The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge

Including several pieces never before published: with an account of his life and character, by his son, George Owen Cambridge

Cambridge, Richard Owen (1717-1802)

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ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS FREDERICK PRINCE OF WALES:

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES,

AN APOLOGY FOR WRITING VERSE;

TO WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq.

TO LORD BATHURST.

THE DANGER OF WRITING VERSE;

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN LORD DUCIE AND HIS HORSE.

THE AUTHOR TO THE SCRIBLERIAD.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES,

ON THE APPOINTMENT OF LORD TEMPLE TO BE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY.

AGAINST INCONSTANCY;

TO Mr. WHITEHEAD,

EPILOGUE SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE,

A DIALOGUE

TO OZIAS HUMPHRY, Esq.

Mr. WILKES'S SOLILOQUY,

ON PAINTING;

ON SEEING THE HEAD OF Sir ISAAC NEWTON,

TO A LADY WHO WAS VERY HANDSOME,

A PARODY OF ACHILLES' SPEECH,

A PARODY ON “DEATH AND THE LADY;”

AN INVITATION TO A BALL AT LADY COOPER'S:

ANSWER.

THE PROGRESS OF LIBERTY.

ON SEEING THIS MOTTO TO A FRENCH PAPER: “DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI.”

TO A FRIEND

A FREE TRANSLATION OF BOILEAU;

EPIGRAMS.

2. ON MEETING AT MR. GARRICK'S

3. QUIN'S DEATH.

4. ACTEON NO CUCKOLD.

5. IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE.

6. THE HISTORIAN IN LOVE:

7. OCCASIONED BY THE CONDUCT OF THE FRENCH TOWARDS THE POPE IN THE YEAR 1794.

8. ON SEEING A DECENT-LOOKING YOUNG WOMAN COME DOWN A STAIRCASE IN CLEMENT'S-INN:

9. TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

10.

10. LINES GIVEN EXTEMPORE

11.

11. THE FOLLOWING FRENCH LINES

12.

13.

13. ON SEEING A TAPESTRY CHAIR-BOTTOM BEAUTIFULLY WORKED BY HIS DAUGHTER FOR MRS. HOLROYD.

14.

14. A TRANSLATION

The WORLD.

[Ye sages say, who know mankind]

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MISCELLANEOUS VERSES,

WRITTEN AT WHITMINSTER, FROM 1742 to 1750.

LEARNING:

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND NED.

[_]

(The AUTHOR, and Dr. EDWARD BARNARD, afterwards Provost of Eton.)

THE day was sullen, bleak, and wet,
When Dick and Ned together met
To waste it in a friendly chat,
And much they talk'd of this and that;
Till many a question wisely stated,
And many a knotty point debated,
From topic still to topic turning,
They fall at length on Books and Learning:
Then each with eagerness displays
His eloquence, to give them praise.
Far in their eulogy they launch,
And scan them o'er in ev'ry branch;
Thus, th' excellencies making known
Of Learning, slyly show their own.

Here Dick (who often takes a pride
To argue on the weaker side)
Cries, Softly, Ned, this talk of learning
May hold with men in books discerning;
Who boast of what they call a taste,
But for all else we run too fast;
For lay but prejudice aside,
And let the cause be fairly try'd,
What is the worth of any thing,
But for the happiness 'twill bring?
And that, none ever would dispute,
Is only found in the pursuit;
For if you once run down your game,
You frustrate and destroy your aim:
He, without doubt, pray mark me, Ned,
Has most to read, who least has read;
And him we needs must happiest find,
Whose greatest pleasure is behind.—
Ned, who was now 'twixt sleep and wake,
Stirr'd by this argument to speak,
Full aptly cry'd, With half an eye
Your far-fetcht sophistry I spy;
Which, ne'er so subtlely disputed,
By two plain words shall be confuted:
To give your reasoning due digestion,
I first affirm you beg the question.

Learning's a game, which, who attains,
A great and worthy pleasure gains;
Not light and transient like the chace,
But stable with unfading grace.
There are, indeed, who are so idle,
They leave all emprize in the middle;
Nor for reflection read or comment,
But just to kill the present moment:
These hunt romances, tales, and hist'ries,
As men pursue a common mistress,
Who when once caught but moves their loathing,
And well if she 's not worse than nothing;
But those of steady, serious life,
Know there 's no pleasure like a wife;
And such the wise true learning find
A lasting help-mate to their mind.—
Good sir, quoth Dick, and made a leg,
I say 'tis you the question beg.
Your similies of wife and mistress
Will serve your argument to distress.
If knowledge never was attain'd,
Which sages always have maintain'd,
Then knowledge cannot be a wife;
And you yourself conclude the strife.
You no less fallacy advance
'Gainst tales, and fables, and romance;

For I shall prove t'ye in the sequel,
That reading of all kinds is equal;
And none can serve a better end,
Than cheerfully our time to spend.
Nor is't of moment, gay, or serious,
But, as the readers minds are various,
Each please himself. You contradict
Philosophers of every sect,
Unless with them you will maintain
All human learning to be vain.
This, Socrates affirm'd of old,
And this our wisest moderns hold.
Therefore, if you have prov'd romances,
And such like, vain and idle fancies,
They've said the same of all the knowledge
I'th' sage and philosophic college.—
Ned was by this a little nettled:
Quoth he, This thing shall soon be settled;
With your own arguments disputed,
And you with your own weapons routed.
You hold the pleasure to consist
In the pursuit; this must exist
For ever you have eke maintain'd,
Asserting knowledge can't be gain'd;
By this you fairly overthrow
Your first position; for, if so,

