Mirth and Metre :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hail, great Excentrick! idol of the crowd!
By solemn dunces, and the empty loud,
Alike ador'd; by ever-varied name,
As worships Ignorance, Impudence, or Shame:
By these, as suits best their idolatry,
Frailty, or Freedom, or Consistency.
But bigot Reason, rigid, proud, and vain,
Has dubb'd thee Folly—Fools thy motley train.
O mighty Folly! in thy pageant hall
How many a Quixote glories in his stall!
Unnumber'd orders in progression rise,
To every rank indebted for supplies:
St. Giles's spawn, St. James's courtly race;
Upward from squab Sir Jeffery to his Grace:
Poets and Senators thy fane receives,
And—blush, Religion!—cassocks and lawn-sleeves!

Hail! too, thrice hail! thou Ægeonian pow'r,
Who viest for stature with the cloud-capt tow'r!

Whose temple, worthy of so vast a frame,
Invests a space incredible to fame.
A million avenues th' interior shew;
With ceaseless fires a million altars glow.
A zealous priesthood there for ever wait;
A mongrel bevy, whom themselves create;
Green youth with hoary age unites to raise
The restless Censor, clamorous of praise;
And bigot females sexual grace despise,
Mad orgies yell, and slay the sacrifice.

Hail! hail! thrice hail! O Vice! in barb'rous times,
Whose grand designs were stigmatiz'd as crimes;
When nobles only, or the sons of wealth,
Dar'd boast of guilt; while poor rogues sinn'd by stealth.
But now, O glorious privilege of soul!
When kind refinement frees us from controul,
The mean their rights assert, burst off their fetters,
And boldly sin at noon-day, with their betters.

O happy Age! to all restraint unknown,
When each man's creed is really his own:
For, swift to canvas, tardy to believe,
None pins his faith upon his fellow's sleeve.
And faith, thank Fortune! courteous and refin'd,
Dwells on the tongue, nor longer checks the mind;
Mere metaphysick, serves no other end,
Than just for wits to cavil and defend.
Sceptick or Zealot, furious Whig or Tory,
In self alone, the Dutchman's god, we glory.

Mark yonder Statesman mounted on his stool,
To flatter Monarchs, and the land befool!
Behold yon Patriot, in a trimming pet,
Prompt at his country's wrongs to rave and fret!
See, front to front they stand, in dire array,
Like two fierce bull-dogs, eager for the fray:

Mere farce on both sides, mummery, and grimace;
That wants a peerage, and this wants a place.

Should'st thou, O Candour! with the Cynic's lamp,
Throughout St. James's spacious forum tramp;
Think'st thou the scrutiny would aught reveal
Of Statesman's truth, or Patriot's honest zeal?
Chatham, alas! to Britain's grief lies low;
And Marvel died some six-score years ago!
Albion, God rest her soul, may trust to Heav'n,
To In or Out, the wrangling vote is giv'n;
For these in strife the House their strength consume,
As once for Cæsar and for Pompey Rome.
Not mine to say that Walpole once spoke true,
“All have weak sides, and all their prices too!”
Pensions and places all unite to scout 'em,
And talk for aye “about 'em, and about 'em;”
But while with fear and zeal all sides abuse 'em,
Alas! how few, how very few, refuse 'em!
But now, my muse, this hackney'd strain give o'er,
Truce to a theme of all the tritest bore;
Who could deny that Senators did well
Suppose they should our every Charter sell,
Vote at their will, for party or for pay,
Our Fortunes, Liberties, and Lives away?
In what they purchase all may surely trade,
And theirs we are by public contract made.
For tho' at Bribery, as the Devil, we rail,
And paint him, too, with fiery horns and tail,
Should He with Satan, Probity with Paul,
At all our Houses on a canvass call,
The Devil, and welcome, on our backs might ride,
And take poor Paul and Probity beside.

Blest Age! to no mean prejudice allied,
That might infect thee with a decent pride;

With whom Rank oft, with scorn of noble aim,
Serves but to stamp a dignity on Shame;
Grace on Absurdity, on Whim repute;
Or flaunt the honours of a birth-day suit.
Nay, search this focus of confusion round,
And tell me where Distinction's barrier's found?

Six ells of muslin should my Lord prepare
To swathe his neck, or should he leave it bare;
His Lordship's porter bares his brawny skin,
Or ties of bow a bushel 'neath his chin.
Alike by slouch and thickset mark'd, where's room
His Grace to single from his Grace's groom?
Or, view his Lordship gambling with a horse,
In all the far-fam'd spirit of the course;
At home with ev'ry Black-leg, as with brother;
Save by the face, who knows the one from t'other?
With waist a thimble, and a mile of train,
View both my Lady, and the cook-maid, Jane!
And should her Ladyship reverse her plan,
Behold her moral in the scullion Nan!
For nights of revelry, and useless days,
Her Grace no more shall challenge all our praise;
Curs'd with the rage for genteel and polite,
See Lady Prune, and honest Mrs. Mite;
Nay, fat Dame Fillet scorns to be out-done,
Shewn to her chamber by the rising sun.

Painting once mark'd the peeress from the crowd,
Asham'd of nature, and of rank too proud:
Now take your way from Pall Mall to the Fleet,
And scarce one clean, unvarnish'd face, you'll meet;
Maids, wives, and widows, in the guilt agree,
And, Warren, sacrifice their charms to thee!
Thee, wond'rous chemist! who canst make, at will,
Wash-balls from dew-drops; and canst blooms distil;
With blooms and dews, Dame Nature's self canst pose,
And brew, like spiders, poison from the rose!

No longer Lords alone for oaths are fam'd,
Or brazen fronts, by nothing to be sham'd;
Debts, drinking, from consumptive, visage wan,
Riots, blaspheming, wenching, or crim-con.
Swearing, a system grown, in every place,
Of modern converse forms the leading grace;
And he who seeks for Modesty's resort,
As vainly tramps the city as the court.
Bilking a taylor, once a proof of spirit,
Is grown too common to be thought a merit!
And cits, once sober to proverbial grace,
Now push the bottle, till shame hides his face!

Say, where's the race Britannia once could boast?
A Briton's name then terrified a host—
Healthful, and strong, with fist alone to fell
The sturdy ox on which they throve so well?
Heav'ns! how the sons their manly sires disgrace,
Aches in each limb, and asthma in each face!
Save just a few, reserv'd by Fate's decree,
To shew what Britons were, and ought to be.
Mark every 'Prentice foremost in the fray,
To storm a watch-box, or to damn a play;
To lame a waiter, just to drive the farce on;
To sport a trollop, or to quiz a parson.
And where the unbred boor, now nothing's strange
When conscience plies a prostitute at change,
Who sticks to rob another of his wife;
Or sneer, with H---ft, at the God of Life?

And here let Justice in our praise declare,
For not one trait like Merit can we spare;
Though legion's self against us may appear,
Not ours the vice of superstitious fear.
With all the grand sublimity of Gaul,
Boldly the Godhead to account we call;
And if Divinity we chuse to grant him,
Make him, discreetly, just the thing we want him;

Shewn, for convenience, in as many shapes
As cunning Brahmins dress their idol apes.

Go on, sweet Gentles! with your sapient plan,
Still make the God subservient to the man.
In Gospel speculate, like the Jews in stock,
And only open when subscribers knock;
Put off the old, to substitute new leaven,
And shew the Quality smooth ways to heaven.

Like some good pastors in th' establish'd pale,
Who seek sound orthodoxy in sound ale;
Toast Mother Church, till Piety gets drunk,
And turns at once both heretick and punk!
Who haunt each levee for the loaves and fishes,
And change the heavenly manna for made-dishes;
Hunt, poach, and game, with ev'ry wealthy pander;
And leave their flocks—but shear them first—to wander.
While the lean Curate, pitiful and poor,
The man least chearful in the ample cure,
Jeer'd by the children for his rusty black,
Toils for ten pounds per annum, like a hack;
Feeds on the bitter herb his Rector scorns,
And finds, indeed, Heaven's road a road of thorns!

