University of Virginia Library

Tho' you are conversant at Court,
And where the Beaux Esprit resort,
Know all the Niceties and Rules,
Not to be taught in Logick Schools.
Yet for the Jest's sake hear the Thought
Of one bred up in homely Cott,
For even Fools may chance to hit
On what may sound at least like Wit;
As the blind Beggar haply may
Point out to Travellers the Way.
Well then (first Pardon ask'd) I dare
Affirm, that he who loves good Air,
Would sleep, nor have the Morning Cries
Or Hackney Coach unlock his Eyes;
If his weak Sight can't bear the Streets,
When Clouds are rais'd by Summer Heats;
If he hates Brawls and Tavern Scores,
And Impudence of Strowling Whores,
He'll rather chuse to coach it down
To Hampshire Fields, and Country Town.
For you may take a Peasant's Word,
We have what London can't afford;
Nor can the Man, to say the worst,
Who quiet lives be greatly curss'd;
Who breaths unknown, unheard of dies,
Whose End no Post-Boys advertise.
But—he the great Ones must importune,
Who makes his own or others Fortune.

The Country Parson turn'd in Years,
Is neither plagu'd with Hopes or Fears,
But undisturb'd in Study pent,
Or is or would be thought content;
In sullen Contemplation sits,
Pities the Bishops, rails at Wits.
None (says old Crape) would cringe and fawn,
For Silver Verge or Sleeves of Lawn;
Or lordly Pow'r ambitious seek,
Could they their Fast, as we do, break,
And dine on Pie, as Parsons must,
Made of Tithe-Apples and plain Crust.
They need not then be hurry'd down
To Kensington and VVindsor Town,
As often as the Court thinks fit
To change the Air, and starve the Cit.
This House and Glebe my Wishes crown,
And what I have I call my own;
I would depend on no Man's Gift,
Nor do I envy Doctor S---ft.
But then how nat'ral to reply,
You hate the Court, good Reason why,
Love Poverty and Rural Ease,
Because you want the Art to please,
Could you at HARLEY's Table dine,
Taste ev'ry Dish, and choose your Wine,
Be deck'd with Scarf, and cloath'd in Silk,
Farewel to Pie-Crust, Eggs and Milk.
If in the Question you persist,
Whether the Town or Country Priest
Be in the right, I freely own
I am my self a homebred Clown;
Yet not so void of Sense or Letters,
As rudely to condem my Betters.
No—the Beau Clerk, if he think fit,
May make Reply to Rustick Wit,
If I at Leisure Hours compose
Some hum'rous Strain in Verse or Prose,
Nobles with Pleasure read it o'er,
I merit Fame, and—something more,
While you in Parish preach and pray
Each Sabbath Morn and Holy Day;
For that poor Income you admire
Must stoop to the insulting Squire.
Those Tithes, the half of which they cheat,
Are thought an Alms, and not a Debt;
And pleas'd with Dryden's One in Ten,
They own no Dues to Clergymen.
If I wait on a noble Friend,
'Tis but my Duty to attend;
And really, Sir, to go well drest,
Mount a fine Horse, and eat the best,
Need no Excuse with Men of Sense,
And therefore I shall wave Defence.
Besides, an easy gen'rous Mind
Is to no way of Life confin'd;
Prepar'd for ev'ry Turn of Fate,
Can frame it self to any State;
And Courtiers sometimes condescend
To talk with Peasant as a Friend.
But if this Reasoning be apply'd,
It will not hold on t'other Side:
A Wretch made for a Country Life,
True to his Pulpit and his Wife,
Who all his Pride and Grandeur shews
In Funeral Scarff and Hatband-Rose;
Could not his Dress or Manners fashion
To suit with any higher Station;
A Quaker might as soon be brought
To wear a Sword and Scarlet Coat,
As he t' harangue the listning Fair
With graceful Turn and courtlike Air,
Drest up as spruce, as th' Author looks
When plac'd by Gucht before his Books.
Oft in his Coach the well-bred Dean,