How can it ever be agreed
Who least has read has most to read?
If ten miles upwards you could run,
Would you be nearer to the sun?
Or daily from the sea should drink,
Say would you ever find it shrink?
Men most delighted are, the fact is,
As they more skilful grow by practice;
This true in all we have concern in,
Much more is found to hold in learning.
Who various sciences has read,
Has made a store-house of his head;
And with him ever bears within
A large and plenteous magazine,
Whence he's secure to draw at leisure
All sorts of precious hoarded treasure:
Rich in ideas, ne'er shall he
A prey become to poverty;
And roaming free, his active mind
Can ne'er be fetter'd or confin'd;
Nor of dull solitude complain,
His thoughts, a cheerful social train:
For books of the superior kind
With just ideas fill the mind,
Nourish its growing youth, confirm
Its manhood: prop its age infirm:

Learning, our ev'ry step attends,
The best of pilots and of friends;
Assists our various ills to bear,
In fortunes adverse waves to steer;
How best in calmer hours to sail,
And how improve the prosp'rous gale.—
Alas! quoth Dick, mere puff and froth this is,
Which you advance for your hypothesis:
At best a well-laid theory;
No substance or reality;
Nor found with practice to agree.
Your scheme would be more true and ample,
If well supported by example.
But these all make against your system,
And therefore wisely you supprest 'em;
Not all your books can raise the mind
Above the weakness of mankind.
Zeno, of stoic reading vain,
Affirm'd there was no harm in pain.
Pyrrho would vaunt (but then he'd lie)
Indifference or to live or die.
Carneades oft spent his breath
T'inspire the bold contempt of death;
And once his wisdom did affect
So far to ape the stoic sect,
He thought he felt an inclination
To die, because it was the fashion.

Hearing Antipater (a wise one!)
Had kill'd himself by drinking poison,
He crys, resolv'd to do the same,
Give me—but what, forbears to name;
Then, baulking his expecting friends,
In mere mull'd wine this poison ends.
Not all his learning and wise reading,
Could Zeno's pupil keep from heeding
The rig'rous twinges of the stone,
Or but suppress one single groan;
Forc'd to own pain at length an evil,
And give his doctrine to the devil.
Thus these philosophers and leaders
Of various sects (profoundest readers)
From all their books could ne'er attain,
Death to contemn, or smile at pain;
And much less reap'd they joy or pleasure,
Their volumes yielding no such treasure.—
Ned, who now heartily was vext,
Began to stickle for his text;
Fairly, quoth he, examples cite,
We soon shall set this matter right;
But those you bring, tho' slyly pickt out,
And with all art and cunning trickt out,
'Tis plain to see you falsely vent 'em,
And speciously misrepresent 'em.

Tho' Dionysius did wince,
His master ne'er was known to flinch;
His other pupil, Posidonius,
Alone would prove your scheme erroneous.
When Pompey, who on purpose came
So far to hear this sage declaim,
Finding him on his sick bed laid,
And with severest pains assay'd,
Would fain have gone without his errant;
The steady stoic would not hear on't;
Began, and bravely held it out,
Amidst the torments of the gout;
Nor could avail th' acutest pang,
To stop or discompose th' harangue.
Could Epictetus, with such bravery,
Or Æsop, bear their painful slavery;
Unless by Learning's hand supported,
And that relief which Books afforded;
Whilst all their votaries have taught
That freedom dwells but in the thought.
Hence did Philoxenus desire
From the rich banquet to retire;
Chose rather back to gaol be hurried,
Than there with royal dulness worried:
His thoughts expatiating free
And undisturb'd with poetry;

Made bread and water more delicious
Than choicest feasts of Dionysius;
Proving no pain or thraldom worse is
Than slavishly to hear bad verses.—
Quoth Dick, 'Tis difficult to know
The truth of facts so long ago.
Writers enhance their hero's glory,
The better to set off their story;
And throw a varnish and a gloss over
Th' acts of their favourite philosopher.
You, of Philoxenus, advance
Mere folly, pride, and arrogance;
His reading made him no great winner,
That lost so foolishly his dinner.
Which is the wiser part d'ye think,
T'approve, and smile, and eat, and drink;
Or sourly criticisms mutter,
And quarrel with your bread and butter?
But if we find from books arise
This squeamish taste, more nice than wise,
'Tis happier sure, and wiser yet,
Ne'er to have learnt the alphabet:
Yet tho' I scruple not to grant
'Twas Learning made him arrogant,
I still must strenuously maintain
Indifference to death or pain

Proceeds from natural disposition,
More than from bookish acquisition.
Examples of your suff'ring sages
We find not five in fifteen ages.
Such volunteers in pain abound,
In parts where Books were never found.
To prove my words, if 'tis your hap
T'have pictures in't, consult your map;
There, Ned, a Brahmin may you see
Ty'd by the heels to post or tree;
From whence he reaches downward to make
A fire to roast his breast and stomach;
And this he ne'er abates or puts out,
Tho' it should burn his very guts out!
Yet this from Learning can't proceed,
For none of these can write or read.
Nor is the next a man of Letters,
Who's gall'd by those enormous fetters;
Nor yet is he a better Scholar,
Who groans beneath that iron collar.
Dan Prior's muse a case records,
And sweetly too, so take his words:
At Tonquin, if a prince should dye,
(As Jesuits write, who never lye,)
The wife, and counsellor, and priest,
Who serv'd him most and lov'd him best,

Prepare and light his funeral fire,
And cheerful on the pile expire.
In Europe 'twould be hard to find,
In each degree, one half so kind.
But why on European ground
Is no such instance to be found?
Say, does our learning or our reading
Fall so far short of Tonquin breeding?
But, as I said before, a case,
So far remov'd by time and place,
Is seldom faithfully related,
Or, in most points, exaggerated.
Let us by modern facts be try'd,
And not our ears, but eyes decide.
Consider but your nearest neighbour,
Mark well his ceaseless toil and labour;
Or fellow students at the College,
Who drudge both night and day for knowledge;
Are they for ten years poring better
Than if they 'd never known a letter?
This thumbs philosophers that teach
To be content is to be rich;
And finds, he thinks, with greatest rapture,
These riches grow with ev'ry chapter;
But sound his heart, you'll find it heaving
To college rents and future living:

