 | The Distressed Poet |  |
1
THE DISTRESSED POET.
CANTO THE FIRST.
Say, why should Poverty's prediction
O'ercloud the sprightly scenes of Fiction?
Wherefore so long entail'd its curse,
On all the numerous sons of Verse?
Who scarce possessing from their birth
A legal settlement on earth,
Exalted to a garret story,
Live on imaginary glory.
O'ercloud the sprightly scenes of Fiction?
Wherefore so long entail'd its curse,
On all the numerous sons of Verse?
Who scarce possessing from their birth
A legal settlement on earth,
Exalted to a garret story,
Live on imaginary glory.
Ah! much I grieve to think how hard
The lot of an Aerial Bard!
Compell'd, himself so ill at ease,
To force a smile, and strive to please;
With nothing but bare walls in view,
To picture scenes he never knew!
To sing of masques, and city-feasting,
Things which he never dealt the least in;
The anxious care that wealth creates,
Or which on splendid fortune waits:
Against his feelings and his wishes,
To cater and cook up strange dishes;
To humour ev'ry patron's taste,
Flumm'ry for this, for that puff paste;
Oft tarnish'd subjects burnish bright,
And make what's black in grain look white.
The lot of an Aerial Bard!
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To force a smile, and strive to please;
With nothing but bare walls in view,
To picture scenes he never knew!
To sing of masques, and city-feasting,
Things which he never dealt the least in;
The anxious care that wealth creates,
Or which on splendid fortune waits:
Against his feelings and his wishes,
To cater and cook up strange dishes;
To humour ev'ry patron's taste,
Flumm'ry for this, for that puff paste;
Oft tarnish'd subjects burnish bright,
And make what's black in grain look white.
Nay, sometimes his poetic dreams
Waft him to more exalted themes;
From his joint stool elate he soars,
And proud Olympus' height explores,
Ranges in lofty odes the sky,
Lost in obscure sublimity;
For true sublime begins and ends
In what no mortal comprehends.—
Fearless he treads those dread abodes,
Where Jove drinks Nectar with the Gods,
Tells all his ragamuffin stories,
And damns his Whigs, and damns his Tories.
Or where gay Juno, somewhat frisky,
Her maids of honor treats with whisky;
Her husband, vixen-like, bespatters,
And tears each female's fame to tatters.—
In congress see th' Immortals sit,
With less than mortal sense or wit;
So coarse their thoughts, so low their jokes,
You'd swear them all St. Giles's folks.—
Th' impassion'd bard now trots, now prances,
Still Pindar-like curvets and dances;
Now lost in cloud, now full in day,
Till his steed fairly runs away:
Quite parch'd with thirst he quits the sky,
And finds his porter-pot run dry;
Nay still, perchance, more direful hap,
Can get no credit at the tap;
The landlord, void of taste, refuses
To wet the whistle of the Muses.
Waft him to more exalted themes;
From his joint stool elate he soars,
And proud Olympus' height explores,
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Lost in obscure sublimity;
For true sublime begins and ends
In what no mortal comprehends.—
Fearless he treads those dread abodes,
Where Jove drinks Nectar with the Gods,
Tells all his ragamuffin stories,
And damns his Whigs, and damns his Tories.
Or where gay Juno, somewhat frisky,
Her maids of honor treats with whisky;
Her husband, vixen-like, bespatters,
And tears each female's fame to tatters.—
In congress see th' Immortals sit,
With less than mortal sense or wit;
So coarse their thoughts, so low their jokes,
You'd swear them all St. Giles's folks.—
Th' impassion'd bard now trots, now prances,
Still Pindar-like curvets and dances;
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Till his steed fairly runs away:
Quite parch'd with thirst he quits the sky,
And finds his porter-pot run dry;
Nay still, perchance, more direful hap,
Can get no credit at the tap;
The landlord, void of taste, refuses
To wet the whistle of the Muses.
Thus the shrill lark, on trembling wings,
Upborn in air still soaring sings,
At last almost escap'd from view,
Drops to the earth from whence he flew:
Ode-writers hence, if wise, should know,
How quick the fall from high to low.
The plowman who his song hath heard,
Cares not three farthings for the bird;
So those who deal in notes sublime,
Are rarely paid their loss of time.
Upborn in air still soaring sings,
At last almost escap'd from view,
Drops to the earth from whence he flew:
Ode-writers hence, if wise, should know,
How quick the fall from high to low.
The plowman who his song hath heard,
Cares not three farthings for the bird;
So those who deal in notes sublime,
Are rarely paid their loss of time.
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Tho' ills like these, and many more,
Invest the poet's garret-door,
Whose pen and looks alike confess
The sharpen'd features of distress;
Yet some there are who court the Nine,
On whom the stars serener shine,
Who all at ease in Fortune's shades,
Sport with the fair Aonian Maids;
Whom no mean interests ever fire,
To prostitute the sacred lyre;
Whose artful strings are touch'd alone,
When willing Fancy gives the tone.
Whether intent to bring to light
That silent worth which shuns the sight;
Love's myrtle wreath for Beauty twine,
Or hang a lay on Friendship's shrine;
Some tale of fabled woe to rear,
And steal the plaudit of a tear;
To paint the triumph of a mind,
To honor train'd, by truth refin'd;
Or place the Hero bright in view,
And give to virtue, virtue's due.
Whate'er their theme, their only claim,
In all they write, is—honest fame.
Invest the poet's garret-door,
Whose pen and looks alike confess
The sharpen'd features of distress;
Yet some there are who court the Nine,
On whom the stars serener shine,
Who all at ease in Fortune's shades,
Sport with the fair Aonian Maids;
Whom no mean interests ever fire,
To prostitute the sacred lyre;
Whose artful strings are touch'd alone,
When willing Fancy gives the tone.
Whether intent to bring to light
That silent worth which shuns the sight;
Love's myrtle wreath for Beauty twine,
Or hang a lay on Friendship's shrine;
Some tale of fabled woe to rear,
And steal the plaudit of a tear;
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To honor train'd, by truth refin'd;
Or place the Hero bright in view,
And give to virtue, virtue's due.
Whate'er their theme, their only claim,
In all they write, is—honest fame.
A Bard like this, who never knew
Those cares which oft his tribe pursue,
Pleas'd would employ his vacant hours,
By wak'ning Fancy's sportive pow'rs;
And if he haply chanc'd to start
Some subject which engag'd his heart,
If from that subject he could raise
Lines that might glow in Virtue's praise,
With anxious fondness he would nurse
To prosp'rous growth his infant verse;
And if, with diffidence and doubt,
He brought at last his offspring out,
Set it before the public eye,
To know if it should live, or die,
'Twas trusting to experience yet
That candor he so oft had met.
Those cares which oft his tribe pursue,
Pleas'd would employ his vacant hours,
By wak'ning Fancy's sportive pow'rs;
And if he haply chanc'd to start
Some subject which engag'd his heart,
If from that subject he could raise
Lines that might glow in Virtue's praise,
With anxious fondness he would nurse
To prosp'rous growth his infant verse;
And if, with diffidence and doubt,
He brought at last his offspring out,
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To know if it should live, or die,
'Twas trusting to experience yet
That candor he so oft had met.
But, Reader, to pursue my tale,
I must draw off Illusion's veil,
And freely own the boasted Nine,
Tho' by most writers deem'd divine,
Are tinctur'd, spite of all we're told,
And strongly too, with mortal mould.
Deserting that exalted line,
Where they are destin'd most to shine,
Too often they'll foment a squabble,
In politics too often dabble;
Like wantons, lure, by winning ways,
Th' incautious youth who stop to gaze;
Seduce them up Parnassus' steep,
Where scarce the strong firm footing keep,
And weaker followers slide and drop,
Ere they have half attain'd its top.—
These Dames too, of celestial birth,
As the vain beauties of the earth,
Proud of their charms, their power, their station,
Live like coquets on admiration:
And if they once indulgence show
To any votary below,
Who hath their magic arts admir'd,
And half believ'd himself inspir'd;
Should he perchance, in evil hour,
Become neglectful of their power,
Or if some rival charm should start,
To fascinate his yielding heart;
Then in their heavenly breasts is seen
The full effects of mortal spleen;
Parnassus straight is in a blaze,
The Muses run nine different ways,
All is cabal, complaint, and chatter,
None but themselves know what's the matter.
