The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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The beginning of the first Satire of Persius imitated.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
The beginning of the first Satire of Persius imitated.
Poet.Oh the prepostrous Cares of Human Kind!
Which in each Action and each Wish we find!
Friend.
Prithee that Cant give o'er, or who will read?
You preach as solemnly, as 'twere your Trade.
58
Speak you to me?
F.
To thee say'st? yes egad—
Why surely, Jack, thou'rt absolutely mad,
For none will on such formal Verses look,
But damn the Author, and despise the Book.
P.
None, say you, Sir?
F.
Or one or two at most;
And is't not hard to've all your Labours lost?
To have your Works on Bulks all dusty lie,
And all your Thoughts for want of Readers die?
Your precious Lines serv'd up to Nocks, or Pye?
P.
Mistake not, Friend, I chase not empty Fame,
Nor write to please the Town, or get a Name.
Let the Vain Herd of noisy Wits and Beaux,
To whom they please, their worthless Praise dispose,
It ne'er one Moment shall break my Repose.
Or what care I, if th'undiscerning Town
Prefer dull A--- to me, or perter Br---n;
Let his tagg'd Nonsense, t'others Wilds of Wit,
With Cits and Boys still fond Applauses get:
But you, my Friend, steer a securer Course,
And by the common Judgment ne'er form yours,
Most Men, by publick Vogue, condemn or praise,
And never weigh the Merits of the Cause:
Let not that Balance you to either side,
By Wisdom's Noble Rule, your Sentence guide.
Oh! that I could, spight of my beardless Youth,
With a prevailing Force, now urge the Truth!
F.
Stay but a while, till Reverend Age comes on,
(Thy fleeting Years of Youth will soon be gone)
Then will Grey Hairs on all thou say'st print Awe,
A dictatorial Youth does Envy draw,
Authority with all thy Precepts go,
Tho' from his Pen the noblest Truths do flow.
P.
Oh! that's too long, I must before that Time,
Lash the vile Town with my Satiric Rhime.
F.
That must not be—pray take a Friend's Advice.
P.
Prithee no more, indeed thou'rt o'er-nice.
I can no longer hold, nor silent see
Such numerous Pamphlets on each Quarter fly,
Some in Prose, and some in mightier Verse,
Which each will daily to his Friends Rehearse.
Here a Pert Sot, with six Months Pain brings forth,
A strange, mishapen, and ridiculous Birth:
A Glimps of Human Stamp it has, the rest
Is Serpent, Fish, and Bird, but larger Beast:
In that odd Monster Horace once design'd,
We may some Method and some Meaning find,
Tho' differing Parts, yet distinct Parts it had,
Tail of Fish, Horses Neck, a Human Head.
Nor Head, nor Tail, nor any Part, is here,
Through the whole Lump, no certain Forms appear,
'Tis Chaos all—Mark how the jarring Seed
Of ill agreeing Things, perpetual Discord breed
Together huddled, now this, now that prevails,
HOT Summer now, and now COLD Winters Tales!
More pondrous GUESS, with lighter BANTER meets,
With clashing Fury each the other greets;
MOIST spreading Scandal, with DRY Dulness fights,
But oh! 't requires this Mortal Strife to end,
A stronger Judgment, a diviner Mind
Than his; for whatsoe'er the World may think,
Pudding's his Food, and drowsy Mum his Drink:
For read his Trifles, and scarce in one Line,
You'll find him guilty of the least Design.
By the thick Fogs, which from his Diet rise,
His Sense is smother'd, and his Judgment dies.
Well has he then the Seven Sleepers grac'd,
By Yearly Sacrifice, and Annual Feast,
For sure his Studies are but Sleep at best;
And all the Town must needs be in a Dream,
When such wild Ramblings got him some poor Fame.
I can no longer hold, nor silent see
Such numerous Pamphlets on each Quarter fly,
Some in Prose, and some in mightier Verse,
Which each will daily to his Friends Rehearse.
59
A strange, mishapen, and ridiculous Birth:
A Glimps of Human Stamp it has, the rest
Is Serpent, Fish, and Bird, but larger Beast:
In that odd Monster Horace once design'd,
We may some Method and some Meaning find,
Tho' differing Parts, yet distinct Parts it had,
Tail of Fish, Horses Neck, a Human Head.
Nor Head, nor Tail, nor any Part, is here,
Through the whole Lump, no certain Forms appear,
'Tis Chaos all—Mark how the jarring Seed
Of ill agreeing Things, perpetual Discord breed
Together huddled, now this, now that prevails,
HOT Summer now, and now COLD Winters Tales!
More pondrous GUESS, with lighter BANTER meets,
With clashing Fury each the other greets;
MOIST spreading Scandal, with DRY Dulness fights,
But oh! 't requires this Mortal Strife to end,
A stronger Judgment, a diviner Mind
Than his; for whatsoe'er the World may think,
Pudding's his Food, and drowsy Mum his Drink:
For read his Trifles, and scarce in one Line,
You'll find him guilty of the least Design.
By the thick Fogs, which from his Diet rise,
His Sense is smother'd, and his Judgment dies.
Well has he then the Seven Sleepers grac'd,
By Yearly Sacrifice, and Annual Feast,
For sure his Studies are but Sleep at best;
And all the Town must needs be in a Dream,
When such wild Ramblings got him some poor Fame.
But quitting now this poor Prose Pamphleteer,
To mightier Verse I must my Vessel steer.
But here the chiming Fops so numerous grow,
And in such various Follies dress'd they go,
'T would be an endless Task to lash 'em all,
And now I find my Muse grows something dull.
To mightier Verse I must my Vessel steer.
But here the chiming Fops so numerous grow,
And in such various Follies dress'd they go,
'T would be an endless Task to lash 'em all,
And now I find my Muse grows something dull.
F.
Enough for one Time, sure is one such Fool.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |