passions too.
If then you'd make me Partner in your Woe,
With unfeign'd Anguish first your Tears must flow,
Then your Misfortunes melt my pitying Breast,
And sympathetick Sorrows stand confess'd.
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And neither feel, nor speak your Part aright,
Bedoz'd I slumber, or I laugh downright.
The Face should be an Index to the Breast,
The Speech a Comment on what's there impress'd;
When Tears flow plenteous from the grief-swoln Eye,
Then plaintive Terms best suit the Agony;
Threats, furious Threats the Ireful Looks become,
Grave Words the Serious, the Lascivious—Mum.
The Speech a Comment on what's there impress'd;
When Tears flow plenteous from the grief-swoln Eye,
Then plaintive Terms best suit the Agony;
Threats, furious Threats the Ireful Looks become,
Grave Words the Serious, the Lascivious—Mum.
For plastic Nature fashions first the Mind,
To Fortune's each Vicissitude inclin'd,
Now wings it heav'n-ward with extatic Mirth,
Now weighs it down with Anguish to the Earth;
With Rage inflates it now to seek the Foe,
Now shews it melting at another's Woe;
Then tells each State, save 'midst the courtly Throng,
By her elect Interpreter the Tongue:
When, therefore, That runs counter to the Heart,
For Nature's Bullion palms the Mint of Art,
Is husht, the Soul's true Motions to conceal,
Or busy'd, feign'd Affections to reveal,
Utters what ne'er was felt, what ne'er was thought,
And by the Brain, instead of Breast, is taught,
We break thro' Truth and Reason's sacred Rules,
And fall from Sense for fear of being Fools:
Whilst the sole Profit of the poor Disguise
Is the loud Laughter of the Brave, and Wife.
To Fortune's each Vicissitude inclin'd,
Now wings it heav'n-ward with extatic Mirth,
Now weighs it down with Anguish to the Earth;
With Rage inflates it now to seek the Foe,
Now shews it melting at another's Woe;
Then tells each State, save 'midst the courtly Throng,
By her elect Interpreter the Tongue:
When, therefore, That runs counter to the Heart,
For Nature's Bullion palms the Mint of Art,
Is husht, the Soul's true Motions to conceal,
Or busy'd, feign'd Affections to reveal,
Utters what ne'er was felt, what ne'er was thought,
And by the Brain, instead of Breast, is taught,
We break thro' Truth and Reason's sacred Rules,
And fall from Sense for fear of being Fools:
Whilst the sole Profit of the poor Disguise
Is the loud Laughter of the Brave, and Wife.
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Not that harsh Truths should always be avow'd,
Lest while we'd seem sincere, they swear we're proud.
I would not have young Careless hear me say,
'Tis wise to lay up for a rainy Day;
Nor old Sir H***s, whose Soul is plung'd in Oar,
That Gold can't shut the Grave against Fourscore.
I would not mind proud S****h of her Age,
Nor prate 'gainst Prating with the good Nurse P***e.
Know well your Company before you're free,
Years, Fortunes, Climates, Manners disagree,
Dutchman and Frenchman, YOU and Lord Toupee.
Lest while we'd seem sincere, they swear we're proud.
I would not have young Careless hear me say,
'Tis wise to lay up for a rainy Day;
Nor old Sir H***s, whose Soul is plung'd in Oar,
That Gold can't shut the Grave against Fourscore.
I would not mind proud S****h of her Age,
Nor prate 'gainst Prating with the good Nurse P***e.
Know well your Company before you're free,
Years, Fortunes, Climates, Manners disagree,
Dutchman and Frenchman, YOU and Lord Toupee.
Gain, Party, Passion, Whim, so much prevail,
That few in drawing Characters but fail;
The safest way's a Medium to pursue,
Then, if not True, they'll be akin to True.
Don't say Columbus ne'er was once mistaken,
Yet own he's wise enough to save his Bacon.
Call Aquilo a Courtier, not a Tool,
And make of Syphax nor a Saint, nor Fool.
Own Atticus is witty and polite,
But quere if his Conduct's always right?
Give Cleon a free Tongue, but no free Hand,
He loves his Country much, much more his Land.
But if some Character of spotless Fame,
One, like your own, you'd paint, throughout the Same;
Each lovely Feature Hensol will afford,
Learn'd, Social, and Sincere—although a Lord;
Still constant to himself and to his Friend—
But hold—you'll hurt him if you thus commend.
That few in drawing Characters but fail;
The safest way's a Medium to pursue,
Then, if not True, they'll be akin to True.
Don't say Columbus ne'er was once mistaken,
Yet own he's wise enough to save his Bacon.