And often too on foot is seen;
Careless he walks thro' dirty Ways,
Nor fears the Spouts on rainy Days.
Sometimes at Visitation dines,
Bears Clouds of Smoke and worst of Wines,
Hears the loud Chat of sacred Rabble,
And VVhig and Tory Curates squabble.
No Change the sullen Cynick knows,
Still doom'd to thrum and clouted Shoes;
He cannot better be advis'd,
Poor, awkward, simple and despis'd.
Leave him to's Choice; he'll die with Grief;
Give him hard Pudding, give him Beef.
For Mortals can no farther go
Than Parts and Genius will allow.
But if we would distinguish right,
And rank each individual Wight,
Doubtless, those wondrous Patriots claim
The highest Pinnacle of Fame;
Those Gods on Earth but one Remove
From the Almighty Pow'r of Jove;
Who Europe by their Counsels bless,
Give Triumphs first, and after Peace.
The next of course who take their Places,
Are those which are in their good Graces,
Whom Oxford's Lord or Bolingbroke's
Behold with favourable Looks;
For, Sir, to please the nicest Court,
And shine among the better Sort,
(If the Grand Monde may be allow'd
To judge much better than the Crowd)
Imply uncommon Worth, and raise
Favourites above the vulgar Praise;
To sit familiarly, and chat
With the first Minister of State,
Is not allow'd to all who think
They can talk well, or freely drink;
He must deserv't, who thus is blest,
(HARLEY of all Men knows his Guest.)
For those who know themselves unfit
To please the Great, or aim at Wit,
Want Elocution and Address,
The only Means to gain Access,
May yet a Figure make in Village,
Improve good Rules of artful Tillage,
With honest Farmers take a Cup,
And make their Differences up,
Smoke in burnt Pipe, and drink good Ale,
And Market-News by Fire retail.
But Vertue, Wit and Humour join'd,
For Corners never were design'd.
None would St. Patrick's Dean forgive,
Should he a Country Parson live;
If Honour be to Merit due,
They but their proper End pursue,
Who by superior Genius aim
At just Rewards and lasting Fame.
But under favour, Doctor S---ft,
If any, you know how to shift;
I want a thousand Pounds, my Lord,
Nay, instantly—but—say the Word;
If he denies, you tell him plain,
E'en take your Deanery again.
Quite otherwise it fares with those
Who only by Assurance lose.
When I my Patron gravely tell
That truly Matters don't go well;
Wigs Colour change, and Cloths will wear,
Duties remain, and Malt is dear,
'Tis true, replies my wary Friend,
But if Peace lasts, the Times will mend.
Sir, had the Raven silent sat,
Feasted unheard, and hugg'd her Fate,
None had put in for any Share,
Nor envy'd the delicious Fare.
But now the Thing is nois'd about,
The needy Wits will find you out;
Look for a Moiety, and hope
To have the Gleanings of the Crop.
Faith, 'tis too large a Share of Pelf
To hoard it up, or spend your self.
Out of this Stock you can't but lend
A Trifle to a poorer Friend;
Take twenty Pieces from the Heap,
And 'twill the same Dimensions keep.
Now is the Time, for we despair
Ever to meet a Chance so fair.
Should you but move this Suit again,
Of Losses, Tithes and Fees complain,
And tell how Taxes and Repairs
Make Parvisol discount Arrears;
HARLEY will think it all a Jest,
And gravely smile at the Request.

So the kept Miss is always crost,
This Toy is broke, and t'other lost.
This Gown, says she, I scower'd to save,
'T has seen its best, as all mine have;
Indeed 'twas soil'd, and quite worn out,
Necessity will force one to't.
The Lover promises the Fair,
To make all well with speedy Care;
And as the coaxing Gypsy feigns,
Buys China, Necklaces, and Chains:
But when still dunn'd with one Complaint,
He laughs at the pretended Want.