Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose

By Mr. Miller: Volume the first

Miller, James (1706-1744)

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF Mrs. ELIZABETH FRANKLAND.

AN EPISTLE TO Godfrey Clarke, Esq; and Miss Pole, upon their Nuptials.

The LIFE of a BEAU. A Song.

The Life of a Fool. A Song.

The World's a Song. A Song.

The Loss of Faronello. A Song.

Written at the Age of Sixteen in the Ivory Leaf of a Tweezer-Case, presented by the Author to his Sister.

To a Young Lady, desiring a Copy of Verses from the Author.

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Shakespear, Rowe, Johnson, now are quite undone
These are thy Tryumphs, thy Exploits O Lun!

HARLEQUIN-HORACE:

OR, THE ART OF MODERN POETRY.

Tempora mutantur nos & mutamur in illis.

Shou'd some great Artist, in whose Works conspire
Raphael's high Grace, and Titian's Native Fire,
Blend in the Portrait of one fav'rite Fair,
Shaftsb'ry's grand Mien, and Harvey's pleasing Air;
A Shape that might with lovely Queensb'ry's vie,
Hertford's bright Soul effulgent in the Eye;
Thy Symmetry, sweet Richmond! if e'er Art
Cou'd such sweet Symmetry as thine impart;
A Vanbrugh's Smile illumining the Face,
And, Royal Orange! thy Majestick Grace,
Till the whole Piece should a fam'd Venus shine,
One finish'd Form, in ev'ry Part divine:
Tho' thus with each ador'd Perfection fraught,
Our modern Men of Taste would scorn the Draught.

Such Treatment, Pope, you must expect to find,
Whilst Wit and Judgment in your Works are join'd;
'Tis not to Think with Strength, and Write with Ease,
No—'tis the Ægri Somnia now must please;
Things without Head, or Tail, or Form, or Grace,
A wild, forc'd, glaring, unconnected Mass.
Well! Bards, you'll say, like Painters, Licence claim,
To dare do any thing for Bread, or—Fame.
'Tis true—Why then, in Sense and Nature's Spite,
Still please the booby Crowd in all you write;
A Thousand jarring Things together yoke,
The Dog, the Dome, the Temple, and the Joke,
Consult no Order, nor pursue no End,
But Rant and Farce, the Sock and Buskin blend;
Now make us dance, then doze, now weep, then smile,
It suits the various Temper of our Isle.
What tho' the few of Sense may cry it down?
'Twill charm that Universal Fool, the Town.

To grand Beginnings full of Pomp and Show,
Big Things profest, and Brags of what you'll do,
Still some gay, glitt'ring, foreign Gewgaws join,
Which, like gilt Points on Peter's Coat, may shine;
Descriptions which may make your Readers stare,
And marvel how such pretty Things came There.
Whilst old Dinarchus tosses on his Bed,
Taught by dire Visions that his Daughter bled,
A Friend comes in, and with Reflexion deep,
Descants upon the Sweetness of his Sleep;
When up the Sire starts trembling from his Dream
And straight presents you with a purling Stream,
Describes the Riv'let roving 'midst the Trees,
The dancing Sun-beams, and refreshing Breeze.

Thus ne'er regard Connexion, Time, or Place,
For dear Variety has every Grace.

Suppose you're skill'd in the Parnassian Art,
To purge the Passions, and correct the Heart,
To paint Mankind in ev'ry Light, and Stage,
Their various Humours, Characters, and Age;

To fix each Portion in its proper Place,
And give the Whole one Method, Form, and Grace;
What's that to us who pay our Pence to see
The sweet Productions of Profundity?
Shipwrecks, and Monsters, Conjurors, and Gods,
Where every Part is with the Whole at odds.

We still are bubbl'd when we aim at right,
Surprizing Novelties alone delight.
Now write obscure, and let your Words move slow,
Then with full Light, and rapid Ardor glow:
In one Scene make your Hero cant, and whine,
Then roar out Liberty in every Line;
Vary one Thing a thousand pleasant Ways,
Shew Whales in Woods, and Dragons in the Seas.

To shun a Fault's the ready Way to fall,
Correctness is the greatest Crime of all.

What tho' in Pope's harmonious Lays combine
All that is lovely, noble, and divine;
Tho' every Strain with Wit, and Nature glows,
And from from each Line a sweet Instruction flows;
Tho' thro' the whole the Loves, and Graces smile,
Polish the Manners, and adorn the Style?
Whilst Virtue's Friend, He turns the tuneful Art
From Sounds to Things, from Fancy to the Heart;
Yet, slavishly to Truth and Sense ty'd down,
He impotently toils to please the Town.
Heav'n grant I never write like him I mention,
Since to the Bays I could not make Pretension,
Nor, Thresher-like, hope to obtain a Pension.

Ne'er wait for Subjects equal to your Might,
For then, 'tis ten to one you never write;
When Hunger prompts you, strike the first you meet,
For who'd stand choosing when he wants to eat?

Take then no Pains a Method to maintain,
Or link your Work in a continu'd Chain,
But cold dull Order gloriously disdain.
Clap down whate'er comes first, nor mind one Jot
Whether 'tis proper in that Place or not.
Who'd lose a Thought because not just in Time?
Or for the Sake of Reason spoil a Rhime?

In coining Words your own Discretion use;
For coin you must to suit the modern Muse.
New Terms adapted to the Purpose bring,
When Eagles are to talk, or Asses sing;
No matter that from Greece, or Rome they come,
An English Poet scorns to go from Home.
Why should to present Tibbald be deny'd,
What antient Settle would have own'd with Pride?

Or why should any blame, or envy me,
For writing a New Art of Poetry;
Since modern Bards afford such precious Store
Of Rules and Beauties never known before?

For as the stately Oaks which late were seen
Proudly compacted, eminently green,
Robb'd of their leafy Honours, straggling bow
Their hoary Heads beneath the falling Snow;
So Nature, Wit, and Sense must blasted fall,
Whilst blooming Ignorance prevails o'er all.
No Work's so great, but what admits Decay;
No Act so glorious, but must fade away.
Blenheim's vast Pile shall moulder into Dust,
And Marlbrô's Statues be consum'd by Rust;
Old things must yield to New, Common to Strange,
Perpetual Motion brings perpetual Change.
Lo! Shakespear's Head is crush'd by Rich's Heels,
And a throng'd Theatre in Godman's Fields;

Lo! Smithfield-Shows a polish'd Court engage,
And Hurlothrumbo charms the knowing Age.
Since Manners alter thus, the modish Muse
Themes suited to the reigning Taste should choose:
What Bard for starving Sense would suffer Death,
When fruitful Folly is th' Establish'd Faith?

The way to write of Heroes, and of Kings,
And sing, in wond'rous Numbers, wond'rous Things;
Of mighty Matters done in bloody Battle,
How Arms meet Arms, Swords clash, and Cannons rattle,
How such strange Toils and Turmoils to rehearse,
Is learnt from Blackmore's everlasting Verse.

To sing of Shepherds, and of Shepherdesses,
Their aukward Humours, Dialogues, and Dresses:
The manner how they Plow, and Sow, and Reap,
How silly they, more silly than their Sheep,

In Mantles blue, can trip it o'er the Green,
In Namby Pamby's Past'rals may be seen.

Tibbald in Mail compleat of Dullness clad,
Half Bard, half Puppet-man, half Fool, half Mad,
Rose next to charm the Ear, and please the Eye,
With ev'ry Monster bred beneath the Sky;
His great Command Earth's Salvages obey,
And ev'ry dreadful Native of the Sea;
Amaz'd we view, by his strange Pow'r convey'd,
Pluto's dark Throne, and Hell's tremendous Shade;
Then change the Scene, and lo! Heaven's bright Abodes,
We dance with Goddesses, and sing with Gods;
Encore, Encore, rings thro' the raptur'd Round,
Encore, Encore, the ecchoing Roofs resound.

On Lyrick Welsted, next, the Muse bestow'd
Fondness to aim at the advent'rous Ode:
Not like those Bards of old who dar'd to rise,
And lift their Heads triumphant to the Skies;
Who, scaling Heav'n in their ambitious Flight,
In Gods and Heroes plac'd their vain Delight;
But Welsted's gentle Stanza makes you doze,
A frozen Sluice, that neither ebbs nor flows;

Still saunt'ring on in the same tick-tack Rhime,
No Pendulum can keep exacter Time:
'Till by the Weight-inspiring God oppress'd,
His Visage bloated, and inflate his Breast,
He raves, stares, sputters, foams, turns giddy round,
Then tumbles headlong down the vast Profound.

But which of these the Laureat's Wreath shall wear
From their like Merit cannot yet appear.

Unless you're skill'd in these new Ways to Fame,
You'll ne'er acquire the Poet's sacred Name.
Your Readers Tastes you must with Care discern,
And never be too ignorant to learn.
Let Jocund Tales be cloath'd in sad Blank Verse,
And Fables dire shine forth in hum'rous Farce.
Assign no Place to a peculiar Part,
Nor brook the Bondage of laborious Art;

But vary oft your Method, and your Style;
Let one Scene make us weep, the other smile;
Quite Tragick, yet quite Comick all the while!

'Tis not enough that Show and Sing-song meet,
The Ladies look for something soft, and sweet:
That ev'ry tender Sentiment may move,
And fix their Fancies on the Joys they love:
In Perseus this was to Perfection done,
The Dance was very moving they must own.

But if you will be foolishly severe,
And in dull Morals madly persevere;
If drowsy Decency you needs must keep,
No wonder if your Audience fall asleep.
Your Words should ne'er be suited to your Theme,
The Sound a Contrast to the Sense should seem.
A merry Grin sets off a dismal Tale,
Weep when you jest, and giggle while you rail.

For wanton Nature forms the human Mind,
Still fond of Wonders, and to Change inclin'd;
Plain Sense we fly, strange Nonsense to pursue,
And leave old Follies, but to grasp at New;
One Hour we court, what we the next refuse,
And loath To-morrow, what To-day we choose:
Now we are grave, then gay; now wing'd with Joy,
Then sunk in Grief—and all we know not why.
The Things we hunt, are Pleasure, Wealth, and Fame,
But a wrong Scent still cheats us of the Game;
For different Objects, different Aims excite,
And still we think the last Opinion right:
To Craft, Deceit, and Selfishness inclin'd,
We never let the Face betray the Mind;
But then look fairest, when we mean most Ill,
And, flatt'ring Syrens like, inchant—to kill:
By Interest sway'd, each Word is full of Art,
And the taught Tongue runs counter to the Heart.