This reads the Stoics, and from them
Learns all misfortunes to contemn.
But a bare nose, or finger's bleeding,
Shall countervail his ten years reading.
Do not most men more selfish grow,
And more reserv'd, the more they know?
And when they come to study less,
To promote others happiness,
They must, 'tis by experience shown,
Of consequence impair their own.
When Umbrio, fixt upon the skies
In absence, turns his musing eyes,
And never condescends t' afford,
But in a learn'd dispute, a word;
Can I persuade myself, that he
Is happier than his company?
Were it not better for a while
To lay his wisdom by, and smile,
And join with them to laugh and chat,
Altho' he cannot tell at what?
Yet he'll indulge these sullen fits,
And keep his mirth for brother wits:
Then let us follow him to these,
And see if he be more at ease.
No; soon again his pleasure fails,
He frowns, he yawns, he bites his nails;

And shews by discontented looks,
He wants to leave 'em for his books.
Pursue him to his country seat;
Is there his happiness complete?
With endless volumes fill'd the room,
Must needs dispel that sullen gloom:
In vain. Ere he an hour has sat,
Disliking this, and tir'd with that,
Some modern book augments his spleen,
Which th' Ancients can't take off again.
Impatient from himself to fly,
Shall he the field amusements try?
No; those a philosophic mind
Too barren pleasures needs must find.
Then shall he try his hours to spend
In chat with neighbouring country friend?
Lo! there his joys as vainly plac'd;
One knowledge wants, and one a taste,
This too reserv'd, that too affected,
Envy'd by this, by that suspected:
Poor Umbrio meets, at ev'ry turning,
Some sad reverse intail'd on learning;
And, tir'd o' th' country, back amain
Drives to be tir'd of town again.
Observe again, th' unletter'd brow
No frowns contract, no wrinkles plow;

See Bubo's front serenely sleek;
Chagrin ne'er wastes Aphronius' cheek;
Simplicius with eternal smile;
And Dullman ever found tranquil;
Prig with self-approbation blest;
While nought disturbs Asello's rest.—
Quoth Ned, I can no longer bear
Such overt falsities to hear;
Of arguments there is no end,
When with a sophist you contend;
Thy proofs all falsely are asserted,
Or else most wilfully perverted:
In this, as well as other countries,
Men drown and hang themselves upon trees;
Or, too displeas'd with this to bear it,
Leap into t'other world from garret.
Yet none in grave discourse, e'er thought
Such fit examples to be brought;
'Cause these from madness must proceed,
And those from poverty and need.
The sages I produced, ne'er sought
Their end or pain: their volumes taught
Neither to hasten death nor shun it,
But with indifference look upon it;
Nor ills to court nor yet to fear,
Whate'er Fate gave resign'd to bear:

From whence I proved beyond dispute,
That Learning bears the choicest fruit;
And plenteous harvests ever yields
To those who duly till her fields.
But you deny the truth, averring
Her soil not only cold but barren;
And the spontaneous idle weed
The cultivated crop t'exceed.
Now turn we to your happy Clan,
And their delights and pleasures scan;
See them returning from the field,
Their joys are o'er; the fox is kill'd;
How shall they pass the tedious night,
Till sport return with morning light?
From whence procure them recreation,
Nor sought from books or conversation?
The bottle, lo! their sole resort,
Oppressive thought they drown in port;
Or, with dear dice or cards beguile,
And shield them from themselves awhile.
Our gallants now to town repair;
What endless pleasures wait 'em there!
One half the day in sleep is past,
They study how the rest to waste;
Till drum or playhouse shall invite
To crown with happiness the night.

The dress, the valet, and the glass,
Help two long irksome hours to pass:
The dinner serves them to complain
Of taverns, waiters, cooks, champaign.
With joy they hear the house is full:
The play begins; 'tis grave, 'tis dull.
And two more hours their cruel fate
Ordains their happiness must wait.
Their patience now the drum rewards
With whispers, wax-lights, bows, and cards
Now, while at whist they take their seat,
Go ask them, are their joys complete!
Or wait they for some favourite vice;
Their girl, their bottle, or their dice?
Say, would you for a pattern chuse
Dullman, whose passion is the news?
Ne'er could the freedom of his mind
In prison'd volumes be confin'd;
In looser sheets is all his lore,
Free as the Sybil's leaves of yore.
He ne'er could on one science fix,
So fell perforce on politics;
In these he can descant as well
As any modern Machiavel:
Here little progress will enable
T' attack the deepest at the table.

Great is, I grant you, his delight,
When reading a retreat or fight,
Or sally or surprise, by the French meant
To storm the enemies entrenchment:
Or ships engaging with the Spaniard;
Or loss of mast by storm, or mainyard;
Or cargo sunk, or crew all drownded ;
Or spurious babe in Wapping found dead.
Or how the stubborn Dutch go on slow;
Or robb'ry on Blackheath or Hounslow.
But should they e'er restrain the press,
How great were Dullman's dire distress?
And should all Europe be at peace,
His pleasure totally must cease.
Let us from these now turn our eyes
Upon the man that's learn'd and wise:
You see him, from his early youth,
Taught the pursuits of heav'nly Truth:
In ev'ry season, ev'ry place,
He follows still the pleasing chace;
The nearer to the glorious prize,
It shines the brighter in his eyes:
And not alone in Books is found,
But ev'ry object all around.

He not the least of these disdains,
Or finds ungrateful to his pains.
But like the bee, from ev'ry flower
And ev'ry weed, with artful power
Collects alone the choicest juice,
And lays in store for future use.
Thus all things to improvement turning,
Still grows his pleasure with his Learning.

So Dullman spells it.

SOCIETY;

ADDRESSED TO HENRY BERKELEY, ESQ.