Call Aquilo a Courtier, not a Tool,
And make of Syphax nor a Saint, nor Fool.
Own Atticus is witty and polite,
But quere if his Conduct's always right?
Give Cleon a free Tongue, but no free Hand,
He loves his Country much, much more his Land.
But if some Character of spotless Fame,
One, like your own, you'd paint, throughout the Same;
Each lovely Feature Hensol will afford,
Learn'd, Social, and Sincere—although a Lord;
Still constant to himself and to his Friend—
But hold—you'll hurt him if you thus commend.
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To well-known Subjects your Discourse confine,
'Tis hard on Themes untouch'd before to shine;
Besides, few like—except upon their Shelves—
Acquaintance much more knowing than themselves.
Rather old Stories with new Grace repeat,
Troy burnt, Rome built, or Xenophon's Retreat;
Thus tho' the Carcase of the Fable's known,
The Dress and Moral make it quite your own.
But ne'er engage in any Party Squabble,
'Tis all Discordance, Folly, Tumult, Babble;
Proving, Defending, Jangling, Wrangling all,
Sir Will, Sir Bill, Sir Robert, and Sir Paul;
'Till plung'd so deep you know not to get out,
And, tho' convinc'd, must blush to turn about.
'Tis hard on Themes untouch'd before to shine;
Besides, few like—except upon their Shelves—
Acquaintance much more knowing than themselves.
Rather old Stories with new Grace repeat,
Troy burnt, Rome built, or Xenophon's Retreat;
Thus tho' the Carcase of the Fable's known,
The Dress and Moral make it quite your own.
But ne'er engage in any Party Squabble,
'Tis all Discordance, Folly, Tumult, Babble;
Proving, Defending, Jangling, Wrangling all,
Sir Will, Sir Bill, Sir Robert, and Sir Paul;
'Till plung'd so deep you know not to get out,
And, tho' convinc'd, must blush to turn about.
Nor, prompted by Vain-glory's fev'rish Thirst,
With Strangers toil to shew away at first;
And, like proud Portius in the Senate-Hall,
Start up and cry—Come, Sirs, I'm at you all:
For each you thus accost, each witling Elf,
Deeming he's quite as able as yourself,
Will watch your first, least Slip, and cry with Scorn,
“The Mountain labour'd, and a Mouse is born!
More prudent He who modestly sets out,
Just moves a Question, or just hints a Doubt;
“What News; Sirs, tell me? Is his Grace return'd
“Improv'd, from Trav'ling?—Hah! the House adjourn'd!
“Pray how's Sir R***t?—He can't hold it long—
“Your Judgment, Sirs? Perhaps I'm in the wrong.
Then by degrees to nobler Themes aspire,
Producing Fire from Smoke, not Smoke from Fire;
Till the whole Sun of Knowledge cloudless shine,
And ev'ry Ear and ev'ry Tongue be thine.
With Strangers toil to shew away at first;
And, like proud Portius in the Senate-Hall,
Start up and cry—Come, Sirs, I'm at you all:
For each you thus accost, each witling Elf,
Deeming he's quite as able as yourself,
Will watch your first, least Slip, and cry with Scorn,
“The Mountain labour'd, and a Mouse is born!
More prudent He who modestly sets out,
Just moves a Question, or just hints a Doubt;
“What News; Sirs, tell me? Is his Grace return'd
“Improv'd, from Trav'ling?—Hah! the House adjourn'd!
“Pray how's Sir R***t?—He can't hold it long—
“Your Judgment, Sirs? Perhaps I'm in the wrong.
Then by degrees to nobler Themes aspire,
Producing Fire from Smoke, not Smoke from Fire;
26
And ev'ry Ear and ev'ry Tongue be thine.
Or, when free Wit and social Mirth prevail,
If, in your Turn, you'd club your hum'rous Tale,
Don't mark each tedious winding Circumstance,
Nor lead us from the Orkneys to Penzance;
But plunge into the middle of the Jest,
Spring to th' Event, and think we know the rest.
Eye well whate'er presents, its Force detect,
Strike what will shine, and what will not reject.
When thus, with Art, we Truth and Fiction blend,
Order and Grace will the whole Piece attend,
And link in one, Biginning, Middle, End.
If, in your Turn, you'd club your hum'rous Tale,
Don't mark each tedious winding Circumstance,
Nor lead us from the Orkneys to Penzance;
But plunge into the middle of the Jest,
Spring to th' Event, and think we know the rest.
Eye well whate'er presents, its Force detect,
Strike what will shine, and what will not reject.
When thus, with Art, we Truth and Fiction blend,
Order and Grace will the whole Piece attend,
And link in one, Biginning, Middle, End.
FINIS.
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