From all Restraint your Characters set free,
Nor, with their Fortune, make their Talk agree.
We hate a Piece where Truth and Nature meet,
Scorn what is real, but enjoy Deceit;

And always give the most Applause to those,
Who on our very Senses most impose.

Take then no Pains Resemblance to pursue,
Give us but something very strange, and new,
'Twill entertain the more—that 'tis not true.
If mighty Marlbrô's Character you'd wield
Describe Him rash, yet trembling in the Field;
One by no Laws, Divine or Human, aw'd;
False to his Queen, his Country, and his God;
Ungraceful giving, in refusing Sour,
An Wolsey in, a Cat'line out of Power;
The Church's Downfall, and the State's Disease,
A Turk, a Jew, a Fiend, a—what you please.
Call Dorset vain, firm Carteret a Tool,
Chandois a Churl, and Wilmington a Fool;
Make Chesterfield nor witty, nor polite,
Argile unable or to speak, or fight;
Cobham the Just from Virtue's Paths elope,
And Montagu a downright Misantrope;
Talbot, the Boast and Blessing of his Age!
On friendless Merit's Side must ne'er engage;
No proud Oppressor dread his awful Name,
Nor injur'd Right his just Decrees proclaim;
No Orphan Voice should grateful Pæans raise,
Nor Widow'd Hands be lifted in his Praise;

But Partial, Proud, Ambitious, be describ'd,
By Passion govern'd, and by Interest brib'd.

Or if some untry'd Story you would choose,
On some new Character employ your Muse;
Toil not to draw it, 'tis a fruitless Aim,
True to itself, and thro' the whole the same;
Enough that we can know it by the Name.

'Tis difficult a well-known Tale to tell,
It won't admit Variety so well;
But if you bring a Scotch or Irish Story,
You'll never fail to please both Whig and Tory:
Then dauntless make another's Plan your own,
Nay steal each Word, nor fear its being known;
For if the Owner should your Theft explore,
E'en cry Thief first, like honest Jemmy More.

Let lofty Language your Beginning grace,
And still set out with a gigantick Pace;

In thund'ring Lines your no Design rehearse:
And rant, and rumble in a Storm of Verse.
It ne'er can fail to charm a crowded House,
To see the lab'ring Mountain yield a Mouse.
We're pleas'd to find the great, th' important Day,
Produce a Jig, a Wedding, or a Fray;
As if the old World modestly withdrew,
And here in private had brought forth a New;
Profoundly judging with the antient Sire,
That where there is much Smoke, must be some Fire.

'Tis therefore your's to keep the Mind in Doubt,
And let no Ray of Meaning once peep out;
To shun the least Approach of Light with Care,
And turn, and double, like a hunted Hare.
So lye, confound, disjoint, lop, eke, and patch,
That neither Head, nor Tail, nor Middle, match.

If anxious to delight the list'ning Throng,
Their strict Attention, and loud Claps prolong;
If ev'ry Rank and Sect you would engage,
Reverse your Manners to each Sex and Age.

To write in Character is not requir'd;
The more unnat'ral, 'tis the more admir'd.

A Boy that just can go alone, and prattle,
Should fly his Play-fellows, and scorn his Rattle,
Converse with Patriots and Politicians,
And talk of Dunkirk, Hanover, and Hessians.

The beardless Youth as wanton as a Squirrel,
Just free'd from Discipline of Rod and Ferrel,
Should sagely cast his jovial Sports away,
Renounce his Wenching, Drinking, Dogs, and Play,
Copy the stingy Duke so young and thrifty,
And look, and talk, a very Don of Fifty.

One of that Age at which 'tis made a Rule,
That each Man's a Physician, or a Fool;
Wild as a new-fledg'd Stripling should appear,
Void of Ambition, innocent of Fear;
Nor Fame, nor Friendship, nor Preferment mind,
So Jowler prove but staunch, and Phillis kind.

Old Age in Waste and Riot should delight,
Launch thoughtless out, and Drink, Wench, Game, and Fight;

For 'tis, you know, an uncontested Truth,
That Age is nothing but a second Youth.

Thus simple Nature you must still reject,
For those Things please us most we least expect,
To see Sixteen, like old Sir Gilbert, scrape,
And Sixty cast, like Chartres, for a Rape.

Next shun with Care the Rule prescrib'd of old,
That Things too strange should not be shewn, but told.
The Feats of Faustus, and the Pranks of Jove
Chang'd to a Bull, to carry off his Love;
The swimming Monster, and the flying Steed,
Medusa's Cavern, and her Serpent-breed,
Domes voluntar'ly rising from the Ground,
And lovely Lun transform'd into a Hound,

Done on the Stage, with Show of Truth deceive,
Which, if related, we should ne'er believe;
Glorious Free-thinking reigns to that degree,
We credit nothing now, but what we see.

The Number of your Acts we never mind,
For modern Poets scorn to be confin'd:
Two sometimes suits the Genius, sometimes Three,
When the Purse prompts the nimble One for me.

To serve each Purpose, be it ne'er so odd,
Be sure to introduce a Ghost or—God;
Make Monsters, Fiends, Heav'n, Hell, at once engage,
For all are pleas'd to see a well-fill'd Stage.

The ancient Chorus justly's laid aside,
And all its Office by a Song supply'd:
A Song—when to the Purpose something's lack'd,
Relieves us in the middle of an Act;
A Song inspires our Breasts with am'rous Fury,
And turns our Fancies on the Nymphs of Drury:
Can quell our Rage, and pacify our Cares,
Revive old Hopes, and banish present Fears;

Lighten, like Wine, the bitter Load of Life,
And make each Wretch forget his Debts and Wife.

In Days of Old, when Englishmen were—Men,
Their Musick, like themselves, was grave and plain;
The manly Trumpet, and the simple Reed,
Alike with Citizen, and Swain agreed;
Whose Songs, in lofty Sense, but humble Verse,
Their Loves, and Wars alternately rehearse;
Sung by themselves, their homely Cheer to crown,
In Tunes from Sire to Son deliver'd down.

But now, since Britains are become polite,
Since Few can read, and Fewer still can write;
Since Trav'ling has so much improv'd our Beaux,
That each brings home a foreign Tongue, or—Nose;
And Ladies paint with that amazing Grace,
That their best Vizard is their natural Face;
Since South-Sea Schemes have so inrich'd the Land,
That Footmen 'gainst their Lords for Boroughs stand;
Since Masquerades and Op'ras made their Entry,
And Heydegger reign'd Guardian of our Gentry;
A hundred various Instruments combine,
And foreign Songsters in the Concert join:

The Gallick Horn, whose winding Tube in vain
Pretends to emulate the Trumpet's Strain;
The shrill-ton'd Fiddle, and the warbling Flute,
The grave Bassoon, deep Base, and tinkling Lute,
The jingling Spinnet, and the full-mouth'd Drum,
A Roman Capon, and Venetian Strum,
All league, melodious Nonsense to dispense,
And give us Sound, and Show, instead of Sense;
In unknown Tongues mysterious Dullness chant,
Make Love in Tune, or thro' the Gamut rant.

Long labour'd Rich, by Tragick Verse to gain
The Town's Applause—but labour'd long in vain;
At length he wisely to his Aid call'd in,
The active Mime and checquer'd Harlequin.
Nor rul'd by Reason, nor by Law restrain'd,
In all his Farces Smut and Scandal reign'd;

Peers, Prelates, Commons, all alike they roast,
From Knight of Garter, down to Knight of Post;
Paid no Regard to any Rank or Station,
Yea, mock'd the solemn Rites of Coronation.
Lords, Knights, and Ladies, who but late were seen
With Regal Pomp, and Eminence of Mien;
Plumes on their Heads that dar'd the very Sky,
Ribbands and Stars that dazzl'd every Eye;
Trains that with Gold and Purple swept the Ground,
And Musick like the Sphere's celestial Sound;
Here strip'd of all, in homely Guise appear,
Knights Hempen-strings, and Ladies Pattens wear;
The good Lord-Mayor, as erst, devouring Custard,
And Musick, as when City-Bands are muster'd.
Ay, this will do! the throng'd Spectator cries;
Ay, this will do! enlighten'd Rich replies;
Shakespear, Rowe, Johnson, now are quite undone—
These are thy Triumphs, thy Exploits, O Lun!

Whoe'er would Comedy or Satire write,
Must never spare Obscenity and Spite:
A Quantum sufficit of Smut, will raise
Crowds of Applauders to the dullest Plays;

Whilst gross Scurrility, and pure Ill-nature,
Are found the best Ingredients for a Satire.
But he that would in Buskins tread the Stage,
With Rant, and Fustian, must divert the Age,
And, Boschi like, be always in a Rage.
In Blood and Wounds the Galleries most delight,
Who think all Virtue is to storm and fight;
Whilst Plumes, gilt Truncheons, bloody Ghosts, and Thunder,
Engage the Boxes to behold and—wonder.
Confound all Characters, no Difference make
If matchless Polwarth, or Sir Billy speak;
Perplexing all things thus, each Judge will own,
Such Wonders could be done by you alone:
So much o'er Truth the Marvellous prevails,
And adds such Honours to the meanest Tales.

Let Country Clodpoles just come up to Town,
Well-bred, Polite, and Elegant, be shewn;

Talk loosely and profanely, with a Port
As if they had been born and bred at Court:
To see all Nature with such Art inverted,
Tom, and my Lord, will be alike diverted;
Let Criticks snarl, they never can redress,
For worthy Leave is giv'n you to transgress.