[_]

This Poem was intended to delineate the character of Mr. Berkeley, but being unfinished at the time of his death, the Author never could prevail upon himself to complete it.

SOCIETY! Our being's noblest end!
To thee, with claims unequal, all pretend:
From angels or the heav'n-instructed man,
To the wild Tartar's unconnected clan:
From the vast elephant, or savage bear,
To abject reptiles, and those insects spare
That wing invisibly the crouded air.

Select are thy delights, serene thy joys;
How falsely sought in numbers and in noise!
Too sober for th' ambitious or the vain;
Too delicate for folly's tasteless train.
These, while they seek thee in the tents of shame,
Bring foul dishonour on thy sacred name;
Who think to find thee in the harlot's bow'r,
Or loud with Wassel in the midnight hour.

Misjudge not then the philosophic mind,
Deaf to thy call, to thy endearments blind:
Since not thyself the wise, retir'd, disclaim,
But that vain phantom which usurps thy name.

Is there a man whom conscious worth inspires;
Whom wisdom touches with her faintest fires;
Whose nicer sense could brook the drunkard's cries,
The gamester glorious in his shameful prize;
The dull recital of the sportsman hear,
Or bigot roar of noisy faction bear?

O! should my soul her choicest wish declare,
And form to bounteous heav'n her ardent prayer,
Nor numerous vassals that obsequious wait
In servile crouds, to swell the pomp of state;
Nor wealth nor pow'r, nor would she fame require,
One perfect Friend should bound her full desire;
Learn'd though polite, though noble free from pride,
Virtue his guard, and honour be is guide:
Not so severely rigid to restrain
Mirth's genial friends, and laughter's jocund train;
But free to speak with temper or with fire
What Pallas dictates, or the Nine inspire;
Let no attainment seem too great an height
For his aspiring mind's ambitious flight:

No useful arts, tho' vulgar or minute,
Beneath his pains, unworthy his pursuit.
May zeal direct those pains to noblest ends,
Zeal for his God, his country, and his friends;
Exalted genius animate his soul,
And sense, the stable basis of the whole.

[OMITTED]

TOBACCO;

A TALE. ADDRESSED TO J. H. BROWNE, ESQ.

[_]

Author of the “Pipe of Tobacco, in Imitation of six several Authors.”

THE folks of old were not so nice
But that they'd ask and take advice.
'Twas then the Pythian's prudent voice
Directed Tully in his choice.
Consult your genius, said the maid;
No more; the humble youth obey'd.
This rule so short, so just, so plain,
Our lively moderns all disdain;
And scorn to have their flights controul'd
By any Pythians new or old;
Nor ask what may their genius fit,
But all, forsooth, must aim at wit.

When first that fragrant leaf came o'er
To bless our barren northern shore,

Which your immortal verses raise
A rival to the Poet's bays,
A squire of Sussex gave command
To plant it in his marshy land:
His anxious friends and neighbours join
To drive him from this strange design.—
Tobacco, says a skilful farmer,
Requires a dryer clime and warmer;
The wat'ry coldness of your soil
Will frustrate all the planter's toil;
Yet not ungrateful shall the clay
With beans a plenteous crop repay.—

Let peasant hinds, replies the squire,
Whose grov'ling souls can rise no higher,
Drudge on, content with piddling gain
From vulgar means, and common grain;
But I will make this Northern Isle
With India's boasted harvest smile,
And shew how needless 'tis to roam
For what we may produce at home.—

He said, and wide as his command,
Tobacco filled the hungry land;
The restive marl obstructs the shoot,
And checks the plant, and kills the root.

Yearly his project he repeated,
Yearly he saw his hopes defeated.
Till all, at length, his fate deplore,
And find him begging at their door.

Thus may'st thou see, discerning Browne,
A sauntering croud infest the town;
Whom providential Nature made
To thrive in physic, law, or trade.
What she directs, perverse they quit,
And strive to force spontaneous wit;
Mispend their time, misplace their toil,
To cultivate a barren soil;
And find no art or force can breed,
What in your garden grows a Weed.

ARCHIMAGE;

A POEM, WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF SPENCER, AND DESCRIPTIVE OF THE AUTHOR AND FOUR OF HIS BOAT'S CREW.

I

A beauteous Maid was walking on the plaine,
Nigh where Sabrina rolls her yellow tyde,
(Who now uplifts her fretted waves amaine,
And now serenely doth like Thamis glyde;)
Her palfrey to a distant tree was tied;
Delighted with the stream, of nought afraid,
She walk'd; a dwarf attended on her side,
Who bore a shield, on which there was displayd
Alofte on azure field a deadlie Trenchant blade.

II

Happie the Knight, yea happiest he the Knight,
By fates ordain'd that envied shield to beare,
The dearest gift of honour'd Lady bright,
To whom she worthy deems that pledge to weare,
His sure protection in the doubtful warre;
And ever shall such good the gifte attend,
That whoso beareth it shall nothing feare,
But on his Lady's virtues still depend,
Trusting in her his Saint, his Patronesse and Friend.

III

Her loosely walking on the lonely shore
Espied Archimage that wizard vile;
And now the subtile fiend had got his lore;
For whilom oft, with many an artful wile,
And soothing words full fraught with hidden guile
Her virtuous wisdom did the Mage assail;
Nath'less unmoved remain'd she all the while,
Ne would give ear to his false glozing tale,
So that in no wise he against her mote prevail.

IV

Forthy to overt force now turns his mind.
And impious ravishment the ruffian fell;
For equal he to lawless force inclin'd,
Or secret working of the magick spell,
And every mystick charme he knew full well:
Als could he from the vaste and hoarie deep
Summon th' obedient sonnes of night and hell,
As if th' infernal keys himself did keep;
Ne e'er in mischief's tasks allow his eye-lids sleep.