Each female passion now afloat,
By jealousy they're veer'd about,
No arrogance of earthly beauty
Could more resent a breach of duty;
By conquest proud, they can't sustain
The loss of one who swell'd their train;
Each stratagem is put in motion,
To bring him back to their devotion.
I must draw off Illusion's veil,
And freely own the boasted Nine,
Tho' by most writers deem'd divine,
Are tinctur'd, spite of all we're told,
And strongly too, with mortal mould.
Deserting that exalted line,
Where they are destin'd most to shine,
Too often they'll foment a squabble,
In politics too often dabble;
Like wantons, lure, by winning ways,
Th' incautious youth who stop to gaze;
Seduce them up Parnassus' steep,
Where scarce the strong firm footing keep,
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Ere they have half attain'd its top.—
These Dames too, of celestial birth,
As the vain beauties of the earth,
Proud of their charms, their power, their station,
Live like coquets on admiration:
And if they once indulgence show
To any votary below,
Who hath their magic arts admir'd,
And half believ'd himself inspir'd;
Should he perchance, in evil hour,
Become neglectful of their power,
Or if some rival charm should start,
To fascinate his yielding heart;
Then in their heavenly breasts is seen
The full effects of mortal spleen;
Parnassus straight is in a blaze,
The Muses run nine different ways,
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None but themselves know what's the matter.
Each female passion now afloat,
By jealousy they're veer'd about,
No arrogance of earthly beauty
Could more resent a breach of duty;
By conquest proud, they can't sustain
The loss of one who swell'd their train;
Each stratagem is put in motion,
To bring him back to their devotion.
Our Culprit, who no ill intended,
Had thus their Highnesses offended;
Their backs were up, their pride was nettled,
Their spirit rouz'd, their hopes unsettled.
Had thus their Highnesses offended;
Their backs were up, their pride was nettled,
Their spirit rouz'd, their hopes unsettled.
Be ours a great revenge, said they,
Muses, like dogs, will have their day;
And we'll this truant Love despite,
By making his as black as night.
What! shall another boast the art
To alienate our votary's heart?
Inflame his breast with other fires
Than those our Sisterhood inspires?
But soon he to his cost shall know
We are not to be dealt with so.
By Aganippe's sacred stream,
Of which delirious poets dream,
And rave and write, so much, you'd think
'Twas at their meals their constant drink;
By bright Apollo's golden locks,
With which they'd grace their own dull blocks;
Nay, by old Pegasus beside,
Whom they all want to mount and ride,
Tho' they would strength and judgment lack
To sit five minutes on his back;
By these we swear we'll never cease
To cross his projects and his peace,
Till he returns to his allegiance,
And vows us once again obedience.
Let us then, posting swift as wind,
The Monarch of our Mountain find!
His Delphic Worship ne'er refuses
To vindicate the slighted Muses:
He'll rate the vagrant like a fury,
And be at once both judge and jury.
Muses, like dogs, will have their day;
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By making his as black as night.
What! shall another boast the art
To alienate our votary's heart?
Inflame his breast with other fires
Than those our Sisterhood inspires?
But soon he to his cost shall know
We are not to be dealt with so.
By Aganippe's sacred stream,
Of which delirious poets dream,
And rave and write, so much, you'd think
'Twas at their meals their constant drink;
By bright Apollo's golden locks,
With which they'd grace their own dull blocks;
Nay, by old Pegasus beside,
Whom they all want to mount and ride,
Tho' they would strength and judgment lack
To sit five minutes on his back;
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To cross his projects and his peace,
Till he returns to his allegiance,
And vows us once again obedience.
Let us then, posting swift as wind,
The Monarch of our Mountain find!
His Delphic Worship ne'er refuses
To vindicate the slighted Muses:
He'll rate the vagrant like a fury,
And be at once both judge and jury.
Ah, stop! fair Virgins of the lyre!—
Can fancied slights such bosoms fire!
Say, can your minds celestial prove
Those paltry piques which Mortals move?
Or of those springs conceive a notion,
That set their dirty tricks in motion?—
Daughters of Jove! can You disgrace,
By squabbling thus, your royal Race?
Wise as you are, you want a tutor;
Never run down a single suitor,
Nor treat your servants cavalierly,
Who earn, you know, their bread so dearly.
Your wages low, your liveries bare,
Your house-keeping as thin as air;
Fame's their sole vails, their only gain,
And this they often sue in vain;
Nay more, I'll tell you, by the bye,
You'd be mere nothings in the sky,
If the poor scribblers of the earth
Did not support your place and birth.
Tho' my assertion's bold, tis true,
You live by them, not they by you.
Can fancied slights such bosoms fire!
Say, can your minds celestial prove
Those paltry piques which Mortals move?
Or of those springs conceive a notion,
That set their dirty tricks in motion?—
Daughters of Jove! can You disgrace,
By squabbling thus, your royal Race?
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Never run down a single suitor,
Nor treat your servants cavalierly,
Who earn, you know, their bread so dearly.
Your wages low, your liveries bare,
Your house-keeping as thin as air;
Fame's their sole vails, their only gain,
And this they often sue in vain;
Nay more, I'll tell you, by the bye,
You'd be mere nothings in the sky,
If the poor scribblers of the earth
Did not support your place and birth.
Tho' my assertion's bold, tis true,
You live by them, not they by you.
These flighty Dames in vain I'm teaching,
They're all bounc'd off while I've been preaching;
Giddy, and train'd in scenes of fiction,
They never listen to conviction!
But spread their stories far and near,
Like mischief-making gossips here.
Ill-fortune to our Bard must follow!
They'll get a summons from Apollo,
Who, right or wrong, will take their part,
And find the means to make him smart.
They're all bounc'd off while I've been preaching;
Giddy, and train'd in scenes of fiction,
They never listen to conviction!
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Like mischief-making gossips here.
Ill-fortune to our Bard must follow!
They'll get a summons from Apollo,
Who, right or wrong, will take their part,
And find the means to make him smart.
Oh, Nature! whose extended sway
All but the Sons of Art obey,
Who, blooming in immortal youth,
Around thee spread'st Grace, Love, and Truth;
Could thy simplicity thus fire
The jealous Muses' vengeful ire?
Can no one give up rhyme for reason,
But They must deem the action treason?
If our poor Poet 'gainst their laws
Hath err'd, thou only wast the cause;
For, Divine Goddess, 'twas to thee
He rais'd his eye, and bow'd his knee!
Won by thy pow'rs, the more he gaz'd,
More on his sense thy beauties blaz'd;
In all thy works his ravish'd eye
Met nought but perfect harmony;
No wonder then his raptur'd mind
To Nature's nobler charms inclin'd,
Fond all her movements to revere,
And trace her thro' her wide career,
In all her silent shades conceal'd,
Or in her loveliest blaze reveal'd.—
Thus rous'd from Fancy's trivial dreams,
To Nature's more inviting themes,
He aim'd to sketch her operations,
When acting on the human passions;
How bright the soul to Virtue gain'd,
How dark, by vice or interest stain'd!
How Truth with hand unerring darts!
How Innocence attracts all hearts!
How looks can plead, how sighs may teach
In terms more eloquent than speech!—
True votary now, he wish'd to raise
A little Temple to her praise,
Where he in elegant array
Her various wonders might display,
Exhibit the mysterious chain
Which links her complicated reign,
And spread on each illumin'd side
What Mines conceal, and Oceans hide.
All but the Sons of Art obey,
Who, blooming in immortal youth,
Around thee spread'st Grace, Love, and Truth;
Could thy simplicity thus fire
The jealous Muses' vengeful ire?
Can no one give up rhyme for reason,
But They must deem the action treason?
If our poor Poet 'gainst their laws
Hath err'd, thou only wast the cause;
For, Divine Goddess, 'twas to thee
He rais'd his eye, and bow'd his knee!
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More on his sense thy beauties blaz'd;
In all thy works his ravish'd eye
Met nought but perfect harmony;
No wonder then his raptur'd mind
To Nature's nobler charms inclin'd,
Fond all her movements to revere,
And trace her thro' her wide career,
In all her silent shades conceal'd,
Or in her loveliest blaze reveal'd.—
Thus rous'd from Fancy's trivial dreams,
To Nature's more inviting themes,
He aim'd to sketch her operations,
When acting on the human passions;
How bright the soul to Virtue gain'd,
How dark, by vice or interest stain'd!
How Truth with hand unerring darts!
How Innocence attracts all hearts!
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In terms more eloquent than speech!—
True votary now, he wish'd to raise
A little Temple to her praise,
Where he in elegant array
Her various wonders might display,
Exhibit the mysterious chain
Which links her complicated reign,
And spread on each illumin'd side
What Mines conceal, and Oceans hide.
'Twas this enrag'd the Muses' spirits,
And made their eyes as red as ferrets.
When passion shakes these lovely creatures,
They lose at once their heavenly features,
And in their poor degraded breast
Each mortal feeling stands confest.
Read but the wars of Greece and Troy,
At every school taught every boy:
Old Homer pictures to our view
The manners of th' Olympian crew;
How they deceive, cheat, fight, and squabble,
Far worse than any blackguard rabble;
From that great cuckold-maker Jove,
And the intriguing Queen of Love,
From drunken Bacchus, swaggering Mars,
Down to the race of lesser Stars,
'Tis discord all, eternal brawling,
Nay worse, eternal caterwauling!—
Dian alone, of all the sky,
Affects to boast virginity,
Which makes each female there expose
Her modesty where'er she goes;
And on her head a moon they stick,
To mark her for a Lunatic.
And made their eyes as red as ferrets.
When passion shakes these lovely creatures,
They lose at once their heavenly features,
And in their poor degraded breast
Each mortal feeling stands confest.
Read but the wars of Greece and Troy,
At every school taught every boy:
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The manners of th' Olympian crew;
How they deceive, cheat, fight, and squabble,
Far worse than any blackguard rabble;
From that great cuckold-maker Jove,
And the intriguing Queen of Love,
From drunken Bacchus, swaggering Mars,
Down to the race of lesser Stars,
'Tis discord all, eternal brawling,
Nay worse, eternal caterwauling!—
Dian alone, of all the sky,
Affects to boast virginity,
Which makes each female there expose
Her modesty where'er she goes;
And on her head a moon they stick,
To mark her for a Lunatic.
Now, Reader, if th' Immortal Race
Can thus Olympus' realms disgrace,
If from the Court end of the world
Such wretched dialogues are hurl'd,
Parnassus hardly will be found
In more politeness to abound.
To own the truth, 'tis nearly equal,
As we shall shew you in the sequel.
Should you compassionate our Bard,
And think his persecution hard,
You'll wish to know how matters went;
I hold the pen with that intent;
But you must give a writer time,
Whether it be in Prose, or Rhyme,
Facts should be clear, and duly stated,
A tale is marr'd if ill related.
We'll leave our Poet for the present,
Indulging thoughts extremely pleasant,
Arranging all his future building,
Settling its ornaments and gilding:
Whilst he's his votive scheme pursuing,
Unconscious of the mischief brewing,
Let us the angry Muses follow,
Who're on the wing to seek Apollo.
Can thus Olympus' realms disgrace,
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Such wretched dialogues are hurl'd,
Parnassus hardly will be found
In more politeness to abound.
To own the truth, 'tis nearly equal,
As we shall shew you in the sequel.
Should you compassionate our Bard,
And think his persecution hard,
You'll wish to know how matters went;
I hold the pen with that intent;
But you must give a writer time,
Whether it be in Prose, or Rhyme,
Facts should be clear, and duly stated,
A tale is marr'd if ill related.
We'll leave our Poet for the present,
Indulging thoughts extremely pleasant,
Arranging all his future building,
Settling its ornaments and gilding:
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Unconscious of the mischief brewing,
Let us the angry Muses follow,
Who're on the wing to seek Apollo.
END OF THE FIRST CANTO.
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CANTO THE SECOND.
Now patience guard the luckless wretch,
Compell'd his thoughts and legs to stretch,
And round each crack and covert wind,
To look for what he cannot find!
Whether it be a great estate,
Which ne'er was destin'd him by Fate;
Or what he less might choose to mention,
A good snug place, or snugger pension;
Or for some debtor should he search,
Who basely left him in the lurch,
Or one, that rogue-like shirk'd his bail,
Who kindly sav'd him from a jail.
Compell'd his thoughts and legs to stretch,
And round each crack and covert wind,
To look for what he cannot find!
Whether it be a great estate,
Which ne'er was destin'd him by Fate;
Or what he less might choose to mention,
A good snug place, or snugger pension;
Or for some debtor should he search,
Who basely left him in the lurch,
Or one, that rogue-like shirk'd his bail,
Who kindly sav'd him from a jail.
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This was in truth the Muses' case:
O'er all Apollo's haunts they pace;
Nor up, nor round the sacred Mount,
Nor even at th' inspiring fount,
His vagrant Worship could be met,
This put our Ladies in a fret.
And, Reader, should I here explain
Why all their searches prov'd in vain,
Why this great laurell'd prince of rhyme
Was out of place, and out of time,
I can't unravel well the clue,
Or bring this matter fair to view,
Unless we both together pause,
And enter deeper in the cause.
You'll have no scruple to confess
An author's licence to digress;
To travel on, without e'er stopping,
Or finding where to bait, or pop in,
Both man and horse must quickly tire,
And Poets feel relax'd their fire;
Digression, therefore, pleads this merit,
We lose less leather, gain more spirit:
It acts just like a pioneer,
To make rough smooth, th' entangled clear,
And, as you journey on your ways
Serves as a road-map in your chaise;
You better comprehend what's doing,
And mark the very line you're going.
O'er all Apollo's haunts they pace;
Nor up, nor round the sacred Mount,
Nor even at th' inspiring fount,
His vagrant Worship could be met,
This put our Ladies in a fret.
And, Reader, should I here explain
Why all their searches prov'd in vain,
Why this great laurell'd prince of rhyme
Was out of place, and out of time,
I can't unravel well the clue,
Or bring this matter fair to view,
Unless we both together pause,
And enter deeper in the cause.
You'll have no scruple to confess
An author's licence to digress;
To travel on, without e'er stopping,
Or finding where to bait, or pop in,
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And Poets feel relax'd their fire;
Digression, therefore, pleads this merit,
We lose less leather, gain more spirit:
It acts just like a pioneer,
To make rough smooth, th' entangled clear,
And, as you journey on your ways
Serves as a road-map in your chaise;
You better comprehend what's doing,
And mark the very line you're going.
Now should we take a little survey,
How things came thus turn'd topsy-turvy,
Why these Nine Ladies, tho' inspir'd,
Hunted about till they were tir'd,
'Twill not seem strange, if once you know
What lengths Apollo oft would go—
A very rambler from his birth,
Jigging o'er half the peopled earth;
Of his strange pranks still new proofs giving,
Changing his character and living.
Now through the Zodiac see him steer,
An enterprizing charioteer,
And now fierce Pegasus bestriding,
O'er the wide range of metre riding;
From whose example, be it spoken,
So many necks have since been broken.
At Troy Town walls this mighty God
Did not disdain to bear a hod,
A Bricklayer then—and next he'll greet us
As Cow-keeper to King Admetus
A sighing lover grown, in vain
He strives his Daphne's heart to gain,
Who calling power to aid her quarrel,
The cheated God embrac'd a laurel;
Round his unmanly temples placing
That foliage which was most disgracing.—
Of all the rake-shames in the sky,
None e'er possess'd less gallantry:
Sad Niobe, thy fatal story
Confirms this truth, and stains his glory!
What! on a Lady draw his bow!
And to her race such vengeance show!
Merely because th' incautious Dame
Had half eclips'd his mother's fame,
Outshone her at a Theban ball,
And of Latona took the wall;—
'Gainst Marsyas next, turn'd butcher hard,
He flays alive a rival bard,
Leaving that spirit to our time,
Which heats too oft the sons of Rhyme,
Who merciless dissect each other,
And skin with critic rage a brother.
First fiddle to th' Olympian Train,
What hand could raise so sweet a strain!
And on his harp, no Welchman ever
Was half so dext'rous, half so clever.—
Besides all this, as in a glass,
He saw whate'er would come to pass;
Was Prophet, Soothsayer, and Wizard,
Could look into your heart and gizzard,
Whilst from his Delphic trumpet bounc'd
Those idle omens he announc'd.
How things came thus turn'd topsy-turvy,
Why these Nine Ladies, tho' inspir'd,
Hunted about till they were tir'd,
'Twill not seem strange, if once you know
What lengths Apollo oft would go—
A very rambler from his birth,
Jigging o'er half the peopled earth;
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Changing his character and living.
Now through the Zodiac see him steer,
An enterprizing charioteer,
And now fierce Pegasus bestriding,
O'er the wide range of metre riding;
From whose example, be it spoken,
So many necks have since been broken.
At Troy Town walls this mighty God
Did not disdain to bear a hod,
A Bricklayer then—and next he'll greet us
As Cow-keeper to King Admetus
A sighing lover grown, in vain
He strives his Daphne's heart to gain,
Who calling power to aid her quarrel,
The cheated God embrac'd a laurel;
Round his unmanly temples placing
That foliage which was most disgracing.—
23
None e'er possess'd less gallantry:
Sad Niobe, thy fatal story
Confirms this truth, and stains his glory!
What! on a Lady draw his bow!
And to her race such vengeance show!
Merely because th' incautious Dame
Had half eclips'd his mother's fame,
Outshone her at a Theban ball,
And of Latona took the wall;—
'Gainst Marsyas next, turn'd butcher hard,
He flays alive a rival bard,
Leaving that spirit to our time,
Which heats too oft the sons of Rhyme,
Who merciless dissect each other,
And skin with critic rage a brother.
First fiddle to th' Olympian Train,
What hand could raise so sweet a strain!
24
Was half so dext'rous, half so clever.—
Besides all this, as in a glass,
He saw whate'er would come to pass;
Was Prophet, Soothsayer, and Wizard,
Could look into your heart and gizzard,
Whilst from his Delphic trumpet bounc'd
Those idle omens he announc'd.
In these and fifty other parts,
The changeful God display'd his arts,
Equal in all—whate'er his will
Urg'd him to act, he play'd with skill;
To him it was indifferent quite,
Or time, or distance, day, or night,
From realm to realm convey'd as soon
As if he rode an Air-Balloon.
The changeful God display'd his arts,
Equal in all—whate'er his will
Urg'd him to act, he play'd with skill;
To him it was indifferent quite,
Or time, or distance, day, or night,
From realm to realm convey'd as soon
As if he rode an Air-Balloon.
25
Amongst the numerous occupations,
Which carried him thro' different nations,
Impell'd by love, or spleen, or whim,
Fond o'er their various scenes to skim,
To Physic also he laid claim,
And the Art sanction'd with his name:
Tho' never bred at any college,
Nor from Diplomas claiming knowledge,
By much grimace, and more disguise,
The multitude esteem'd him wise.
The practice fill'd his hours of leisure,
To him 'twas frolic, change, and pleasure,
By it such scenes to him were shown,
As else he never might have known;
It taught him easily to find
What foolish tricks can gull mankind.
Which carried him thro' different nations,
Impell'd by love, or spleen, or whim,
Fond o'er their various scenes to skim,
To Physic also he laid claim,
And the Art sanction'd with his name:
Tho' never bred at any college,
Nor from Diplomas claiming knowledge,
By much grimace, and more disguise,
The multitude esteem'd him wise.
The practice fill'd his hours of leisure,
To him 'twas frolic, change, and pleasure,
By it such scenes to him were shown,
As else he never might have known;
It taught him easily to find
What foolish tricks can gull mankind.
'Twas thus his Godship pass'd his days,
Or quite incog, or in a blaze;
His thoughts on some new project running,
To exercise his various cunning.
No wonder then the Muses went
Sometimes, as now, on a wrong scent.
No wonder that they thus, in vain,
Search'd for the Leader of their train,
Who, busied on his own affairs,
Had at this time neglected theirs;
For at the instant I am speaking,
While they their laurell'd Chief were seeking,
His Highness, by conveyance neat,
Had quitted his poetic seat,
And by a medical vagary
Induc'd his plan of life to vary,
Disguis'd, in London now sat down,
The greatest Quack in all the town,
And station'd snug on Ludgate Hill,
By Letters Patent sold his Pill,
Whose virtues could, as hand-bills swore,
Life's secret labyrinths explore,
Each lurking mischief ferret out,
And all disorders fairly rout.—
O, Reader! had we time to stop,
And lounge ten minutes in his shop,
To mark his patients' various faces,
Relating all their piteous cases,
Whilst he, with scientific smile,
Feels for their pains, their nerves, their bile,
And vows, if they'll but take his pills,
He'll free them soon from all their ills;
The scene indeed might prove inviting,
Yet the strict critic laws of writing,
Which no such sportive licence know,
Command that we straight forward go;
No deviation's here permitted,
Nor must our turnpike road be quitted,
Till on their own, or other ground,
Th' Aonian Maids once more are found:
Thanks to our stars, our point in view
Demands not a mysterious clue;
Nor needs it, to make matters clear,
Back to Parnassus that we steer,
Since these high Dames, who far outvie
All others in sagacity,
No sooner found Apollo gone,
Than they their travelling wings put on,
And posting thro' the yielding air,
Full speed to London all repair:
Arriv'd, there could not be a doubt
But they would find him quickly out;
They nos'd his Highness with the ease
That cats smell mice, or mice smell cheese,
Nor in this great bamboozled town
Was Kattafelto better known,
Or Doctor Graham's powerful bed,
Of which such wond'rous things were said;
On each dead wall of every street
His pasted folio puffs they meet,
“Descriptive of his pill's success,
“Which scores were ready to confess,
“How small their price, how great their pow'rs,
“And what the Doctor's usual hours.”
Or quite incog, or in a blaze;
26
To exercise his various cunning.
No wonder then the Muses went
Sometimes, as now, on a wrong scent.
No wonder that they thus, in vain,
Search'd for the Leader of their train,
Who, busied on his own affairs,
Had at this time neglected theirs;
For at the instant I am speaking,
While they their laurell'd Chief were seeking,
His Highness, by conveyance neat,
Had quitted his poetic seat,
And by a medical vagary
Induc'd his plan of life to vary,
Disguis'd, in London now sat down,
The greatest Quack in all the town,
And station'd snug on Ludgate Hill,
By Letters Patent sold his Pill,
27
Life's secret labyrinths explore,
Each lurking mischief ferret out,
And all disorders fairly rout.—
O, Reader! had we time to stop,
And lounge ten minutes in his shop,
To mark his patients' various faces,
Relating all their piteous cases,
Whilst he, with scientific smile,
Feels for their pains, their nerves, their bile,
And vows, if they'll but take his pills,
He'll free them soon from all their ills;
The scene indeed might prove inviting,
Yet the strict critic laws of writing,
Which no such sportive licence know,
Command that we straight forward go;
No deviation's here permitted,
Nor must our turnpike road be quitted,
28
Th' Aonian Maids once more are found:
Thanks to our stars, our point in view
Demands not a mysterious clue;
Nor needs it, to make matters clear,
Back to Parnassus that we steer,
Since these high Dames, who far outvie
All others in sagacity,
No sooner found Apollo gone,
Than they their travelling wings put on,
And posting thro' the yielding air,
Full speed to London all repair:
Arriv'd, there could not be a doubt
But they would find him quickly out;
They nos'd his Highness with the ease
That cats smell mice, or mice smell cheese,
Nor in this great bamboozled town
Was Kattafelto better known,
29
Of which such wond'rous things were said;
On each dead wall of every street
His pasted folio puffs they meet,
“Descriptive of his pill's success,
“Which scores were ready to confess,
“How small their price, how great their pow'rs,
“And what the Doctor's usual hours.”
The Muses look'd at one another,
And scarce a giggling fit could smother:
Tho' they had many a time before
Seen his caprices o'er and o'er,
They ne'er conceiv'd his laurell'd head
By a tie-wig would be o'erspread,
Or that he'd quit his glorious line,
As patron to the sacred Nine,
On fair Olympus turn his back,
Once Prince of Poets, now a Quack:
But some vagary to pursue,
What will not Gods or Mortals do!
And scarce a giggling fit could smother:
Tho' they had many a time before
Seen his caprices o'er and o'er,
They ne'er conceiv'd his laurell'd head
By a tie-wig would be o'erspread,
Or that he'd quit his glorious line,
As patron to the sacred Nine,
On fair Olympus turn his back,
Once Prince of Poets, now a Quack:
30
What will not Gods or Mortals do!
Our Ladies, it must be confess'd,
Were at this matter much distress'd;
Their pride was hurt, their own Apollo
Could such a sniv'ling business follow,
Or have for Quack'ry such an itch:
But being now just at Fleet Ditch,
'Twas neither a fit place or season
On all his foolish pranks to reason,
So Ludgate Hill they straight ascended,
And at his shop their journey ended.
Were at this matter much distress'd;
Their pride was hurt, their own Apollo
Could such a sniv'ling business follow,
Or have for Quack'ry such an itch:
But being now just at Fleet Ditch,
'Twas neither a fit place or season
On all his foolish pranks to reason,
So Ludgate Hill they straight ascended,
And at his shop their journey ended.
Now when these fair Parnassian trippers
The Doctor found, in cap and slippers,
Smoaking his pipe, and on his table
His pot of porter, quite unable
Longer to hide their swelling ire,
Th' immortal Master of the lyre
They thus address'd—What! does Apollo
Think we can this ill treatment swallow?
Without a Chief our Mountain left,
Ourselves of patronage bereft;
Is't not enough to rouse our passion,
To find we're getting out of fashion?
Our altars, which burnt once so bright,
Casting a poor expiring light,
Whilst you, turn'd Mountebank below,
Care not above how matters go?—
Who'd e'er have dream'd the God of Verse
Could condescend to act the nurse?
Roll up vile pills, cut corns, spread blisters,
And change your pipe to pipe of glisters?
Rouse, rouse, for shame, and aid our quarrel,
Burn your tie-wig, and take your laurel;
Your native skies once more ascend,
And all this trifling nonsense end!
Whilst you are physicking the nation
We lose our power of inspiration,
As much distress'd and out of case
As ministers when out of place.
Who will invoke, or who obey
The Muses, who no longer sway?
Each writer now will take to prosing,
And all his readers take to dosing.
If Genius once is lull'd to sleep,
Who will the fine Parnassus keep,
'Twill turn to a tea-drinking Garden,
Nor you nor we be worth one farthing.
The Doctor found, in cap and slippers,
Smoaking his pipe, and on his table
His pot of porter, quite unable
31
Th' immortal Master of the lyre
They thus address'd—What! does Apollo
Think we can this ill treatment swallow?
Without a Chief our Mountain left,
Ourselves of patronage bereft;
Is't not enough to rouse our passion,
To find we're getting out of fashion?
Our altars, which burnt once so bright,
Casting a poor expiring light,
Whilst you, turn'd Mountebank below,
Care not above how matters go?—
Who'd e'er have dream'd the God of Verse
Could condescend to act the nurse?
Roll up vile pills, cut corns, spread blisters,
And change your pipe to pipe of glisters?
Rouse, rouse, for shame, and aid our quarrel,
Burn your tie-wig, and take your laurel;
32
And all this trifling nonsense end!
Whilst you are physicking the nation
We lose our power of inspiration,
As much distress'd and out of case
As ministers when out of place.
Who will invoke, or who obey
The Muses, who no longer sway?
Each writer now will take to prosing,
And all his readers take to dosing.
If Genius once is lull'd to sleep,
Who will the fine Parnassus keep,
'Twill turn to a tea-drinking Garden,
Nor you nor we be worth one farthing.
His tube Apollo now laid down,
His noble brow assum'd a frown:
Zounds, Girls, the angry God reply'd,
Who can your cursed noise abide?
In Pluto's name, say what's the matter,
What brings you here, or why this chatter?
Nine clacks at once together going,
And not a soul the reason knowing!
I plainly see with half a glance,
Your tongues have got St. Vitus' dance,
They jig so much, and make such slips,
You cannot keep them in your lips;
A pill of mine will set all right,
And you shall each take one to-night.
His noble brow assum'd a frown:
Zounds, Girls, the angry God reply'd,
Who can your cursed noise abide?
33
What brings you here, or why this chatter?
Nine clacks at once together going,
And not a soul the reason knowing!
I plainly see with half a glance,
Your tongues have got St. Vitus' dance,
They jig so much, and make such slips,
You cannot keep them in your lips;
A pill of mine will set all right,
And you shall each take one to-night.
The Muses, fearing that Apollo
His pill might with a blister follow,
Lower'd their haughty tone.—Your pills,
Great Sir (they cry'd) can't cure our ills;
But in your pow'r, and your science,
Your Servants place most firm reliance,
Quite confident your Godship never
From us will your affection sever.
Nor wonder if both pride and spirit
From you, our Sov'reign, we inherit;
And if with too much warmth and zeal
We to that Sov'reign now appeal,
Think what just rage must be excited
In Nine young Females basely slighted.
Is't not enough that ev'ry day
Our once firm champions steal away,
And all their rapt'rous ardour close
Not in brisk verse, but stupid prose?
Sure this will vindicate our fury
Before yourself, or any jury.
Nay, with all these vexations rife,
One whom we deem'd our own for life,
One whom thro' ancient Rome we led,
And taught the dang'rous Alps to tread,
And thence his steps conducted where
Our much belov'd, much mourn'd Voltaire
In Ferney fix'd that splendid throne
Which your own voice confirm'd his own;
One too, who ween'd no Lady Muse
To aid his purpose durst refuse,
Whether he chose to move along
Plaintive, in elegiac song,
Or, sporting to some lighter measure,
Unlock'd gay Humour's comic treasure,
Hath from our standard basely flown,
And to a Rival pref'rence shown.
Can you believe? th' apostate creature
All his addresses pays to Nature!
To her his faithless arms he stretches,
Her charms adores, her movements sketches;
To her a Temple now he's raising,
Where soon her altar will be blazing,
And all her treasures sparkle round,
And the proud Dome her fame resound,
Unless our own Apollo aids
The cause of his deserted Maids,
And blasting Falshood in its birth,
Dashes this Edifice to earth.
His pill might with a blister follow,
Lower'd their haughty tone.—Your pills,
Great Sir (they cry'd) can't cure our ills;
But in your pow'r, and your science,
Your Servants place most firm reliance,
Quite confident your Godship never
From us will your affection sever.
34
From you, our Sov'reign, we inherit;
And if with too much warmth and zeal
We to that Sov'reign now appeal,
Think what just rage must be excited
In Nine young Females basely slighted.
Is't not enough that ev'ry day
Our once firm champions steal away,
And all their rapt'rous ardour close
Not in brisk verse, but stupid prose?
Sure this will vindicate our fury
Before yourself, or any jury.
Nay, with all these vexations rife,
One whom we deem'd our own for life,
One whom thro' ancient Rome we led,
And taught the dang'rous Alps to tread,
And thence his steps conducted where
Our much belov'd, much mourn'd Voltaire
35
Which your own voice confirm'd his own;
One too, who ween'd no Lady Muse
To aid his purpose durst refuse,
Whether he chose to move along
Plaintive, in elegiac song,
Or, sporting to some lighter measure,
Unlock'd gay Humour's comic treasure,
Hath from our standard basely flown,
And to a Rival pref'rence shown.
Can you believe? th' apostate creature
All his addresses pays to Nature!
To her his faithless arms he stretches,
Her charms adores, her movements sketches;
To her a Temple now he's raising,
Where soon her altar will be blazing,
And all her treasures sparkle round,
And the proud Dome her fame resound,
36
The cause of his deserted Maids,
And blasting Falshood in its birth,
Dashes this Edifice to earth.
Since (quoth the God) you've found your manners,
I may perchance defend your banners;
But ne'er will I, unless I'm tipsy,
When Jove himself is not se ipse,
Be bully'd by a female's tongue,
Tho' glib as Juno's it were hung.
I've patiently the business heard,
Which hath all this ill temper stirr'd,;
I feel your wrongs as much as you,
And we'll a just revenge pursue;
For, Girls, while you remain discreet,
Who dares slight you my wrath shall meet:
This truant, who so false a wretch is,
Shall shortly rue his prose and sketches;
We'll of his Temple soon bereave him,
Then see if Nature can relieve him;
He'll find her influence prove but vain,
And sue once more to join your train;
But 'twould not suit my laurell'd crown
With my own hand to dash it down.
Kings, when some dirty trick they try,
To dirtier ministers apply,
Who stand before them as a screen,
While they indulge their power or spleen;
Thus I'll destroy by slow degrees
Th' Apostate's pleasure and his ease,
And, better to attain this end,
I'll do it by his bosom friend;
'Twill give a keener pang besides,
If wounded where he most confides.—
I may perchance defend your banners;
But ne'er will I, unless I'm tipsy,
When Jove himself is not se ipse,
Be bully'd by a female's tongue,
Tho' glib as Juno's it were hung.
I've patiently the business heard,
Which hath all this ill temper stirr'd,;
I feel your wrongs as much as you,
And we'll a just revenge pursue;
For, Girls, while you remain discreet,
Who dares slight you my wrath shall meet:
This truant, who so false a wretch is,
Shall shortly rue his prose and sketches;
37
Then see if Nature can relieve him;
He'll find her influence prove but vain,
And sue once more to join your train;
But 'twould not suit my laurell'd crown
With my own hand to dash it down.
Kings, when some dirty trick they try,
To dirtier ministers apply,
Who stand before them as a screen,
While they indulge their power or spleen;
Thus I'll destroy by slow degrees
Th' Apostate's pleasure and his ease,
And, better to attain this end,
I'll do it by his bosom friend;
'Twill give a keener pang besides,
If wounded where he most confides.—
When Troy was built, you recollect
I dabbled as an Architect;
A very sorry one, you'll say,
But worse since then have come in play,
And of the art I've understood
Enough, to do more harm than good;
From better heads ideas stealing,
To plan a frieze, or form a cieling:
I'll hint the means while the work's doing,
To make his Edifice a ruin;
And he shall find his schemes defeated,
Before his building is compleated.
There is beside, in this great town,
A Dame of infamous renown,
Whose great delight is to embarrass,
Torment the weak, the manly harass,
And by her dark malignant arts
Aims to disturb ingenuous hearts;
Living the plague of half the nation,
Mischief her trade, her name Vexation;
In our own scheme her aid we'll join,
And thus compleat the great design.
I dabbled as an Architect;
38
But worse since then have come in play,
And of the art I've understood
Enough, to do more harm than good;
From better heads ideas stealing,
To plan a frieze, or form a cieling:
I'll hint the means while the work's doing,
To make his Edifice a ruin;
And he shall find his schemes defeated,
Before his building is compleated.
There is beside, in this great town,
A Dame of infamous renown,
Whose great delight is to embarrass,
Torment the weak, the manly harass,
And by her dark malignant arts
Aims to disturb ingenuous hearts;
Living the plague of half the nation,
Mischief her trade, her name Vexation;
39
And thus compleat the great design.
But now, my Girls, 'tis growing late,
St. Paul's hath long ago struck eight,
And, since we've set all matters right,
E'en take your beds with me to-night;
Being all birds of the same feather,
You may contrive to roost together.
To tramp the streets at such an hour
Would put you in each Puppy's pow'r,
Who nothing would more gladly chuse,
Than to pick up a straggling Muse.
I know this Town enough to say,
Here Folly reigns with amplest sway,
Making those kindred vices thrive
Which help to keep my shop alive.—
Nor think, soft Virgins of the lyre,
Ignoble views my schemes inspire,
If oft my radiant form I shroud,
And mix with the terrestrial crowd,
To such odd frolics I'm inclin'd,
Merely to better know mankind,
Closer to read the human race,
Which some adorn, but more disgrace.
Thus I on all their actions gaze,
And mark their little dirty ways,
Passing their lives in toil and pother,
By turns a prey to one another.
I'm truly weary of the sight,
And shortly mean to take my flight;
But first I'll make your Culprit own,
Renew'd obedience to your throne,
That future Bards, in future times,
Who dare for Prose relinquish Rhymes,
By his example may be taught,
Secession's punish'd as it ought.
This justice done, I shut my shop,
And seek with you Olympus' top,
Where I will make our old dad Jove,
And all the jolly folks above,
Shake their imperial sides with laughter,
At what I shall recount hereafter,
When I describe them to a tittle
This town, of which they know so little.
The various scenes I've here survey'd,
Conceal'd beneath this masquerade;
The characters with which it teems,
Some broad awake, some lost in dreams,
And in the midst of Arts and Science,
Oft bidding Common Sense defiance.
St. Paul's hath long ago struck eight,
And, since we've set all matters right,
E'en take your beds with me to-night;
Being all birds of the same feather,
You may contrive to roost together.
To tramp the streets at such an hour
Would put you in each Puppy's pow'r,
Who nothing would more gladly chuse,
Than to pick up a straggling Muse.
I know this Town enough to say,
Here Folly reigns with amplest sway,
Making those kindred vices thrive
Which help to keep my shop alive.—
Nor think, soft Virgins of the lyre,
Ignoble views my schemes inspire,
40
And mix with the terrestrial crowd,
To such odd frolics I'm inclin'd,
Merely to better know mankind,
Closer to read the human race,
Which some adorn, but more disgrace.
Thus I on all their actions gaze,
And mark their little dirty ways,
Passing their lives in toil and pother,
By turns a prey to one another.
I'm truly weary of the sight,
And shortly mean to take my flight;
But first I'll make your Culprit own,
Renew'd obedience to your throne,
That future Bards, in future times,
Who dare for Prose relinquish Rhymes,
By his example may be taught,
Secession's punish'd as it ought.
41
And seek with you Olympus' top,
Where I will make our old dad Jove,
And all the jolly folks above,
Shake their imperial sides with laughter,
At what I shall recount hereafter,
When I describe them to a tittle
This town, of which they know so little.
The various scenes I've here survey'd,
Conceal'd beneath this masquerade;
The characters with which it teems,
Some broad awake, some lost in dreams,
And in the midst of Arts and Science,
Oft bidding Common Sense defiance.
But this at proper time you'll know,
Let us now down to supper go,
And our convivial hour prolong,
With some good old Parnassian song;
Then, till the ruddy morn shall rise,
In peaceful slumbers close your eyes.
Let us now down to supper go,
42
With some good old Parnassian song;
Then, till the ruddy morn shall rise,
In peaceful slumbers close your eyes.
END OF THE SECOND CANTO.
43
CANTO THE THIRD.
No—not for all that empty fameCan give, or happiest writers claim,
Nor what to Bards is most bewitching,
The run of a warm plenteous kitchen;
Tho' Dodsley beckon'd with his purse,
Dodsley, the Poets' friend and nurse,
No—nor for all beneath the skies,
Would I offend The Unities;
Nor my historic Tale disgrace
By want of Action, Time, or Place;
Or in this little Drama bring,
Or person, circumstance, or thing,
44
Deem most essential to the plot,
That thus each part well ty'd together,
The whole may stand both wind and weather.
Tho' in obedience to these rules,
We find too often Genius cools,
I hold it classical and right
To keep them ever in our sight.
Now, Reader, 'tis expedient here
That a new Personage appear,
Not new to all, tho' some won't own
They have before this Lady known,
Of whom Apollo mention made,
In what he to the Muses said;
Nor needs there trumpeting or drumming,
To tell you that Vexation's coming;
Yet ere she reaches the Stage-door,
Allow me just to step before,
45
Give you the outlines of this Dame.
A Welch Attorney was her Sire,
A thing of petulance and fire,
Who would for ten pence go to law,
Then either make, or find a flaw,
And by his art, and his delusion,
Set a whole parish in confusion.
For plunder ever lying wait,
He'd mortgage thrice the same estate,
Would take a bribe on either side,
And Justice and the Devil defy'd.
The spawn of this intriguing creature
Was like her Dad in mind and feature;
Rebellious even in the womb,
She fought her way for elbow-room,
46
The suffering mother sunk to earth.
This child, that bad might still be worse,
Was suckled by a bilious nurse,
Who for the breast whene'er she'd call,
Plump'd not her veins with milk but Gall.
A crooked sallow thing she grew,
As artful as a German Jew;
The father lov'd her next his pelf,
In her he saw a second self,
And when that awful summons came,
Which only could his rogueries tame,
He left this darling all his wealth,
Together scrap'd by fraud or stealth;
With which she blazon'd up and down,
A rich Welch Heiress on the town.
But having pass'd her youthful days
In Mischief's dark and winding ways,
47
To court this antiquated maid;
She on mankind returns the slight,
Pursuing them with keenest spite.
The public prints she daily stains
With the sharp venom of her brains,
By sland'rous paragraphs and slurs
Tainting the purest characters.
At ev'ry Rout you'll see her betting,
And all concern'd with her a fretting;
She makes the young, with stifled curses,
And ill-mark'd smiles untie their purses,
Whilst from old Ladies, scarcely able
To waddle out to a card-table,
She slily steals away the Trumps,
Till disappointment bursts their jumps.
On the first night of a new play,
She'd sooner die than be away;
48
She half distracts the Author's brain.
Oft too her Gorgon head she'll pop,
And Critic sit in Dodsley's shop,
Where half-fledg'd Poets new on wing,
Who've made their first attempt to sing,
Hover unknown, with anxious ear
Th' opinion of the world to hear;
She with sharp tongue condemns their style,
Their thoughts how coarse! their rhymes how vile!
Her fell remarks their Genius stagger,
And ev'ry pointed word's a dagger.
And this is she whose artful pranks
Makes all our Lottery Tickets—Blanks;
Who when our friends or kinsmen die,
Wipes out th' expected legacy,
And gives away, to wound our rest,
The place long hop'd, tho' ne'er possess'd.
49
In usher'd by the Chimney Sweep,
And that discordant sound Old Cloaths,
Croak'd thro' a snuffling Hebrew nose;
Sots from their night's debauch home strolling,
Stage-coaches to the country rolling;
Fishwomen, warm'd with Gin, debate,
All tramping quick to Billingsgate,
Whilst fifty intermingled cries,
In jargon inarticulate rise:
Fogs and black smoke together meet,
As they would both dispute the street,
Agreed, the Atmosphere they share,
And their dark trains cloud all the air.
The Muses look'd around them yawning,
They ne'er had seen so queer a dawning;
Indeed the Nine with truth might say,
'Twas the burlesque of opening day.—
50
When close behind retiring Night,
Aurora from the East ascending,
With the young playful Hours attending,
Scatters around her purple rays,
Till all creation feels the blaze,
Warm, unimpeded, and serene,
They gild and gladden ev'ry scene.
Th' expanding flowers shake off the dew,
And spread their beauties to her view,
Whilst the wing'd Zephyrs hov'ring round,
Brush'd the rich perfumes from the ground,
And with their odours mark the way,
The splendid track of orient Day.
Tho' thus fair morn to these fair Maids
Brighten'd their own Aonian shades,
Yet they had sense enough to know
In London things could not be so;
51
Must be more stinks than sweets bestowing,
Which, wafted from close courts, dead walls,
And murky lanes that round St. Paul's
On Ludgate Hill assail'd their noses
With smells, unlike the smell of Roses.—
But practis'd travellers little care
Whether or well, or ill they fare,
To each occurrence patient bend,
Still pushing forward to their end.
Apollo, by his maid, requested
To know how his nine guests had rested;
Who in the humblest terms exprest,
Her master was both shav'd and drest,
And, whensoe'er they were at leisure,
That breakfast would attend their pleasure.
The Muses, all alert, descended,
And on his tea-table attended.
52
To you, dear Girls, must seem but odd;
With your celestial frames ill-suiting;
Here life's perpetually recruiting,
And without three good meals a day,
Its wasting wheels won't keep in play;
Let me, as Doctor, then advise,
To eat the moment that you rise;
See, I've provided you good stuffing,
Here's Toast, and Yorkshire Cake, and Muffin,
And the best Tea without exception,
Unmixt and free from all deception.—
This business over, we'll pursue
The scheme which so much interests you,
And seek this mischief-making Dame,
On whom we now must have a claim.
Close to that venerable Hall,
Where suitors loud for justice call,
53
A theatre for Truth and Guilt
Whereon Contention's scenes to draw,
And the dull pantomime of law,
Stood the well-noted habitation
Of this great Queen of Plots, Vexation.
It was not for the first time now,
Apollo made this Dame his bow,
Having, in his doctorial station,
Conferr'd on her much obligation,
By patching up, from dissolution,
A sad old Devil's constitution,
One of our Lady's Cater-Cousins,
Who'd cut up characters by dozens,
And liv'd as naturally on slander,
As does by fire the Salamander.
54
When call'd on, ne'er to be deny'd;
And, tho' a damp to joy all thought her,
Yet, strange to tell! most people sought her.
She, putting on a semblance hearty,
Welcom'd the Doctor, and his party,
Whilst her poor brain was rack'd in vain,
To know whence came his beauteous train:
They, in return, could scarce forbear
To giggle at this Beldam's air;
Two vixen eyes, as black as sloes,
Stood centry on each side her nose,
Which, near in contact with her chin,
Cast o'er her cheeks a ghastly grin:
Her back and shoulders out of place,
Gave to her form no added grace;
Yet what kind Nature had denied,
By Affectation was supplied;
55
The Ostrich' waving plume was spread,
Whence streaming lappets, ribbands, gause,
Seem'd to insult grave Age's laws,
Whilst round her squat, distorted waist
A fashionable Sash was plac'd,
Making one grieve the Coral too
With all its bells hung not in view,
By which spectators might have learn'd
That second Childhood was return'd,
And seen, where modish Folly revels,
How much it all distinction levels.
The God of Verse with strength and grace
Unfolded artfully his case,
Like a warm advocate repeated,
How ill his clients had been treated,
Their patrimonial Rights invaded,
Their influence shook, their pow'r degraded:
56
Could thus their just resentment merit,
Their long-prov'd services deserting,
To be with old Dame Nature flirting;
Expos'd the visionary schemes
O'er which the doating culprit dreams,
Whence he is destin'd soon to wake,
Compleatly dup'd by his mistake.
And, Madam, adds the God, since you
Mischief's nice stratagems pursue,
Know, while his Paramour he's praising,
To Her a Temple he is raising;
Your subtle arts to ours then join,
And crush his profligate design.
At the bare mention of the matter,
Vexation's teeth began to chatter,
And her eyes such a sparkle put on,
Each glitter'd like a coxcomb's button:
57
I'll in this business take a part;
I know the fellow, to my cost,
By him I too some power have lost;
Men of his even, temp'rate mind,
To Me are ever disinclin'd;
He takes a pride to show me slights,
Still censures me in all he writes,
Meets me with contumelious eye,
Arm'd in his tough Philosophy:
Each, like Achilles, hath a heel,
Some weaker part that's sure to feel,
And in his Wisdom's spite, I'll teach him
Vexation knows the way to reach him.—
I've learnt his plan, and his intentions,
His Building seen, and its dimensions;
I've plac'd about him, One whose art
Shall steal on his unguarded heart,
58
I'll mark this Edifice for ruin.—
He may, by his own Fancy smitten,
Write jokes, as he before hath written;
He on delusive Taste may call ,
To decorate his destin'd wall,
Bidding it fly on treach'rous wing,
And on each side its Graces fling.
Whatever he has said or sung,
The Fool shall find himself is flung.
O'er the whole work (its sure perdition)
I'll spread a Magick Composition,
By which it ne'er shall dry, or answer,
But be eat out, as by a Cancer;
Nor here shall the Infection stop:
Quite from the bottom to the top
59
Their heart decay, their surface blacken;
All which I easily can master,
By this most wonder-working plaister,
Whose fermentation and rank juice
Shall make what's done of little use.
Thus, I by slow, yet sure degrees
Will shake his Building and his Ease,
And when I've tortur'd ev'ry feeling,
Sudden shall fall th' Etruscan Cieling;
The ground with beauteous fragments strewing,
Spreading a dusty cloud of ruin,
Whilst the scar'd Bard, his Child, and Wife,
Shall bless their stars, They scap'd with life;
For I'll so manage his condition,
A hair shall part him from perdition.
You'll treat this Fellow damn'd severely,
60
Then scare him out of half his senses;
For me, I think 'twould be enough
To give him one good hearty cuff;
A blow from you but rarely fails;
The print of sweet Vexation's nails,
In all great instances, we find,
Leave long-remember'd marks behind:
Besides, beyond a certain length
Should you exert your art and strength,
You know that Mastiff-like, our Laws
Stand grinning with their wide-mouth'd jaws,
To snarl, and tear th' insulting hand
Which dares their mighty Growl withstand;
Tho' sometimes too they turn and bite
The very man that's in the right.
Now, should our Culprit in distress
Seek their protection and redress,
61
Set these same legal Dogs a barking,
Where is the man can say, or know,
When thus attack'd, how things may go?
Our great design may burst in air,
And you, and I, like stuck-pigs stare.
Therefore, once more, my dear Vexation,
Let me advise for—Moderation.
What! says great Cambria's fiery Dame,
Her little bullet-eyes all flame,
What! Doctor, don't your sniv'ling spirit
Know the high blood that I inherit?
Train'd from my youth in ev'ry art
Law's studied Mysteries could impart,
All its close labyrinths known to me;
My poor dear Father had a key,
By which he was for ever finding
Some secret clue, some tangled winding,
62
And his own Clients often tir'd.—
I have besides a certain slight,
By which what's black I show as white;
Nor do I argument e'er lack,
To change again what's white to black.—
The Law's a Vane stuck on a pivot,
It turns with every Wind you give it;
You think it blows for you its best,
Its chops about from East, due West,
And at its motions whilst you're looking,
You find you are completely took in.—
How oft you hear weak people cry,
My cause is clear in the Law's Eye!
But I to such poor souls could hint
A Secret, that Law's Eyes both squint;
They think that full on them they play,
Tho' they look quite a different way,
63
They're aptly call'd Law's Hocus Pocus.—
Therefore, good Master Doctor, ne'er
About this Rebel's anger care;
Should he, in lack of Sense or Wit,
Presume to serve me with a Writ,
On his unguarded side I'll try
The force of my Artillery;
Sue in what Court he will, I'll match him,
And ere I've done I'll surely catch him.
Lord help the Fool! he little knows
The Devil himself can't me oppose:
He'll in the Hall a stranger roam,
Vexation there is quite at home;
On every side I've friends by dozens,
And half the Lawyers are my Cousins.
The Muses to their patron God
Wink'd with a sly, familiar nod,
64
In our just cause to prove most steady.
Apollo twitch'd his wig about,
His nobler mind had yet some doubt,
He knew the ties which held Mankind
Half were slip-knots, tho' half might bind.
'Twas not for nothing he had travell'd,
Man's artful tricks he had unravell'd,
Had seen enough to make him certain,
Things oft' were mov'd behind a Curtain,
So that sharp Eyes, and wisest Notions,
Could not discern what caus'd their motions:
Hence his Reflections show'd him clear,
Law was compos'd of Hope and Fear,
So nicely pois'd th' alternate scale,
Jove only knew which would prevail,
'Twas a Toss-up, as mortals say,
The Luck, or Cunning of the day.
65
Justice and Law should still agree;
And what so much excites our wonder,
Is, they so oft stand wide asunder;
Crimes were by Reason ever meant
To feel proportion'd punishment,
But think you that a roving spirit
A sentence so severe can merit?
Or have we, Madam, any right,
To crush his rising Temple quite?
Besides, should you employ a Friend,
His treacherous Art with yours to blend,
Tho' I once lik'd the plan, I fear
'Twould shock and wound the public ear.
The world with just abhorrent eye
Beholds each act of Perfidy,
Still prompt with curses to upbraid
Ingratitude—or Trust betray'd—
66
And We shall with the building fall.
By milder methods we may tame him,
And from his truant fit reclaim him.
Reader, no doubt you've sometimes seen
The rapid workings of the Spleen,
When the sharp Bile disturb'd is dropping,
And all Good-humour's vessels stopping,
Curdles “the Milk of Human Kindness,”
Darkens the sight as if with blindness;
Fermenting upwards from the Hip,
Reddens the Eye, and Nose's tip,
And casts such shadow o'er the face,
Its former features scarce you trace;
Just as you may have notic'd, when
Anger distorts a Bantam Hen,
Her Form quite crumpled up together,
Head, Back, and Wing one tuft of Feather.
67
The throbs of passion were confest,
Whilst she, with looks of scowling pride,
Thus to the God of Verse reply'd.
In Physic, Sir, you may be wise,
In Law, your knowledge I despise;
In your own way the point to urge,
You know that Jalap's sure to purge,
That Blisters irritate the skin,
Emetics clear the parts within;
Now Law, by me infus'd, supplies
Th' effects of these three Remedies,
Acting as each, its power I quicken,
Make it work,—irritate,—and sicken;
From Term to Term the dose I'll ply,
Till I drain all his Humours dry,
And what, perhaps, may still be worse,
Drain too, the substance of his purse.
68
I'll plague him with an Arbitration,
To compass which, I'll call from far
The influence of the Polar Star,
Tho' its weak powers can little act,
'Twill serve my purpose to protract;
By poorest Tools we often try
To gain a point, then throw them by,
And from the Law's delay, you know,
Far more than half its evils flow.
But—greater things I have in view,
Than what I now declare to you;
On my sagacity recline,
You have your Nostrums, I have mine:
Therefore, good Doctor, rest assur'd,
Your patient shall by me be cur'd.
Apollo took his hat and rose,
Here let, said he, our conference close,
69
And leave you Mistress of the field;
To give these injur'd Damsels ease,
Act with the Culprit as you please.
He bow'd—Each Muse with smile serene
Curtsying, slipt on her Capuchin,
And one by one all sidled out,
Like modish Ladies from a Rout.
To Ludgate-Hill once more return'd,
Girls! you of Law enough have learn'd,
(His Godship cry'd); I think 'tis clear
Our own Astræa ne'er dwelt here,
Or if she did, I ne'er could find
She left her righteous Scales behind,
By which invaluable treasure
Man might to Man more Justice measure!
For since by Vice the world was humbled,
Wrong hath with Right been strangely jumbled!
70
Tho' of all principle bereft,
O'er mortals sways with sov'reign Rule,
And plagues alike the wise and fool,
Can turn and twist things as she pleases,
Herself the worst of all diseases.—
But, Sisters of the Lyre! no more
Your Renegado lost deplore,
By me convinc'd, he'll soon return,
And with the zeal of Duty burn.
Law and Vexation both together
May raise a Tempest hard to weather;
They may conjoin'd fulfil their aim,
But they shall ne'er his spirit tame;
Myself will nerve him to despise
Th' Auxiliar Blasts which round him rise,
And unprovok'd their force unite
T' o'erwhelm the wretched Culprit quite.—
71
Picture the joys of Peace and You,
Teach him no more his hours to waste
With faithless Friends in frippery taste;
Severely school'd, I'll turn his eye
From where his mould'ring Ruins lie,
To scenes more pleasing, which belong
Alone to Harmony and Song,
Where to regain your smiles intent,
You'll mark him a true penitent,
And, as first off'ring to your Grace,
He shall in Verse record his Case.
From ev'ry apprehension eas'd,
Seeing each Muse, like Punch, look'd pleas'd,
Your business, quoth Apollo, done,
My race of Quack'ry now is run,
And therefore with the morning light
We'll to Parnassus take our flight;
72
If my Back-parlour you'll just walk in,
We'll have a little snug regale
Of Cheshire Cheese, and Burton Ale;
'Twill comfort your celestial chops,
And make you Girls all sleep like tops.
Yet now,—as we'll be off by six,
On my Shop-door a Bill I'll fix:
My Landlord's clamour to prevent,
I'll on the Counter leave his Rent;
My Pills and Gallypots may stay,
They'll serve the Parish Rates to pay;
Faith, I'd leave England in my shirt,
Ere let my Frolics one man hurt.
What multitudes would have been staring,
To see these Folks set out their Airing,
Had but the How and When been known
To half the Idlers of the Town!
73
Stuck round with eyes, had swarm'd with people:
But quite conceal'd from public view,
Incog, their Highnesses withdrew,
An ambient cloud their persons coated,
And silent through the air they floated.
Upborn to regions far more clear,
Beyond this murky Atmosphere,
Their Forms all chang'd, each seem'd to shine
Replete with Majesty divine.
Cutting across th' etherial Blue,
Their cloud assum'd a silv'ry hue,
Unfurl'd its wavy folds, and show'd
The Opal Car on which they rode:
Central appear'd the Delphic God,
Twin'd round his brows the Laurels nod,
Bright in immortal youth he glow'd,
Adown his neck his ringlets flow'd,
74
Upon his Lyre his hand reclin'd.
Each Muse in various robes array'd,
The emblem of her Rule display'd;
Graceful around sat all the Band,
Nor Fiction's pow'r, nor Sculpture's hand,
E'er lovelier pictur'd Beauty's Queen,
Than these fair Virgins now were seen.
Light mov'd the gallant Troop along,
Not without Converse, Wit, and Song,
And with their Frolic much delighted,
Safe on Parnassus' Top alighted.—
Celestial Maids! as 'tis from You
I'm taught my Errors past to rue,
As you've this fiery Trial sent
To make me a true Penitent;
Since your Confederates, as appears,
Have shook my House about my ears,
75
Left me one inch—of sticking Plaister,
Since you by Law have drain'd my purse,
And brought me back from Prose to Verse,
Give, in return, your Inspiration,
To turn the balance 'gainst Vexation;
Let my Good-humour still remain,
To prove her shafts were shot in vain;
By You enabled thus, I still
May write,—to pay—my Lawyer's Bill.
THE END.
| The Distressed Poet | |