But hold, wise Sir, for that your leave we crave,
What shan't we shew the little Wit we have?
Shall we, you cry, learn writing ill by Rule,
And have we need to study to be Dull?
Yes—when the greatest Merit's want of Sense,
The least faint Glimpse of Reason gives Offence:
Besides, who'd read the Antients Night and Day,
And toil to follow where they lead the Way?
Who'd write, and cancel with alternate Pain,
First sweat to build, then to pull down again?
To turn the weigh'd Materials o'er and o'er,
And ev'ry Line, in ev'ry Light explore;
From Sense and Nature never to depart,
And labour artfully, to cover Art:

Who'd seek to run such rugged Roads as these?
When smooth Stupidity's the Way to please;
When Harlequin and Pierrot's Feats delight,
Beyond what Dryden did, or Pope can write.

Our antient Tragedy was void of Art,
Shewn by some merry Briton in a Cart;
Whose naked Tribe of Saxons, Scots, and Picts,
Sung Songs like Cary, and like Lun play'd Tricks.

Then Shakespear rose, in a politer Age,
And plac'd his well-dress'd Actors on a Stage;
Taught them to move with Grace, and speak with Art,
To charm the Passions, and engage the Heart;

Next witty Comedy, in pointed Prose,
Lash'd, with Applause, each Folly as it rose.
'Till, taking too much Freedom with the Great,
Medling, O fye! with Ministers of State,
In Anno Seventeen Hundred Thirty Six
A Law was made to quell such naughty Tricks;
Since when my good Lord Chamberlain—right Thing!
Reads each new Play, to strip it of its Sting;
Tho' long the sturdy Beggars of the Pit
Loudly oppos'd this new Excise on Wit.

Our English Bards have left untry'd no Ways,
No Stone unturn'd in the Pursuit of Praise;
But bravely launching from the Antient's Road,
In Paths peculiar to themselves have trod;
Till Britain, now, like famous is become,
For Arms Abroad, and Poetry at Home.

Some Fools, indeed, amongst us yet remain,
Who think to mend their Works by Time and Pain;
Much Care and Reading their Productions cost—
Much Care and Reading, now, is so much lost:
What need to touch, re-touch, to prune, or add,
To raise the Good, or to reject the Bad;
When one wild straggling Thought, one lucky Hit
Will serve instead of Judgment, Sense, and Wit?
Besides, in striving to patch one Fault o'er,
Like Tinkers, you'd but make a hundred more.

Most Readers love romantick Flights alone,
And scorn a Piece where Art and Judgment's shewn;
Nor think that any Man can be a Poet,
Unless his frantick Looks and Actions shew it.

If, then, you'd gain a Bard's Reward and Name,
And with the Mob immortalize your Fame;
Be sure that like mere Men you ne'er be seen,
Good-natur'd, chearful, mannerly, or clean;
But slovenly, and thoughtful, walk the Street,
Talk to yourself, and know no Friend you meet.
As for myself, I'm far from being nice,
And practice often what I here advise;
At Shop, or Stall of Stationer appear,
With tatter'd Habit, and abstracted Air;
Now fiercely gazing, now in Thought profound,
My Eyes or at the Stars, or on the Ground.
Not that I dare to Poetry pretend,
My utmost Aim's to be the Poet's Friend,
To whet them on to write, and, like the Hone,
Give others Edge, tho' I myself have none;
To point them out the most successful Ways,
To purchase Pudding, and to purchase Praise.

Hear then, ye Bards, with close Attention hear,
Ye that are bless'd with a remaining Ear;
Learn hence what Paths to quit, or to pursue,
To gain the False, and to avoid the True;

Learn hence new Depths to sink, new Heights to soar,
And write as Poets never wrote before.

A thorough Knowledge of the Court, and Town,
Is the grand Nostrum to acquire Renown;
Let Novels, Satires, and Lampoons be read,
And with the Weekly Journals fill your Head.
A Bard well-skill'd in the Affairs of State,
And all th' Intrigues, and Knav'ries of the Great;
Who knows the solemn Promises they make,
They do—for no one Purpose but to break;
Their Talk of publick Good, and future Fame,
Means present Profit all, and private Aim;
That all the filial Piety they have,
They long to bury in their Father's Grave;
And all the Brothetly Regards they bear,
Consist in Hopes of soon commencing Heir.
Who knows what Members for their Voices paid,
And what, by Pique and Patriotism led,
Sell their dear Country for Revenge or—Bread.

What Judge, who, while he hangs the needy Knave,
For a plum Hundred will the rich One save;
And what fierce Captain, when commanded out,
Resigns his Post, or counterfeits the Gout:
A Bard, I say, with such Acquirements stor'd.
Can draw a Jilt, a Sharper, or a Lord;
And privare Scandals better entertain,
Than all the Sweat and Labour of the Brain.

The Greeks, dull Souls! so greedy were of Fame,
They starv'd the Body to preserve the Name:
They scorn'd, forsooth, to suit the vulgar Taste,
Their Labours to Posterity must last,
And, for the present, they must—what? why fast.
Thank Heav'n! we're bless'd with more substantial Sense,
And take most Pleasure when we count the Pence:
Let wicked Heathens be so proud and vain,
A Christian Poet's humble End is—Gain.
Eat much, drink more, think none, but write away,
Thus you'll unite the Pleasure and the Pay.
Of Bulk alone your Printer is a Judge,
Nor a large Price, for many Sheets, can grudge;

Your Readers too you better can impose on,
Whilst the long, tedious, puz'ling Tome they doze on.

In all you feign, for sake of Pleasantry,
Fly far from heavy Probability;
And shew Tom Thumb, the more Surprize to give,
From the Cow's Maw, thrown up again alive.

To please, alone, employ your Thoughts and Care,
Nor Age, nor Youth, will Admonition bear;
Your preaching moral Dunce we always slight,
And read not for Instruction, but Delight.

Then, then, my Friends, your ev'ry Point you gain,
When no one Precept in your Works remain,
But Ribaldry, and Scandal lawless reign.
Thus shall you reap the Profit you pursue,
And Curl get Money by the Copy too;
Thus shall all Drury in your Praise combine,
And distant Goodman's-Fields their Pæans join;
So far Barbadoes shall resound your Fame,
And ev'n transported Felons chant your Name.

Yet, if by chance, you here and there impart,
Some Sparks of Wit, or Glimmerings of Art;
If by Mistake you blunder upon Sense,
Good-Nature will forgive the first Offence;
No String will always give the Sound requir'd,
Nor Shaft fly faithful to the Point desir'd.
If in the main the Splendid Piece is fraught
With pompous Show, and Shallowness of Thought;
If hum'rous Point, smooth Verse, and forc'd Conceit,
With soothing Sound, and solid Nonsense meet:
We shall not be offended with one Fault,
Thro' Want of Negligence, or Waste of Thought:
But think not that an Audience will excuse
The Drudge that purposely dull Sense pursues;
That Young, or Thompson like, will never write,
Unless, at once, to profit and delight.

The best may err, 'tis true, and seem to creep,
Long Labours sink the brightest Souls in Sleep;
I'm griev'd to find ev'n Cheshire Johnson nod,
And sometimes shew the Absence of the God.

Painting and Poetry should still agree,
Some Pictures best far off, some near, we see:
So when the Feats of Faustus are presented,
If plac'd too nigh, my Pleasure is prevented;
I see the Strings by which the Tricks are done,
And no more make a Conjuror of Lun.
If Ghosts appear, make dark the solemn Scene;
But in full Light let Goddesses be seen:
Poor Cibber's Opera scarce would bear one View;
But Gay's, repeated Sixty-times, was new.

O Dennis, eldest of the scribling Throng,
Tho' skill'd thy self in ev'ry Art of Song,
Tho' of thy Mother-Goddess Tip-top full,
By Inspiration furiously Dull;

Yet this one Maxim from my Pen receive,
To midling Bards the World no Quarter give.
Budgel a Petty-fogger might have made,
And been, perhaps, a Dapster at his Trade.
Th' indifferent Lawyer is the most in vogue,
And still the greater, as the greater Rogue.
But midling Poets are by all accurst,
We only listen to the Best, or—Worst.

All Arts by Time and Industry are gain'd,
And without Pains no Knowledge is obtain'd.
Ladies must study hard to play Quadrille,
And Doctors take Degrees before they kill.
Soldiers, to gain their Point, must be polite,
Dress, Sing, and Dance, and ev'ry thing but—Fight.
Courtiers do all that's little to be—Great,
And Lawyers study Equity to cheat:
But yet, you say, that without Pains, or Time,
All dare to dabble in the Arts of Rhime:
Why not? since Fancy, Poverty, and Spite,
Demand eternal Privilege to write.
Without Restraint, indulge your keen Desire,
Want—not Minerva, kindles up the Fire:

Write then, and still write on; no Matter why,
Nor what, nor how,—So Lintot will but buy;
The Task run thro', let it be ne'er read o'er,
Nor sleep nine Moments in the dark 'Scrutore;
But when the Groans of the griev'd Press shall cease,
And Others lay your Labours up in Peace,
Then, first, the Work to mighty Bentley shew,
He'll prove your truest Friend who's Milton's Foe;
And if, thro' Haste, some Parts remain too bright,
The next Edition he will cloud them quite.

Orpheus, I've read, by his harmonious Skill,
Made Birds and Beasts obedient to his Will:
Amphion, greater yet, made Stones advance,
And sturdy Oaks, to mingle in the Dance;
But Faronelli's Strain is still much sweeter,
That matchless, dear, delicious, killing Creature!
He charms far wilder Savages than those,
Strange Force of Sounds! even modern Belles and Beaus.

'Tis likewise said, that in our Fathers' Days,
By Sense and Virtue, Poets aim'd at Praise,
And in their Country's Service tun'd their Lays.
Taught Men from Fraud and Rapine to abstain,
And Publick Good prefer to Private Gain:
Shew'd 'em what Rev'rence to the Gods was due,
And what rich Fruits from Social Virtues grew.
Whilst others sung in animating Strains,
The martial Hosts embattel'd on the Plains;
Or useful Secrets labour'd to explore,
Which lay conceal'd in Nature's Womb before.
For such low Cant they justly are despis'd,
We knowing Moderns scorn to be advis'd.
To our Applause, He only can pretend
Who, Sworn to Dulness, and her Friends, a Friend,
To Vice and Folly splendid Temples rears,
And for our Entertainment, risks his Ears.