V

Forthwith two hellish imps he calls amaine,
Ycleped Giant Strength and Lawless Might;
Each to array he turns his working braine
In garb and semblance fair of gentle Knight;
So with a two-edged weapon he mote fight.
Thereto he Courtesie the one did call,
The other counterfeit Persuasion hight;
So if to nought his specious arts did fall,
By ruffian force he mote be sure to work her thrall.

VI

And now the bold Inchaunter caus'd be brought,
Of strange and curious worke, a rich machine ;
Which by his skille right cunninglie was wrought,
So that it's paragonne mote not be seene;
(Full powerful is the magick art, I weene.)
Ne drawn by dragons was this sumptuous Carre,
Ne by dread lions on the level greene,
Ne yet by yoked swans along the air;
As wizards oft, we read, convey the ravish'd fair.

VII

But with his wond'rous and all-powerful breath,
And the bare motion of his felon hond ,
To whate'er parts he lists he travelleth,
And flies with ease to many a distant lond;
For of his prey he now possess'd doth stand.
Als his behests four wizards sage obey,
Each waving in his hand a powerful wand ;
Mightie themselves; but mightier he than they;
Ne mote they his commands at any time gainsay.

VIII

In the first rank a wily Mage did sit,
Long vers'd in fraud, and exercised in ill;
Ne scrupled e'er t' employ his wicked wit,
His master's dev'lish mandates to fulfille;
And with malicious spite he turned stille
'Gainst Elfinne Knights, and wrought them mickle woe;
Als wou'd the blood of holy beadsmen spille,
Whose hairy scalps he hanged in a row
Around his cave; sad sight to Christian eyes I trow!

IX

These would he with a deadlie engine fell
Harrow and claw, his foul heart to aggrate,
And wreak his malice, strange it is to tell,
On object senseless and inanimate;
As though it were his living foeman's pate.
Als wou'd he rub a magic ointment eft
O'er heads of luckless knights, such was his hate;
Which of their curled tresses them bereft,
That nought but naked scorne and baldness vile was left.

X

Next sate a monstrous and mishapen wight,
His nether parts unseemlie to beholde;
All from his waiste discovering to the sight
A fishe's tail, with many a circling folde,
Which from the sea he mote not long witholde;
Als in his hideous and Cyclopean front
One single eye-ball (ghastlie feature!) roll'd,
Which fill'd with horror whoso look't upon 't,
And sea and land alike were this foule wizard's wont.

XI

But chief frequented he rough Neptune's reign,
Where with his dread Inchaunments cast about,
He'd call the fishe up from the wat'ry plain,
Shad, salmon, turbot, sturgeon, sole and trout;
Ne 'scap'd the smaller frie, ne larger rout;
But all who in his magick circles caught,
Ne great ne small mote ever thence get out;
Such power alass! have fell Inchaunters got,
Ne aught can them resist, ne can escape them aught.

XII

Yet not for appetite or hunger keen,
Or for the end of luscious luxurie,
Did he thus labour day and night, I ween,
And those delicious creatures doom to die,
But barely to aggrate his crueltie.
For aye such joy in mischief would he take,
That oft he'd run and flounce and wade and flie
Like goose unwieldie or like waddling drake,
And thus pursue his prey still flound'ring through the lake.

XIII

Ne would he e'er exchange these 'steemed cates
For life-supporting bread, or wholesome food,
Ne fill his body ere with strength'ning meats,
But ev'ry thing eschewing that is good,
Nought ate or drank which mote not evil brood:
Hot and rebellious liquors were his meal,
Which caus'd foul workings in his fev'rish blood;
'Bove all things else he Wassel priz'd and ale;
For Tritonne, when in drinke, begotte him on a Whale.

XIV

The next a foul and filthy Wizard was;
His skin like hydes of leather did appear;
A griezlie beard grew matted o'er his face;
Hard wax distilled from his eyes so blear,
And on his back grew stiffe and brieslie hair;
Which like th' enraged porcupine he 'd dart
'Gainst skinne of such as him provoked ere;
And ever glad to do them shame and smart,
Left them all slash'd and gored and pink'd in every part.

XV

From noblest auncestors his birth he 'd boast,
E'en from the mightie Crispin's royal bed;
Tho' he in fortune's ruder waves was tost,
And by the potent Archimage was led;
Nay once by mightier force imprisonned ,
Altho' himself a great Inchaunter was;
Untill released thro' grace and bountihed
Of good and gentle Knight of Crispin's race,
From barres of hardest steel, and walles of triple brasse.

XVI

Yet by superior force not overmatch'd,
Well knew he how to deal the secret spell:
Thereto the steps of wand'ring Knights he watch'd,
And with smooth words decoy'd them to his cell ;
Where in a chair enchaunted, strange to tell,
The Knights he placed; when thrusting all amaine
I' the stocks their tender feet, the traytor fell
Leaves them, regardless of their bitter paine;
There may they weep and wail, and storm and rave in vaine.

XVII

Next the most dread Magician of the crew,
Save the all-powerful Archimage alone,
Of strange and hideous forme, and sable hue,
Fire from his mouthe and livid eye-balls shone,
Would melt harde flints and most obdurate stone.
Thick clouds of smoke still issued from his nose,
Which he in danger hath about him throwne;
His iron nailes the length of fingers rose,
Ne brasse, ne hardest steele, mote his sharpe teeth oppose.

XVIII

He was to weet a craftie subtile Mage,
Great Vulcan's sonne, and from his Sire full well
Had learn'd the winds rude force and mightier rage
Of fire, which oft he'd fetch with many a spell,
And bold Promethean arts, from lowest hell.
In a vaste cave did this Inchaunter wonne,
Full of things foul to see and sadde to tell;
With many a rotten sculle and bleached bone,
And many a mangled lymb was the dread pavement strowne.

XIX

Als on the portals of his friendless gate
He fixed has, and hanged up on highe
The boastfull tokens of his vengefull hate,
And spoils of his lamented victorie,
Extorting tears from every tender eye;
When luckless Knights by him dismounted are,
He straitway to the helpless steed doth flie;
Soon from his tender foot the sole doth teare,
And home the mournful trophie of his conquest beare.

XX

Nor so he lets escape the haplesse steede,
But daie by daie doth racke him more and more;
Now strikes his tender necke till it doth bleede,
And his sleek skyn becomes all cover'd o'er
With the foule stains of bloode and clotted gore;
Als with hotte pyncers dothe he feare his tongue,
And with sharpe nails his feet he pricketh sore;
Which makes him frette, as tho' by gadflie stunge,
Whilst his gall'd hoofe still smarts, in magick circle wrunge.

XXI

Als hath the Wizard with paternal art,
And massie beams of ir'n, a castle wrought,
So surelie firme and barr'd in ev'ry part,
That never thence, I ween, escaped aught;
With many a Knight and woeful Squire was fraught
This dolorous dungeon sad, who thither came
By magick touch, and vile inchauntments brought
Of harpies fell, who take their obscene name
Deriv'd from loathed part of scorne, and public shame.

XXII

Whilom the wretche against his master dar'd
In bold rebellion lift his traitor hand,
And for his steeds his treas'nous charms prepar'd;
But Archimage his purpose had forescann'd,
And him in terror to that lawless band
Condemned aye to sweat and toil amain;
Now in the waves, now on the burning sand,
From scorching flames to the chill wave again;
Thus aye him tort'ring with varietie of pain.

XXIII

Such was this dev'lish and unholie crew;
But far above them all was Archimage;
More artful tricks and subtile wyles he knew;
More high, more potent, more rever'd, more sage;
Ne one like him could read the magick page:
Ne could the powers of all combin'd avail
'Gainst his bare breath; so potent was it's rage,
That oft with that alone he would assail
The greatest deeds, nor ere in ought was known to fail.

XXIV

Als was he balde behinde, and polled o'er,
And once escap'd none caught him e'er, I trowe:
One single lock of hair he has before,
Such whilom on Time's aged fronte dothe grow;
(For he like Time ranne ever to and fro,
Following the bente of his impetuous minde)
This must you catch, ere he beginne to go,
For if once gone he flieth like the winde,
Ne ere abateth speed, ne looketh ere behinde.

XXV

Erst by his charmes a wond'rous bow he brought
Ev'n from the distante coasts of utmost Inde;
With dread and powerful magick was it wrought;
And feather'd arrows, swifter than the winde,
Which never erred from the marke design'd:
These as the tim'rous fowl from far descrie,
(Sore dread, I ween, to all the feather'd kinde)
Dismay'd, dispers'd, and cowring low, they flie,
Tho' oft transfix'd their lives they leave ith' loftie skie.

XXVI

Nature to him her dark breast doth disclose,
His pierceant eye looks thro' the shades of night;
And all beneath the earth and sea he knows,
Ne ought is hidden from his searching sight:
Eft rare and secret things he brings to light;
And Earth's deep womb ransacking with his art,
An house hath built with various beauties dight,
(Not found, I ween, in ev'ry common mart,)
Gold glitters all around, and shines in ev'ry part.

XXVII

Als on the confines of his drear domaine
A loftie Tower rears it's tremendous height;
From off whose goodlie battlements are seen
Extensive scenes of wonder and delight:
But in a gulph are her foundations pight;
Which, tho' conceal'd with verdure fair, doth gape,
Unseen, both night and day, for living wight:
And ill betide that caitiffe, whose mishappe
Dothe lead him to the pitte, whence he can ne'er escape.

XXVIII

So wills that darke and sable-stoled Mage,
Who in those walles his art dothe exercise;
Ne ought with him availeth sexe or age;
Ne hoary elde, ne tender infant's cries
Can melt his iron heart in any wise:
Als by his power and virtue magicalle,
A wond'rous yoke about their neckes he ties,
Which eft their tender skinnes doth frette and galle,
All silkenne as it seems, with sore and endlesse thralle.

XXIX

So surelie firme he ties this Gordian Knotte,
As ev'n exceeds his own art to untie;
And so ill-suited deals to each their lotte,
Using his wicked arts so wantonlie,
His cruel sport doth cause great miserie:
Each ill-pair'd Couple tugge the magick chaine,
And their reluctant neckes together plie,
And still for freedom praie and strive amaine;
He sits and laughs to scorne their labour, all in vaine.

Miss Trenchard, afterwards married to Jocelyn Pickard Esq.

The Crest of the Trenchard family.

The Author.

His double Boat.

Guiding the Helm.

The Boat's Crew.

The Oar.

A servant of the Author.

He shaved a Clergyman then resident in the family, and dress'd his wigs

A Fisherman.

He had lost an eye.

A Shoemaker.

Had been arrested for debt.

His Shop.

Ready-made Shoes.

A Blacksmith and Farrier.

His Forge.

He assisted in building Glo'ster Gaol.

Bum Bailiff.

He wore a toupee of his own hair, comb'd over his wig.

Alluding to his expert use of the Bow and Arrow.

A Grotto, ornamented with Mundic, Spars, &c.

The Parish Church, situated near his house.

The Church-yard.

AN APOLOGY FOR WRITING VERSE;

ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES YORKE.

(Written in the Year 1745.)

THO' all the censuring World upbraid,
That thus I ply this idle trade,
That, strangely singular, I leave
What they call useful, great, or grave,
To follow Phoebus and the Muses;
Yet you, my Charles, could find excuses,
And back your reasons with example,
To make th' apology more ample:
Or, if the Bard should bring a fit one,
Found or in ancient Greece or Britain,
With pleasure wou'd the Tale attend,
That serves to vindicate your friend.