You'll ask, perhaps, if this successful Vein,
Be Nature's Gift, or the Reward of Pain?
Nor taught by Study, nor by Genius fir'd,
By Penury, or Whim, 'tis still inspir'd.
He then that would the wish'd-for Prize obtain,
Need never dim his Eyes, or rack his Brain,
Nor toil by Day, nor meditate by Night,
But take for Power, the Willingness to write,
And ever thoughtless, indolent, and gay,
With Wine and Women revel Life away.
Let Pipers learn their Fingers to command,
And Fidlers drudge seven Years to make a Hand:
You care for nothing but a warm Third-night;
Then, Hunger take the Hindmost! cry, and write.
'Tis done! the Motley Scenes at once appear,
Drawn from Corneille, Racine, and Moliere;
Now Their's no longer—all their Sense and Skill
Quite lost in your Annihilating Quill.

But above all, on your First Day, secure
The Templars for your Friends, and then you're sure.

Some, likewise, hire to shout at every Line,
And cry, 'Tis charming! exquisite! divine!
To mark when Chair, or Couch, is well brought in,
And clap the very Drawing of the Scene.
Old Dennis, next, with a good Supper treat,
He'll like your Poem as he likes your Meat;
For, give that growling Cerberus a Sop,
He'll close his Jaws, and sleep like any Top.

But well beware you never trust to those,
Who, under Friendship's Mask, are real Foes;
Nor let a Pope or Trap your Works peruse,
They'd only over-lay your infant Muse,
And sway'd by Envy, Ignorance, or Spite,
Find Fault with every thing that you recite.
They ne'er would pardon an unmeaning Line,
But Rhime to Reason slavishly confine:

“Enliven This (they'd cry) and polish That,
“The Diction's here too rugged, there too flat,
“That Thought's too mean, and here you're too obscure,
“This Line's ill-turn'd, and—strike out those be sure.”
Thus, while they cancel what they call amiss,
There scarce remains a Line of all the Piece.

As, therefore, you'd avoid a clam'rous Dun,
Scour from a Catchpole, or the Pill'ry shun,
So fly such Criticks, trust yourself alone,
Nor to their Humour sacrifice your own:

No—rather seek some Sycophant at Court,
Some rich, young, lack-wit Lord for your Support:
Submit your Works to his right-honour'd Note;
He'll judge with the same Spirit that you wrote:

And when a Dupe, that freely bleeds, you nick,
Be sure you fasten, and be sure you stick;
Be-rhime, Be-prose him, Dedicate, and Lye,
And never leave him, 'till you've suck'd him dry.

OF POLITENESS.

AN EPISTLE

To the Right Honourable William Stanhope, Lord Harrington.

Politeness is my Theme—To You I write,
Who are, what all would feign be thought, Polite.
This is the Coxcomb's Av'rice, Courtier's Claim,
The Citt's Ambition, and the Soldier's Fame.
This interrupts the wild Projector's Dream,
And mingles with the Statesman's deepest Scheme.

Yet but to few, O few! the Gem is known,
Most for the Brilliant wear the Bristol-Stone.
With whom the Heav'nly Stranger deigns to dwell
The Wise and Good, like You, can only tell.
Ask you, What's True Politeness, you'd reply,
“'Tis nothing but well-dress'd Humanity:
“That fairest Offspring of the Social Mind,
“Nurs'd by Good-nature, by Good-sense refin'd:

“Which gives each Thought, Word, Act, a proper Grace,
“And binds each Passion to its proper Place:
“Makes Pride sit easy, reins Ambition in,
“Makes Av'rice Prudence, Anger not a Sin:
“Charm'd by her Lure, blind Zeal to Meekness turns,
“Pale Envy gen'rous Emulation burns;
“Revenge, attentive, sheaths the thirsty Sword,
“And Grief half smiles at Her reviving Word:
“Whilst Hope and Fear, those Elements of Life,
“Well pois'd by this, no longer are at Strife;
“This forms, guides, checks, inspires, does all it can
“To make Man mild and sociable to Man.

'Tis true, my Lord, yet such the reigning Taste!
In what's the quite Reverse you find it plac'd.

Sir Dives swears in Gaiety it lies,
Then struts the gaudiest Clown beneath the Skies:
All Nature's Wardrobe must be rifl'd straight,
All Nations sweat to furnish out his State;
Artists the various Hues of Iris blend,
And Eastern Rocks their blazing Glories lend:
Yet, whilst his sumptuous Trappings hang confess'd,
All cry, How slovenly the Knight is dress'd!
Were this Politeness, Porco's beastly Self
Could purchase more—for he enjoys more Pelf.

Lo! pamper'd Catius lolling at his Ease,
Gorging his Maw with Mystick Rarities!
He holds Politeness is but eating well,
Then swallows down whole Manors at a Meal.
So strange each Viand, and so strangely dress'd,
If Fish, Flesh, Fowl, roast, boil'd can ne'er be guess'd:
Here hid in Peacocks Brains a Squirrel lies,
With Gravy drawn from twice twelve Woodcocks Thighs;

A larded Badger there smokes high Perfume,
And the green Rabbits stink along the Room.
Supreme in Taste his Table's still replete
With all that's rare, and is not to be eat.
Did not the Side-board bear a sound Sir-loin,
Who with Lord Catius could afford to dine!

In Learning Curio places all Good-breeding,
And rails at Dives dress'd, and Catius feeding.
He fasts and mortifies, and racks his Skull,
But to appear more classically dull:
For over-reading makes the Dunce more seen,
As over-eating makes the Glutton lean.
In his cramb'd Crown you reconcil'd may view
The Babel of each Tongue and Science too:
Like Bacon's Head, his Mouth he ne'er can ope'
But straight out flies a Sentence, or a Trope:
Man, Woman, Child, alike he entertains
With the learn'd Oozings of his addl'd Brains;
And makes, as well as Pemberton, the Fair
Know all Sir Isaac Newton to a Hair.

Pedantick Sot! cries Umbra—in a Book,
Heav'n, thank it, never gave me Grace to look:
I've travell'd, been in France, at Rome, and then
What need I study Books, who've study'd Men?
Besides, I've Titles, Places, Wealth and Land,
I wear a Ribband, and expect a Wand.
Let thread-bare Blockheads study if they please,
What need of Learning when a Man's at Ease?
I take a surer Way to be polite,
I dress, game, wench and dance—not read or write.

Equal your Merit, vain alike your Aim,
Learn'd or unlearn'd, a Coxcomb's still the same.

Sir John comes next with Bow and Fiddle grac'd,
Fiddling He thinks the very Cream of Taste;
Then fiddles on with such incessant Care,
You'd think his Soul breath'd only at his Ear.
Yet all the while, Sir John must own 'tis true,
He's doing what he least would wish to do.
Not Tattle less delights to hold his Tongue,
Yet sits four Hours to hear an Op'ra sung;
Nor less Uneasiness does Embrio feel
In Whalebone Stays—yet bids the next be Steel.
For 'tis not what they like, or what they know,
But as the Fashion drives the Fop must go.

Still braver Lengths, cries Clodio, I have ran
To gain the Prize—deny it me who can,
I've ravish'd Virgins, and have kill'd my Man;
And nicely vers'd in all the Arts of Play,
A thousand bubbl'd Fools have fall'n my Prey.
The Fruits which Murder, Dice, and Rapes afford
Must sure be own'd Politeness in my Lord!

To be Polite Lothario's still profane,
And treats whate'er is Sacred with Disdain:
The best-bred Man to ev'ry mortal He,
And only to his God unmannerly.
Self-cozen'd Wretch, let but the Thunder roll,
He owns a God, and trembles for his Soul;
In vain now strives to act the Atheist's Part,
His Forehead blabs the Terrors of his Heart.
Lothario, quit thy Claim—'Spight o' thy Will,
Thou art an unpolite Believer still.

But see! the Fair in Throngs pour in their Claims,
All forward press, and hold me out their Names;
Each noisy, empty, apish, idle Thing;
Each glitt'ring Insect that can skip or sing:
Th' important Bus'ness of whose Lives is—Show,
Whose boasted Knowledge that they—nothing know;
Who all that merits Fame with Scorn reject,
Yet to be famous, toil for some—Defect.
Calista, giggling with her Head awry,
And Flavia, ogling thro' her Chrystal Eye;
Cloris, who by the Crutch's Help just walks;
And Mincia, sweetly lisping as she talks;
Portia, whose blasting Tongue is form'd to slay
A thousand Reputations in a Day;
And gentle Lady Sukey, whose good Word
Still libels all she knows, except—her Lord.
Lucinda, waddling in majestick State,
Sweating beneath her Winter-Garment's Weight,
With a capacious Sack, and Hoop extended,
From all Approach full four Ells round defended;
And Daphne trick'd out in her Maid's worst Gown,
Who joy's incog' to trip it thro' the Town;
Thamar, who never is herself, but wears
Still borrow'd Faces, Speeches, Looks and Airs;
Who's less prepost'rous thro' her own Defects
Than thro' those Charms she awkwardly affects,
And She whose Pimples with a purple Grace
Shine flagrant on the Index of her Face;
Who names what Nature hides, swears Blood and Thunder,
And bravely keeps her keeping Gen'ral under:
All challenge me at once, all scream aloud,
A gawdy, babbling, witless, worthless Crowd.

Quarter! O Quarter, Ladies!—bless me! who
Has Pen so steel'd to give you all your Due.
As well your Pens, ye Chiefs of Warwick-Lane!
Might strive to raise the Millions they have slain;
Or mine, a Task as arduous, pretend,
Frankland, thou worthiest Man, thou truest Friend!
All thy polite Perfections to rehearse
In the strait Limits of a single Verse;
Thy ev'ry social Virtue number o'er,
The well-known many, and the secret more!

Besides, whilst thus they importune together,
To be polite myself, I'll fix on neither;
Like Prettyman, the Preference give to none,
But march with one Boot off, and t'other on.

Right, says Pulvilio, paint not single Parts,
Give one great Whole of all the well-bred Arts;
From me a finish'd Piece your Muse may draw,
In Fashion's Realm my Fancy is the Law.

Come on, my Lord—your Father was a Peer,
Fam'd for a good—Ten thousand Pounds a Year;
Who trac'd his boasted Ancestry from Brute,
A Fool a thousand off—of Royal Root;
Whilst for your Lordship all may safely swear
You breathe his lawful own-begotten Heir;
For from the Moment that your Course begun,
When raptur'd Douglass cry'd—a Son! a Son!
You've giv'n perpetual Proofs, that you inherit
A modern Noble's Virtue, Wit and Spirit.
True Child of Fortune, and true Foe to Fame,
You lisp'd in Nonsense, for the Nonsense came:

Your Mammy's Darling—for an elder Brother
Is always courted by a crafty Mother,
You ne'er were suffer'd to molest your Head,
Or hurt your Eyes to be a Pedant bred:
To Eaton sent, o'er ev'ry Form you leapt,
No studious Eves, no toilsome Mattins kept.
Then Christ's Quadrangle took you for its own—
Had Alma Mater e'er so true a Son!
Half seven Years spent in Billiards, Cards, and Tippling,
And growing ev'ry Day a lovelier Stripling;
With half a College Education got,
Half Clown, half Prig, half Pedant, and half Sot;
To foreign Climes my Lord must take his Flight,
Only to be more foreign still to Right;
Like Trav'lers, who when once they've miss'd their Way,
The more they walk, the more they go astray.

When lo! a letter'd Booby from the Schools
Big-swoln with Ale and Aristotle's Rules,
Just as much skill'd in Manners and in Men
As Ward in Physick, Stephen in the Pen,
This, This Man's chose to shew my Lord the World—
Breathe bland ye Zephirs, be ye Sails unfurl'd!
Parisian Gates the noble Youth receive,
Some new Brocade Parisian Artists weave
The new Brocade, Toupee, and Solitaire
Once gain'd—What farther Bus'ness had you there?
Next Roman Causeways with your Coursers rung—
Who would not see what God-like Maro sung?
O'er Roman Tombs and Monuments you nod,
High-pleas'd to hear on Classick Ground you trod;
For you and your Compeers have still thought meet
To trample all that's classick under Feet.

At length, my Lord, your wond'rous Labours o'er,
Fain you'd revisit your Paternal Shore.
Stay, cries the Tutor, something must be bought
Before we Latium quit—no matter what,
But something must, to shew our Taste at home—
We have not, sure, for nothing been at Rome!
'Tis done—Once more by Goths poor Rome is spoil'd,
High! Mountain high! the pretious Plunder's pil'd;
Coins so antique, so very rusty grown,
That neither Stamp, nor Metal could be known;
Such curious Manuscripts as ne'er were seen,
You could not guess what Language they were in;
Bustoes that each a Nose or Chin had lost,
And Paintings of much Worth, for—much they cost.

Thus glutted with the Rubbish of each Land,
With Joy you sail to gain Britannia's Strand:
So Woodcocks here for Worms and Grubs repair,
Then fly full home, and sleep in native Air.

Now hark! loud Cimbals hail your safe Approach,
Your future Tradesmen guard in Crowds your Coach;
O had they known the dunning Hours to come!
What sober Tradesman would have stirr'd from home?

But hold! what House, what Palace can they find
To lodge a Host so travel'd, so refin'd?
Your Father's Mansion—Um—no polish'd Floor!
No Stucco Cieling, nor no Pigmy Door!
A Front with no Venetian Window grac'd,
A Wall with not a Scrap of Rustick lac'd!
'Twill never do.—Well, then, my Lord must build,
And prove, in ev'ry Art alike he's skill'd.
The Pile is rear'd, full furnish'd ev'ry Floor
With costly Lumber, and a costly Whore.

Now fix'd your Fame, and manifest your Taste,
You roll in Riot, Luxury and Waste;
Tyrant at home, but Sycophant abroad,
A Slave at Court, but Rebel to your God;
A Rook to Tradesmen whom you never pay,
A Dupe to Sharpers when you ever play;
A Friend to none but who deserve no Friends,
A Foe to all whom Merit recommends;
Whilst ev'ry well-slept Day, each ill-spent Night,
Proclaim you Prince of all who're call'd polite.

At length, the Measure of your Folly full,
Your Purse appear'd as empty as your Scull.
When now a Wife was necessary found,
My Lord must wed full Forty thousand Pound.
A wealth-gorg'd Citt, who long'd to mend his Blood,
And trace his Grandson's Lineage from the Flood,
His only Daughter yields a Sacrifice
To empty Titles, and a Herald's Lies.
My-Lady dubb'd, she needs polite must turn,
Her Needle quit, her ill-bred Bible burn;
Old Friends with her old Cloaths cast quite aside,
The awkward City Mien and Dress deride,
And loath the nauseous Smell of vile Cheapside.
Inspir'd by dear St. James's magick Air
Eager she drinks in all the Follies there;
At each Assembly she's the first to play,
At ev'ry Masque the last to go away;
All Ear at Opera, and at Church all Tongue,
How came she here?—How! Why an Anthem's sung.
To Cock at ev'ry Auction lends her Face,
What wants she there?—What! To out-bid Her Grace.

Slave clasping Slave hang backward when she drives,
Like clust'ring Drones in Summer from their Hives;
Slave crowding Slave press forward when she dines,
With unknown Dishes, and unheard of Wines:
Her Chair supported by a smart Toupee,
But, O hard Fate! She cannot claim the Knee.
In each Refinement anxious to excell
And crown the Business of a perfect Belle,
In Gallantry at last the Fair embarks,
And as you keep your Punks, she keeps her Sparks.

Hail noble Pair! your Glory's now compleat,
And Millions learn Politeness at your Feet;
Peers, Pimps, and Parisites your Trophies raise,
And dedicating Bards resound your Praise.
Heavens! is it possible such Crimes should wear
Virtue's bright Veil, or Honour's Standard bear?
Alas! 'tis true—look round the Globe and see
Who to such Baals do not bend the Knee!
No, Talbot did not, that first, best of Men,
Who brought Astræa back to Earth again;
He worshipp'd no big Knave, no titl'd Fool,
God was his God, and Heav'n-born Truth his Rule:
Great, good, and wise! and, what you'd call polite,
Great, good, and wise, in the most lovely Light;
Greatness employ'd the Injur'd to redress,
Raise modest Worth, and Lordly Vice depress;
To break the Jaws of those who rob by Guile,
And from the Plund'rer's Teeth to pluck the Spoil:
Goodness that listen'd to the Orphan's Cry,
And caus'd the Widow's Heart to sing for Joy

Whilst on his Lips such magick Wisdom hung,
Peers silent stood, and Princes held the Tongue:
At his Approach the vain young Coxcomb fled,
And the gray Sage stood up and bow'd the Head,
When the Ear heard him then it bless'd his Name,
And the charm'd Eye gave Witness to the same,
Silent Applause each lifted Hand bestow'd,
And from each grateful Tongue loud Pæans flow'd.
Him copy, follow him, in Fashion's Spite,
And then, O Man! thou'lt be indeed Polite.

And YE bright Daughters of Britannia's Isle,
Who'd study how to live as well as smile;
And, as Ye boast of ev'ry outward Grace,
Would teach the Mind to emulate the Face,
Attend the Muse, whilst she attempts to show
Whence the pure Streams of true Politeness flow;
Befriends your Aim, and points each Fair the Road,
To soar above the vain affected Crowd.

Know, then, this Virtue cannot be confin'd
To one fix'd Mode, or one determin'd Kind:
But varies oft' with Person, Time and Place;
For here's Absurdity, what there was Grace.

Study Yourself, and labour first to find
What Rank you're plac'd in, and for what design'd;
Know your own Pow'rs, and mark where you excel,
Then weigh your Failings in the counter Scale;
Thence some just Goal propose, some certain End,
To which your ev'ry Step of Life may tend.
Whilst, in the warm Pursuit, be this your Care,
To act with Force, yet keep within your Sphere.
In all Extreams, or Vice or Folly's seen,
But true Politeness holds the golden Mean.

Here fix your Standard, here your Search controul,
And draw from hence one Maxim for the Whole;
“Never from Virtue's Middle-path to swerve,
“But one just Mean thro' Life's whole Course preserve.
With this due Caution constantly behave,
And ne'er appear too giddy or too grave.
Let this both sleep and travel with the Tongue,
And never speak too little or too long.
In Conduct still the Serpent's Wisdom prove,
Yet add the stingless Temper of the Dove.
Ne'er sweat to shew in Learning you excel,
Yet never blush to own, that you can spell.
In Dress ne'er quit the fashionable Road,
Yet be not first in ev'ry Mushroom Mode.
Swoon not at Sight of Basto or Spadille,
Yet let not Cards your Time's best Moments kill.
Of Scandal as of Flatt'ry still beware,
And be not too obsequious, or severe.
Ne'er boast of over Sanctity and Zeal,
Yet to pure Piety be sacred still—
Nay, start not, fair Ones, I don't here advise
To quit Earth's Joys, and let those pretty Eyes
Regard no one dear Object but the Skies;
But sure some gracious Smiles you ought to show
To that great Source from whence their Beauties flow.
Let Love—O! now you smile, and pleas'd agree,
That Love's the Path to true Gentility—
Let Love with Love well-balanc'd still combine
In due Degrees, self, social, and divine.
For with the Mind, as with a Lute it fares,
Where, if each Tone a just Proportion bears,

No String or strain'd too little or too much,
It yields sweet Harmony at ev'ry Touch.

Thus Nature's, Reason's, Virtue's Laws obey,
And safely go where Hertford leads the Way;
Thus plough your Course, thus steer between the Shelves
Polite to Heav'n, your Neighbour, and Yourselves.

SEASONABLE REPROOF:

OR, The Poetical Pillory.

A SATIRE. In the Manner of HORACE.

Amicus Plato, Amicus Socrates, sed magis Amica Veritas.

To His Grace the DUKE of ARGYLE.

Ask Faronelli, 'please your Grace, to sing,
No, the cram'd Capon answers—no such Thing:
Shall I, who, being less than Man, am more;
Whom Beaux, Belles, Peers, and Senators adore;
For whose sweet Pipe the City's so forsaken
That, by Excisemen it might now be taken,
And great Sir Bob ride thro', and save his Bacon;
What! shall I sing when ask'd?—I'm no such Elf,
Not I, by Jove, tho' ask'd by George himself.
Yet, for that single End the Worm was bred;
Yet, by that single Means, both cloath'd and fed.
That Poitier Dance, if the whole Town should chuse,
The skipping Grashopper will straight refuse,
Tho' that alone must furnish him with Shoes.