A Case I'll send you from a book,
A case in point, tho' not in Coke.—
When Philip's warlike preparations
Spread terror round the neighbouring nations,
All prompted by their sev'ral fears,
Provide their bucklers, swords, and spears;
Obedient to the Mason's call,
They roll the stones and raise the wall,
And work as patriot ardour fired 'em;
The very women too bestir'd 'em;
For Corinth's lusty dames we're told
Were mettled combatants of old:
Mean while Diogenes alone
At ease surveys the busy town,
And stalks with philosophic pace,
Contemplating each earnest face;
At length the Cynic grasp'd his club,
And fell in warlike mood to drub
That peaceful domicil his tub;
As if he meant t' avenge the quarrel
Of Greece on th' outside of his barrel;
Or humble Philip's pride by jerking
The sides of sympathetic firkin.
And now the Sage began to roll
His passive vessel like a bowl;

When thus a stander-by, “Pray neighbour,
Why dost thou thy poor tub belabour?
Why thus mispend thy time and wit
But to torment thyself and it?”—
“And art thou at this busy season
At loss to find th' apparent reason?”
The Sage replies: “sure you might chide well,
If I alone should now stand idle;
When all with me embark'd together,
This dark suspicious low'ring weather,
Are striving hard to keep afloat
The common weal, our leaky boat:
While at the pump or oar they tug hard,
Shall I appear the only sluggard?
What tho' my talents not avail
To guide the helm or hand the sail,
Yet shall it ne'er be said, that I
Thro' sloth or indolence lay by.”—
He said, and strait resum'd his task,
And bounc'd and thwack'd the trundling cask.

Thus I, who midst this restless crowd
Capricious nature has allow'd
Such parts and talents, as might serve
To help some wretched wit to starve,
With pleasure see my busy friends,
Earnest alike for various ends;

While these the means of peace prepare;
These arming 'gainst the chance of war;
Alike all anxious for their fate,
And lab'ring to preserve the state.
Yet I, t' amuse the vacant hour,
Careless of honours, wealth, or power,
Civic or military fame;
Nor hoping praise nor fearing shame,
Still ply like him my idle game.

Rabelais, “Prologue to Book 3d.”

TO WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq.

[_]

(IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE TO THE AUTHOR, INSERTED IN HIS LIFE.)

CEASE, Whitehead, to lavish on others the fame
Which you better deserve, and unenvied may claim:
The Muses, your Bankers, all honour your hand,
When you draw for a Rhime you're paid on demand,
All in specie, all gold, current coin of the land.
On my poor shallow Bank the call scarce is begun,
Ere my Muse pays in silver to ward off the run.

What Dæmon possess'd me, when first for my crimes
I sat down to blot paper with dissonant rhimes!
Storms blacken'd and thunder affrighted the night:
The raven and screech owl forbad me to write.

Had I never engag'd in this idle employ,
My heart vacant of care, and o'erflowing with joy,
I had laught at all those, who to business are martyrs,
Like a resident canon or captain in quarters;
Dissolving in indolence, thoughtlessly gay,
I had slept all the night, and done nothing all day;

Contented from drum to assembly to dance,
As invited by card, situation, or chance;
Bow'd, saunter'd, and gap'd, a mere Man of the Town,
And ask'd others their health, and not injur'd my own.
But e'er since the first moment this phrenzy possest
And disturb'd with wild vapours the calm of my breast;
Day and night have I toil'd, like a slave in the mines,
Retouching, transposing, new moulding my lines.
Then, how nauseously sounds the addition of Poet,
What pain to be markt, and how awkward to know it!
Oft he hears, when he 's stuck in the midst of a crowd,
Some whisper his name, some repeat it aloud,
Or stare in his face to examine each feature,
For a poet to them is a strange kind of creature.
Fops, Belles, Beaux-esprits flock round him, and court all
His acquaintance to visit,—his friendship no mortal.
Wits sneer, the fools laugh, friends as usual must blame;
Cardelio condemns, in the midst of his game:
The learn'd shake their heads, the unletter'd abuse,
The dull rogues thank their God they're not plagu'd with a Muse.
—My Ambition is chill'd with this dreadful review,
And I bid all poetic delusions adieu.

The Reader will see, that this is an ironical allusion to that part of Mr. Whitehead's Epistle, where he describes the remarkable facility with which the Author always composed.

TO LORD BATHURST.

IMITATION OF HORACE, Lib. 2. Ode 15.

ALREADY your extensive Down
O'er all the neighb'ring land has grown,
And laid whole Forests waste:
And now we see th' encroaching Lake
Almost as large a compass take:
And all to found a Taste.

Misguided Emulation now
The fertile empire of the plough
To barren shew devotes;
Or vainly strives some marsh to drain,
To counterfeit thy wholesome plain,
Or richest meadow floats.

Now flow'rs dispos'd in various groupes,
Dislodge those honours of your soups,
The tasteful rich Legumes:
And, rais'd in mounts, or sunk in wells,
From artless tufts, or labour'd shells,
Dispense their strong perfumes.

How would your friend Sir Godfrey fret!
And Pope, in plaintive strains, regret
The days of his Queen Anne?
Before you sunk the first Ha-ha;
And ruling all by Forest-Law,
This wasting Taste began.

The Monarch, worthy Britain's crown,
Sought not in private fields renown:
And none by her example,
Did castles for their porter rear,
A Chinese pagode for their deer,
Or for their horse a temple.

The turf her humble subjects made
Their lowly seat, beneath the shade
Of beeches, oaks, or birches:
And to their pious Queen they gave
Whate'er their patriot thrift could save,
For building fifty churches.

Sir Godfrey Kneller.

THE DANGER OF WRITING VERSE;

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A YOUNG POET AND HIS FRIEND.

ADDRESSED TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS, KNT. Occasioned by his satirical Ode upon Mr. Hussey's Marriage with the Duchess of Manchester; which gave so much personal Offence.

Quem tu, Melpomene, semel
Nascentem placido lumine videris,
Illum non labor Isthmius
Clarabit pugilem; non equus impiger
Curru ducet Achaico
Victorem; neque res bellica Deliis
Ornatum foliis ducem,
Quod regum tumidas contuderit minas,
Ostendet Capitolio.
Hor. Od. iii.