Sleep, Britain, in thy State of Reprobation,
Thou mere Milch-cow to ev'ry foreign Nation!
Heaps upon Heaps thy Fair expire, alas!
Slain by the Jaw-bone of a warbling Ass:
Whilst Shoals of Locusts, spawn'd in Rome or France,
Gelt for a Song, or shrivel'd for a Dance,
O'er thy dup'd Sons usurp supreme Command,
And carry off the Fat of half the Land.

Such is the Vice of some, they make a Task
Of the least Favour that a Friend can ask;
Whilst others, ten times more provoking still,
Oblige you cruelly against your Will.
If hymning Harry Cary once begin,
Where shall I fly from his eternal Din?
In vain I plead the Head-ach, or the Spleen;
Blushing to shew so plainly what I mean,
For, stop his Mouth, still the suspended Note,
Eager for Vent, lives quav'ring in his Throat.

Beg blust'ring Aaron to recite no more;
Aaron straight steps between you and the Door,
Then mouths the same coarse Fustian o'er and o'er.
Verse behind Verse the fatal Entrance keep,
Whilst, in their Wombs, ten Thousand Nothings sleep.

Others again, and those not few, you'll find,
To both Extremes, alternately inclin'd.
Mortals, who're curst with Tempers so unev'n,
They're always under Ground, or above Heav'n;

Now they are this, now that, and just now t'other,
And no one Hour, in Conduct, has it's Brother.

Lo! Plautus, who was yesterday so rough,
Clad in coarse Frieze, and plaister'd down with Snuff,
See how his Instant gaudy Trappings shine;
What Play-house Bard was ever seen so fine!
But this, not from his Humour flows, you'll say,
But mere Necessity;—for last Night lay
In Pawn, the Velvet which he wears to Day.

Perhaps so. —But his Grace would scorn that Plea;
Yet there as strange Disparity you see.
At Morn, in Valet's Guise, he scours the Park,
Known from his Valet by this only Mark,
That Tom will give his Betters way—his Grace
Runs his protub'rant Nose full in your Face;
At Noon, distinguish'd by the String and Star,
Lolling in drowsy Pomp, he's known from far,
Whilst Slaves by Dozens load his gilded Car.
Plac'd in the Senate, with a Peer-like Pride,
Stares round, takes Snuff, and cries—Pax, let's divide.
For why? He'd serve his King with all his Soul,
Before he goes to White's, or Hockley-Hole.

Yet more;—This Inequality you'll find
Oft' in the best, and noblest of the Kind:
Tho' Reason's Lord, some ruling Passion's Tool,
The wisest Man, in some things, is a Fool.

DECIUS, adorn'd with all that's Great and Good,
No Peer in Genius, tho' a Peer by Blood;
Whom Heav'n has condescended to afford
Ten Talents more than usual to a Lord:
Unrivall'd Wit, with Sense and Candor join'd,
Taste unaffected, Knowledge unconfin'd;
Politeness to Sincerity ally'd,
And Frankness guarded by a gen'rous Pride;
A Breast, where all the Social Virtues reign,
A Tongue that knows no Guile, a Hand no Stain;
Alas! Deluded by one darling Vice,
His Life's whole Bus'ness is a Box and Dice:
The Sharper's Blessing, and the Rook's rich Prey,
He games, O shameful Vigils! Night away,
Then damns the Dice, and snores it all the Day.
Good Heav'ns! Did Talents ere thus disagree?
Or Man thus differ from himself, as He?

“But hold, Sir, have you then no Fault?” says one,
Yes, Sir,—But you and I o'erlook our own;
Were all oblig'd to practise what they teach,
Some warm sleek Clerks would still more seldom preach.
Stall-fed TARTUFF reclining in his Seat,
High heap'd his Board, himself brimfull of Meat,

Yawning, with Pain thus sleepy Silence broke,
And to his meagre Curates sagely spoke;
“My loving Brethren, we should rest content
“With the small Pittance gracious Heav'n has sent:
“'Tis better much to want, than much abound;
“Hunger and Thirst hereafter will be crown'd.
“If we've Prunella, which will hang together,
“Like the good Baptist, girt about with Leather;
“And Bread and Water, we should ne'er complain—
“Here, John, give me a—Bumper of Champaigne.”

But Heav'n forbid, you'll say, those Men should be
Stamp'd for the Standard of Humanity:
Who, with an Eagle's penetrating Ken,
And all the Serpent Rancour of a V***n,
A Brother's Mote will labour to descry,
Blind to the Beam in their own evil Eye.
Suppose good Rundle's social and sincere,
Void of the quaint Grimace, the guileful Sneer;
The Pride of Mind, with Lowliness profess'd,
The Sanctity of Brow instead of Breast:
The Spite at Heart with Smiles upon the Face,
The Want of Morals, with the Boast of Grace:

The Cant, the Cringe, the gloomy Buckram Air,
And all the powerless Forms which these Men wear:
Suppose he serves his Friend, forgives his Foe,
Which those smooth Pharisees would blush to do;
And such just Hospitality preserves,
That while He feasts, not any good Man starves:
Like his great Patron, gen'rously inclin'd
To mend, redress, and dignify his Kind;
Shall he, for this, be judg'd unfit to bear
The awful Crosier, or the Mitre wear?
No, tho' our rigid Bench denies him Place,
Hibernia gladly will the Gift embrace.
Happy Hibernia! still appointed Heir
To all those dangerous Virtues which we fear;
Whilst thou, false Sister! pour'st on us the while,
All the Macrays and Gasneys of thy Isle.

“Why on our Bench, you'll cry, this general Sneer,
“Have we no shining Lights to guide us here?”
Yes, Sherlock, Hare, for noble Talents fam'd,
And hoary Hough, with Rev'rence ever nam'd:
Secker with Force of Sense and Virtue arm'd,
Who with his Life or Doctrine but is charm'd?
Unblemish'd Hoadly! lov'd by all, but those
Who're Virtue's, Wisdom's, Truth's, and Rundle's Foes.

Sure of their Hate, since not so Blind, as they;
For Owls and Batts abhor the Bird of Day:
What! own the Reason which God gave Mankind,
Was giv'n to prove God's Word, discern God's Mind;
That all true Faith is not on Ign'rance built,
Nor Thinking, in Heav'n's Sight, held mortal Guilt!
That common Sense with Christian Rites may join,
And Morals not prophane a sound Divine;
That Creeds can never alter Wrong to Right,
Nor Orthodoxy wash an Æthiop white:
What! preach Christ's Kingdom is not here below,
But far, far off, where They must never go!
Write Tartuff, V***n inform, rail W***r, rail,
Your Craft's in Danger if such Truths prevail.
What! make Integrity the Test—and next,
His Life a standing Sermon on his Text;
To be polite as good, humane as wise,
Whilst Charity sits smiling in his Eyes:
To frown on Vice, tho' ne'er so high or gay,
And still send naked Merit cloath'd away:
To deal in Honour, Justice, Probity,
And all those Heath'nish Virtues which They fly!
Write Tartuff, V***n inform, rail W***r, rail,
Your Lives must stink, if Deeds like these prevail.

In State Disputes, too, as in Church, we see
This barb'rous, headlong Partiality;
Where Men are damn'd or sav'd for Forms, not Fact,
For how they're dress'd or shap'd, not how they act:
Where round thick Shoulders, or a Coat cut ill,
Spoil all the Patriot's Honour, Statesman's Skill:
Ribbands must rank Corruption straight impart,
And the gilt Star betray a grov'ling Heart;
The garter'd Knee must needs to Baal bend,
And who, ungarter'd, is his Prince's Friend?
Strange! that a diff'rent Eye-brow, Air or Mien,
Hose roll'd, or unroll'd, dirty Nails or clean;
Should make false Patriots, Courtiers most sincere,
A blund'ring Marr-all, or a deep State-seer!

What tho' sage Horace can't be call'd a Beau;
What tho' his Shoes no Diamond Buckles know;
Tho' coated in a Taste uncouth, and breech'd
With Trowsers often calling to be hitch'd;
Shall he, for this, on Satire's Wheel be broke;
Or made the Courtier's Gibe, and Coxcomb's Joke?
No; One who wants the polish'd Trim, and Grace,
The supple Knee, and promisory Face:
May yet be Master of a noble Heart,
Prepar'd to act the friendly, gen'rous Part;

For many a Mortal Case that's rough or drole,
Contains a polish'd, brave, and spotless Soul.

Search each his own Breast first, read that with Care,
And mark if no one Crime be written There!
For Thou who, faulty, wrong'st another's Fame,
Howe'er so great and dignify'd thy Name,
The Muse shall drag thee forth to publick Shame;
Pluck the fair Feathers from thy Swan-skin Heart,
And shew thee black and guileful as thou art.

True Lovers, in their fav'rite charming She,
Can find no Faults, or love those Faults they see.
Cassius no Stain in his lewd Wife can spy;
Whilst Delia's purple Nose charms Bubo's Eye.
Fond Parents, partial to their darling Son,
Or hide his Faults, or point 'em out as none.
Mark how his Grace chucks up his squint-ey'd Boy,
And cries, 'Tis mighty pretty in my Joy:

Lo! Master's bandy Legs Sir William shows,
And Lisping, says—The Child turns in his Toes.
Oh, that these Errors, if they Errors be,
Reign'd in our Friendship, oftner than we see!
One Friend is close, perhaps—that Prudence call;
Another's apt to brag—That's Frankness all;
One's something vain—Consider, pray, his Birth;
Assuming, one—He's conscious of his Worth:
Doth Socius drink his Gallon of Champaigne?
Why Socius loves his Friend, and is humane;
Or is Sir John with Celia caught in Bed?
He's young and gay, that's all that can be said.
At least be silent, where you can't commend;
This, this will purchase, and preserve a Friend.

But few, in our censorious Age, we find,
To such just Candor gen'rously inclin'd;
For many toil ev'n fairest Fame to spot,
With If-so, But, Perhaps, and May-be-not;

By Slight of Wink, and Shrug, they'll in a Trice
Juggle Men's very Virtues into Vice.

Is any modest? He's a mean-soul'd Tool:
Good-natur'd, honest Man, still stands for Fool.
Reserve is Craft, Sincerity Ill-breeding,
And Charity a very strange Proceeding.
Religion, Psha! 'tis nothing but mere Cant;
Simple, blunt Honour;—why, 'tis all a Rant.

What Rules, alas! we fix, what rash Decrees,
Injurious to our own, and Neighbour's Ease!
We all our Frailties share, and He's the best,
Most happy He, who's loaded with the least.
Those then, who would not have Their Sores offend,
Ought not to fret the Pimples of a Friend:
And, surely, 'tis but just that He who'd claim
A candid Cov'ring where he proves to blame,
Should to an erring Neighbour grant the same;

This is my greatest Boast, This.—“Ay, say you,
“This is Haranguing very fine, 'tis true;
“But, Sir, your Writings,—Well, Sir, what of them?
“They're guilty of the Crime, which you condemn:
“Each Page is blotted with some injur'd Name;
“Each Line's destructive of some Neighbour's Fame.
Whence this black Charge on me? Who know me best,
Know 'tis a Crime, I from my Soul detest.
The Man, who loves to wound an absent Friend,
Or, wounded, cares not, dares not to defend;
Who ne'er would stifle an injurious Joke,
To gain a Laugh regardless what he spoke;
Who sweats to spread forg'd Scandal thro' the Town,
And basely whispers Reputations down;
Who, what he never saw, proclaims for true,
And vends for Secrets what he never knew;
That, that's the Wretch, to whom your Censure's due.
But, have I acted such a brutish Part?
No, 'tis not in my Writings, or my Heart:
Here, Sir, you'll find, if you'll be pleas'd to read,
None, but the Vicious, in my Verses bleed:

Neighbour, or Stranger, 'tis to me alike;
Not at the Man, but at the Vice I strike:
I call none Friends, whom Vice and Folly stain;
I call none Foes, where Truth and Wisdom reign.
What tho' some Lines are with more Freedom writ;
Some hum'rous Scenes are drawn, which chance to hit
A fopling Courtier, or a knavish Cit,
Am I, ARGYLE, am I for this to blame?
No, 'tis a British Right I still shall claim.

'Twas thus my good old Sire, to whom I owe
What best I practice, and what best I know;
'Twas thus he labour'd to direct my Will,
Point me to Good, or turn me back from Ill:
Plac'd branded Knaves, or Fools, before my Eyes,
And bid me mark their Errors, and be wise.
When studious to inculcate frugal Care,
“Observe, said he, Pygmalion's spend thrift Heir,
“By Harlots, Dice, and Luxury undone,
“Now till for Hire, those Lands which were his own.

“Beware the wily Prostitute, he'd cry,
“Lest you like Clodio live, like Laches die:
“Nor let adult'rous Joys thy Soul defile,
“Lo! Ly***l banish'd from his native Isle.”

'Twas thus the watchful Parent taught the Son,
To dread those Crimes which others had undone.
Then urg'd,—“To consecrate whate'er you do,
“Have some illustrious Pattern still in View,
“Some shining, worthy, Worth-approving Man:
“Him follow, copy him in all you can:
“Lo! Bernard, fam'd for Wisdom, Publick Spirit,
“And ev'ry thing that bears the Name of Merit!
“Nor can you doubt what Actions merit Blame,
“When shrill-tongu'd Rumour sounds each Culprit's Shame.
“Who, but a Chartres, or a W***d must hate;
“Or who e'er pity'd wretched W**rt**n's Fate?
“Who does not scorn a fibbing, chattering G.
“Or who, but must detest corrupted P.?

As when Sir Epicure, who liv'd to eat,
Fell a sad Victim to a City Treat,
His Brother-Brutes, with Cheney, damn'd all Meat:
So brand the Wretch, whom flagrant Crimes debase,
And each taught Youth will shun the dire Disgrace.

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF Mrs. ELIZABETH FRANKLAND.

Silence, ye plaintiff Instruments of Woe!
Ye bubbling Fonts of Sorrow, cease to flow!
O much lamented, honour'd Maid, too long
The Friend's sad Sigh has check'd the Poet's Song:
While each full Heart is anxious to recite,
And place thy Virtues in an equal Light,
Shall I alone sit silent in thy Praise,
Nor deck thy hallow'd Urn with grateful Lays?
No, languid as it is, I'll touch the Lyre,
Nor shall fond Tears quite damp Apollo's Fire.

Thro' all the various Scenes the Muses rove,
The peopled Town, or the sequester'd Grove,
Amidst the Silvan Choir, or Courtly Throng,
They ne'er found one so worthy of their Song;

100

Never such Youth with so much Prudence join'd,
Never so tender, yet so firm a Mind:
Such gentle Manners, such refin'd Good-Sense!
Grave without Frowns, and gay without Offence!
A Form adorn'd with ev'ry pleasing Grace,
A Soul where ev'ry Virtue held a Place:
The Vestal's Purity, without her Pride;
The Court's high Breeding, not as There apply'd;
Judgment with Candor, Wit which ne'er revil'd,
Zeal cloath'd with Meekness, Piety that smil'd.
No Window to Her Bosom did we need,
The Goodness there appear'd in ev'ry Deed;
In ev'ry Look, in ev'ry Smile was seen
The Innocence and Peace that reign'd within.

But what avail'd, O amiable Shade!
The Force of Virtue, or Devotion's Aid;
Or what avail'd a Temp'rance so severe,
Or what, alas! the watchful Parent's Care?
When those who riot on from Day to Day,
And fearless tread the broad voluptuous Way,
In Health and Splendor lengthen out their Span,
Grow gray in Vice, and die without a Pang,
Whilst Thou, fair Flow'r! wert blasted in thy Prime,
And scarce enjoy'dst the Morning of thy Time.
For what were all those bright Perfections given?
For what!—To make her earlier ripe for Heaven:
Tho' few her Hours, yet perfect was her Day,
Tho' short her Sun, yet doubly bright the Ray.
Greatly Inspir'd, Life's golden Prize she won
At Years when few, too few! begin to run.

Look round the fashionable World, and see
The Wealthy, Fair, and Young—all these was She;

101

Mark how the pretty Triflers waste their Days,
Toiling to kill each Hour a thousand ways:
See to and fro in different Paths they run,
Tho' all still meet at last to be undone.
One this way eagerly pursues the Game,
Whilst one flies that way, tho' they hunt the same:
All stand astonish'd at each other's Choice,
All at each other's vanquish'd Aims rejoice;
Hourly from Hope to Hope deliver'd o'er,
And hourly disappointed as before:
Ev'n now they loath what they but now begun,
And, what they just now wish'd, now wish undone:
Of their Chief Good most fatally possest,
They're—what?—Quite ruin'd at their own Request.

The Joys of Riches from the Miser know:
What's made no Use of, can no Joys bestow.
Ask the Voluptuous, then, he spares no Cost;
He, with a Sigh, replies, his Palate's lost.
But nobler Ends th' Ambitious have in view,
'Tis Godlike to be great! Alas, how few
Are Great and Godlike both—Pow'r, I must own,
When fix'd in righteous Hands, exalts the Throne;
As Honour's Plumes, when plac'd on high Desert,
Something that's Shining and Sublime impart:
But O, how anxious is that lofty State!
How toss'd, disturb'd, and envy'd are the Great!
Well, Knowledge then—What's that?—the fatal Fruit
Which first made Man joint-Tenant with the Brute:
What is it but a feeble Glow-worm Gleam,
Which proves us meerer Reptiles than we seem;
And all we Profit by the short-liv'd Spark,
Is but to see how much we're in the Dark.

102

With Toil 'tis purchas'd, and with Toil 'tis kept,
Scarce hail'd its Meeting, ere its Parting's wept;
Nor can at best the Phantom more avail,
Than add some Words to an insipid Tale:
For, learn this Truth, a mighty Diff'rence lies,
Vain Man! between to Know, and to be Wise:
Yet, strange! how many with the Vapour fir'd,
Run mad themselves, to be by Fools admir'd.

Come then, and ask where Happiness is found,
'Tis not in me, cries Wealth with Titles crown'd;
'Tis not in me, the World reluctant cries;
'Tis not in me, proud Science griev'd replies.

Thus wild they run Life's giddy Race about,
No Goal in view, no proper Course mark'd out;
A Scene of Vice, of Vanity, and Toil,
Of lifeless Leisure, or of fruitless Coil;
Employ'd in Scandal, Politicks, or Play,
In Dancing, or in dreaming Life away:
Some absent Idol still in View—Ay, this
Give us, they cry, and 'twill compleat our Bliss:
'Tis granted—but alas! delusive Thought,
The distant Goddess is a Cloud when caught.
Save Virtue, each Expedient try'd in vain,
Save Virtue, each Expedient try'd again;
Plung'd always, or in plain, or gilded Woe,
Wretched, alike, in all they act or know,
Lo! trembling they behold their Ruin near,
Lo! the dark Chambers of the Grave appear,
The End of all they hope, the Birth of all they fear.

Not so, Good Spirit! were thy Powers employ'd,
Not so thy precious Talents were destroy'd;

103

Thy Life's sole Joy was but false Joys to fly,
Thy Life's sole Business but to learn to die:
Each Pleasure tax'd for Bounty's just Supplies,
Each Passion blinded to give Reason Eyes;
Yet nothing rigid or morose was seen,
But all was free without, as all was fair within.
Conscious, sweet Numbers and sweet Sounds combin'd,
To nobler Meditations fire the Mind,
For this she tun'd her lovely Voice to sing,
And wak'd to Harmony the trembling String;
For this the Joy-fraught Page she'd oft' peruse,
And deign to smile on the deserted Muse.

But hark! she's call'd—Heav'n claims her for its own.
“No—first one more bright Virtue must be shewn”
She cries— “Patience, that kindest Gift of Heaven,
“That only Balm for Fate's corroding Leaven;
“Patience which lengthens Hope, and lightens Fear,
“And makes us bravely scorn the Ills we bear;
“Lifts us above Misfortune, Care, and Pain,
“And Life's rough Journey helps us to sustain.
“Learn all from me the Succours it bestows,
“Ev'n in the last Extremity of Woes;
“Whilst meagre Phthisis preys upon my Breast,
“With a dead Weight my feeble Limbs opprest,
“Whilst struggling Coughs my tender Bosom rend,
“And scorching Hecticks ev'ry Vein distend;
“Whilst Clay-cold Damps bedew my Body o'er,
“And Life steals painful out at ev'ry Pore;
“By Patience prop'd, the bitter Load I bear,
“Without a Sigh, a Murmur, or a Tear;
“Unmov'd endure the cruel Scourge of Pain,
“Whilst baffled Medicine tries its Art in vain:

104

“Ev'n now, when Fate and Nature are at Strife,
“In these last Struggles of desponding Life,
“She sooths each Pang, helps each convulsive Breath,
“And gently smooths the Iron Hand of Death.”
She said—when Death cut short th' instructive Tale,
Conscious should such Almighty Truths prevail,
Mankind his Bugbear Terrors would defy,
Pleas'd, as prepar'd, alike to sleep or die.

Hail, spotless Shade! with noblest Honours bless'd,
With Patience crown'd, in white-rob'd Virtue drest;
Go seek and prove thy kindred Realms above,
Seats, like thy Breast, of Harmony and Love.

And Ye, good Guardians of a Charge so good,
O cease to grieve, Heav'n must not be withstood;
Weep not for Her—lo! all her Labours o'er,
Happy, O happy! on the Heav'nly Shore;
There where no Moths corrupt, no Thieves infest,
In endless Sunshine, and in endless Rest;
Gayly triumphant, in a bless'd Relief
From future Chance, from Sickness, and from Grief;
Beyond the Reach of Malice, Pow'r, or Pride,
By Angels greeted, and to Saints ally'd;
Past Toils with Joy revolving in her Mind,
She only pities you who're left behind.

105

AN EPISTLE TO Godfrey Clarke, Esq; and Miss Pole, upon their Nuptials.

Such Youth and Judgment, Wealth and Goodness join'd!
Say, are no Marriages in Heaven design'd?
If not, blest Pair! we must at least agree,
That Love and Fortune both, for once, could see.
Long may you live to grace those Sacred Bands,
By Hearts as close united as by Hands.

Of Blessings which the World has best in store,
So fair your Lot I need not wish you more;
But, that in These true Relish you may find,
I wish you Health of Body, Peace of Mind;
Whilst num'rous blooming Branches round you stand,
Obedient to the skilful Parents Hand;
And, early turn'd to all that's Wise and Good;
Be Children of your Virtues as your Blood!
May those you chuse for Friends, be Friends sincere;
For Servants—serve you more thro' Love than Fear.

106

May ne'er the Thirst of Titles, Pomp or Power,
Those Idols which the Court-bred Crowd adore,
Make you in quest of foreign Honours roam,
True Greatness only's to be found at Home;
Dwells in th' enobled Breast, and does not spring
Or from the Sword, or Deckings of a King.

In Life's uncertain Sea, where none but find
Some dang'rous Quicksand, or some adverse Wind,
If Storms arise how little it avails
That the proud Mast is deck'd with purple Sails;
The silken Cables, or the silver Oar,
Won't sooner smooth the Surge or gain the Shoar;
The Winds impartial beat, the Lightnings strike
The Royal Bark and Fisher's Hulk alike.
No, 'tis what few—but may YOU always!—find,
'Tis the calm Sunshine of the Halcyon Mind,
That Heart-felt Peace, those Plaudits which accrue
Not from the Goods you have, but Good you do;
'Tis These must light you o'er the trackless Main,
By These the wish'd-for Haven you may gain;
For know, to raise dejected Merit's Head,
A double Lustre round yourselves will shed;
And to relieve the Good-Man's aking Heart,
A seven-fold Transport to your own impart.

Thus bless'd with all that Wisdom's Wish can reach,
With all that true Philosophy can teach,
With more than e'er in noisy Courts was seen,
Or ever deign'd to light on King or Queen,
To crown the whole you can possess below,
Heav'n grant you still your Happiness may know.

107

The LIFE of a BEAU. A Song.

How brim-full of Nothing's the Life of a Beau?
They've nothing to think of, they've nothing to do;
Nor they've nothing to talk of, for—nothing they know:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.

For nothing they rise, but to draw the fresh Air;
Spend the Morning in nothing but curling their Hair;
And do nothing all Day but Sing, Santer and Stare:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.

For nothing at Night to the Playhouse they croud,
For to mind nothing done there they always are proud,
But to bow, and to grin, and talk—nothing aloud:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.

For nothing they run to th' Assembly and Ball;
And for nothing at Cards a fair Partner call,
For they still must be beasted who've—Nothing at all:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.

For nothing on Sundays at Church they appear,
For they've nothing to hope, nor they've nothing to fear;
They can be nothing no where, who—nothing are here:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.

The Life of a Fool. A Song.

A fool enjoys the Sweets of Life,
Unwounded by its Cares;
His Passions never are at Strife;
He hope's not, He, nor fear's.

108

If Fortune smiles, as smile she will,
Upon her booby Brood,
The Fool anticipates no Ill,
But reaps the present Good.

Or should, thro' Love of Change, her Wheels
Her fav'rite Bantling cross,
The happy Fool no Anguish feels,
He weighs not Gain or Loss.

When Knaves o'er-reach, and Friends betray,
Whilst Men of Sense run mad,
Fools, careless, whistle on—and say,
'Tis silly to be sad.

Since free from Sorrow, Fear, and Shame,
A Fool thus Fate defies,
The greatest Folly I can name
Is to be Overwise.

The World's a Song. A Song.

If Life can yield any thing pleasant or sweet,
To strew its rough Valley along,
In Musick, I'm sure, we the Blessing must meet,
For why, the whole World's a mere Song.

Repair to the Court, and you'll instantly find
Amidst the delusive gay Throng,
No Friendship can hold, nor no Promise can bind,
For the Courtier's Honour's a Song.

Go next to the Camp, and review each trim Blade,
How they strut it so stout and so strong,
Turn 'em into War's Field, and I'm hugely afraid,
Their Courage would prove a mere Song.

109

Pray, what are Possessions, tho' ever so great,
Once got the good Lawyers among?
For they'll brief it and thief it, they'll pocket and prate
'Till they've brought all your Wealth to a Song.

The Doctor who sagely lays Finger to Wrist,
With his Hems and his Ha's, ere so long,
When he sits down to write, 'tis to grease his own Fist,
For his Scribble to you's a mere Song.

The Fair One who vows to young Thirsis, so kind,
She ne'er his fond Passion will wrong,
The Moment he's gone Damon's call'd from behind,
For why, Lovers Oaths are a Song.

Thus, Youth run thro' Life, and try all that you can,
This Truth you must own e'er 'tis long,
Take Greatness or Riches, take Woman or Man,
Your Gains will turn out a mere Song.

The Loss of Faronello. A Song.

What dire Misfortune hath befel
Each quav'ring Beau and tuneful Belle!
Lost Faronello's killing Note,
For Spain has caught him by the Throat:
Far, far away
He's forc'd to stay;
Killing, thrilling,
Thrilling, killing,
O! we're ruin'd, lost, undone,
Charming Faronello's gone!

110

Our Tears had scarcely ceas'd to flow,
That Senesino needs would go;
When straight a heavier Loss we rue,
Dear Faronello's kidnap'd too.
Faronello!
Senesino!
Senesino!
Faronello!
O! we're ruin'd, lost, undone,
Both the Warblers, both are gone!

O cruel Spain! will nought suffice?
Will nought redeem this lovely Prize?
Take all our Ships, take all our Men,
So we enjoy but him again:
O send him straight,
Our Nobles wait!
O send him quick,
We all are sick!
Ruin'd, Lords and Commons all,
From St. James's to Guild-Hall!

Written at the Age of Sixteen in the Ivory Leaf of a Tweezer-Case, presented by the Author to his Sister.

In This repose the Secrets of your Mind,
This the same silent, faithful Friend you'll find,
Let Fortune smile, or let her prove unkind.
Or should a favour'd Youth some Five Years hence,
I think you're Ten—make amorous Pretence,

111

Then when he runs his Tale of Fondness o'er,
Swears that he loves, and vows he does adore;
Whilst rebel Wishes take his Part within,
And Nature pleads to let the Suppliant in,
Learn hence—that when our Tongues most Zeal impart,
We're then most thorough Atheists at the Heart.

To a Young Lady, desiring a Copy of Verses from the Author.

Madam, I've laid aside my Muse,
But, when You bid, I can't refuse
To tune my Harp, to put a String on
And think of something new to sing on;
But Oh! the Task is hard to hit
On something new, and something fit!

To write of Heroes, and of Wars,
Intestine Feuds, or foreign Jars;
Of mighty Matters done in Battel,
How Towns are storm'd, and Cannons rattle,
Are things without a Lady's Sphere,
And therefore not so proper here.

To talk of Swains and Shepherdesses,
Their aukward Dialogues, and Dresses,
How the fond Clowns adore their Dames,
Old-fashion'd things, with constant Flames,
And how the Nymphs, Occasion blessing,
And gentle Nature jointly pressing,
Relieve their Pain with kind caressing;
Of Moon-light Freaks, and Cynthia's Train,
How Fairies wanton in the Plain,

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Of flowery Valleys, lofty Hills,
Resounding Grots, and whisp'ring Rills,
Above, or much below, my Strain is,
And therefore to attempt it vain is.

A King's or Cobler's Death to pity,
And pen a grievous Church-yard Ditty,
In sable Elegy to wail,
Would prove, I fear, a drouzy Tale;
And therefore I'm resolv'd to keep
My Muse from crying you to sleep.

To sing of Beauty, and of You,
And give your Merit half its due;
Your Charms and Virtues to rehearse
Is far beyond the Pow'r of Verse.

What, then, to sing, or what to say,
Without a Subject for my Lay!
Troth, Madam, all that can be done,
Is to leave off where I begun.