FRIEND.
THE Man at whose birth Melpomene smil'd,
Who fancies forsooth he 's Apollo's own child,
In the country indulges an indolent ease,
And will make neither Sportsman nor Justice of Peace.

POET.
Will our Poet succeed any better in town?
Is he likely to rise by the Sword or the Gown?

FRIEND.
Lackaday sir, the Muse has so addled his pate,
That he finds himself fit for no post in the state.

POET.
But Horace, your friend, though his sons you abuse,
Shews the dignity, value, and charms of the Muse:

FRIEND.
'Tis true, sir, but there he has chose to conceal,
What I, for the sake of young Bards, shall reveal:
Then know, this profession but tends to expose
To the fear of your friends, the revenge of your foes.
Will the man, by your Verses once injur'd, forgive,
Tho' the cause of his pain shou'd no longer survive?
All your friends tho' unhurt, you observe, are perplext
With a jealous concern, lest their turn should be next.

POET.
But, good sir, what need that the Bard must abuse?
Let him sport with an innocent Pastoral Muse:

FRIEND.
I grant, and the World will allow there 's no need;
You may chuse what you'll write, but they 'll chuse what they read;

And, dear ignorant Friend, to make short of the matter,
There's nothing will please 'em but personal satire:
Nor fancy the world will e'er call for your rhimes,
Unless they believe 'em a touch on the times;
Of this truth artful Pope may an instance afford,
Who nam'd his late Work from the Year of our Lord.
This Horace confest: for that Poet divine,
Who at first wrote his Odes to his mistress and wine,
Soon with Character fill'd the satyrical page,
And adapted his Muse to the taste of the age.
But satire 's a thing, that 'tis dang'rous to deal in,
For tho' many want taste, yet there 's none but has feeling.
This duly consider'd, the Poet disclaim,
Nor let Horace inveigle your fancy with fame;
For the reason why he can unenvied divert us,
Is because we are sure he 's unable to hurt us;
His Characters touch not the Moderns; and no man
Sees himself or his nation expos'd in a Roman:
Yet were he alive, I should think it, tho' loth,
My duty to give this advice to you both.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN LORD DUCIE AND HIS HORSE.

(Written in the Year 1748.)

DUCIE.
O the dull lazy dog, how untimely he fails,
When in view we 've the Prince and the Princess of Wales!
Is this a fit time, you ungrateful, to flinch?

HORSE.
You may whip me and spur me; I'll not stir an inch.
I wish I 'd been Cambridge's, then I had seen
Hay and oats for my dinner and tasted a bean,
Which your Pythagorick decrees have forbid;
And that makes me so faint, I 'ant fit to be rid.

DUCIE.
I 'll convince you how foolish the outcry which you make;
What signify Oats if you 're rid of your stomach?
Without scruple, I grant, when extravagant Vesie
Gave his horse Hay and Oats, you were justly uneasy.
But with Cambridge's horses 'tis quite a new case;
They are trying to make you displeas'd with your place;
'Tis the way of all servants; but pray, do they say
How many long miles they are rid in a day?
How oft the poor devils are gallopt to Villiers?
I'll warrant they often have envied my Thillers .
Did you e'er know me out when pronouncing the doom
Prophetic of Cambridge's annual groom?
Now if he kills a groom once a twelvemonth, or more,
Of horses at least he must kill half a score.
He cares little for 'em, and feels no more pain,
If in harvest it pours down whole buckets of rain;
While I and my servants are toiling all day,
In the heat of the sun to roast you your hay.
With his good friend the World on the water he goes,
And calls off his hands to his barges and shows.
But you want to change for his place, you 're so cunning;
Did he ever build you a stable to run in?

Have you seen in his fields such a house as your own,
With one pillar of brick and another of stone?
No, no, sir, he builds you your buildings of taste:
And so all his fortune is running to waste.
Am I ever profuse in wigs, waistcoats, or coats,
In castles or porticos, bridges or boats?

HORSE.
What's all this to me, if I never eat Oats?

Lord Ducie's Steward.

The horse that goes between the shafts.

THE AUTHOR TO THE SCRIBLERIAD.

[_]

IM. HOR. EPIS. 20.

WELL then, for all that I have said,
You keep your eyes on Tully's head.
Has pride with such impatience fill'd you,
You pine till Dodsley clothe and gild you;
As foppish minors court their taylor,
And hate their guardian as their gaoler.
'Tis so, you an't content, you say
With Barnard, Whitehead, Yorke, and Wray.

No more you 'll visit squeamish Wits,
So often in their absent fits:
No more be read alone to Browne;
But go at once upon the Town.
Go then, you 'll never think me wise,
Till Wits begin to criticise,
And doom you to the trunks or pies.
Or, if it happens for a while,
Your novelty should make 'em smile,
Soon will you think of my advice,
When the cloy'd reader grows so nice:
For something new he throws you by,
Where you o'erwhelm'd forgot must lye;
Where daily pamphlets shall confound you,
And Night Thoughts ever growing round you.

But while their favour you maintain,
(For 'tis as short liv'd as 'tis vain)

Thus much of me you may declare,
That tho' I live in Country air,
And with a snug retirement blest,
Yet oft, impatient of my nest,
I spread my broad and ample wing,
And in the midst of action spring.
A great admirer of great men,
And much by them admir'd again.
My body light, my figure slim,
My mind dispos'd to mirth and whim:
Then on my Family hold forth,
Less fam'd for Quality than Worth.
But let not all these points divert you
From speaking largely of my Virtue.
Should anyone desire to hear a
Precise description of your Æra,

Tell 'em that you was on the anvil,
When Bath came into pow'r with Granville.
When they came in you were about,
And not quite done when they went out .

Their Administration lasted only three days.