Gentles, go on! and should one man appear,
Who, “passing rich with forty pounds a year,”
Prompt at almsgiving, never sighs for more,
But when Want asks, and he has spent his store;
Who to his flock shall chastity commend,
And meekness praise, and temperance defend;
Like every teacher of the modern taste,
And, unlike them, be temperate, meek, and chaste.
If such be found—but surely such to gain,
Save in Dan Goldsmith's verse, the search were vain—
Banish him quickly, lest th' infection spread,
With all his load of weakness on his head,

To herd with some strange, unenlighten'd race,
With whom such actions ne'er entail disgrace;
Who, poor in spirit, and of manners rude,
Love the mean “luxury of doing good.”
There let him crawl his round, like some old wife,
And call the Hottentot-existence—Life.

Virtue the Mass thro' tinctured opticks view,
And so perversely falsifys her hue;
Refinement takes Effeminancy's shades,
And Luxury blooms, while Independence fades.
Thence with infection Warren scents the gale,
And Spangle's liveries fix him in a gaol;
Thence, proud of infamy, like peers in pay,
Stale drabs with duchesses dispute the way;
Thence fiddlers fatten, while scarr'd veterans beg,
With honour, limping on a wooden leg;
Thence spring dark spleen, rank, gout, unholy blain,
And half the revenue of Warwick Lane;
Our gaols are crouded; and, so much we pray,
Our churches haste, unheeded, to decay.

—Zounds! who comes here, at such a thund'ring pace?
The steeds all foam, the charioteer all lace!
Three lamps in front, behind two flambeaux glare,
And two huge turban'd blacks the torches bear!
Hark! the loud knocker vast importance hints;
Back flies the door, and out steps—Madam Chintz!
“What then?” cries Chintz, no little piqu'd in mind,
“Alone to Rank must splendour be confin'd?
“All, sure, may live to what the means afford;
“As well a Linen-draper, as a Lord.”

O Chintz! far be it from the Muse and me,
Who still contend man's born but to be free,
In deed, in word, or e'en in thought, to aim
The slightest effort 'gainst the glorious claim.

Nature and Reason in one voice conspire—
“Be his who labours to enjoy the hire;
“Who plants the fig-tree on the fruit should feed;
“Who rears the vintage, quaff the generous meed.”
No, Chintz! the Muse, disdaining to oppress,
Would only shame, or reason, from excess.

If Drugget's commerce justifies his coach,
Let him enjoy it, fearless of reproach.
But why should Drugget, if his Grace runs four,
Think one too little, and so build three more?
Where lies the honour? Flaunt it as he will,
In Splendour's spite, he's but plain Drugget still.
“It shews his wealth!” To prove that he can pay,
Need not requires to throw his wealth away.
Proud, with his Grace he would dispute the ball;
And, like his Grace, he'll soon not pay at all.
What hence determine? Scann'd by Reason's rule,
The case stands plainly—Drugget is a fool.

What but a madman is his friend Veneer,
To keep his coach, who stints his daily cheer?
And Foil, who sports his phæton and black,
Whose real wealth would scarce discharge a hack,
Candour would term a rascal; but the times,
With whom but sense and poverty are crimes,
Applaud; and all will at his treats attend,
Till in a Whereas, all his fame shall end!
Then to contempt the change shall praise convert,
And want procure him knavery's desert.
A time there was, when coaches were so rare,
That cits most envied for his coach the mayor;
That rolling Mansion House the sons of Barter
Held then as old and sacred as their charter;
While shouting 'prentices its lab'ring way,
Clogg'd up by crowds, with hope were wont survey:
Each new survey increas'd th' ambitious zest,
And with new zeal inspir'd th' industrious breast.

Tradesmen their shops then stuck to as their trust;
Plain were their manners, and their dealings just.
From frugal Industry their wealth they drew,
Nor road to riches by false failure knew.
No, thanks to villany! that glorious crime
Was meant to perfect our stupendous time:
When things go on with such heroic spirit,
That should our sons improve upon our merit,
As Bronze, who thrice the Bankrupt ordeal pass'd,
Grac'd with his new-built curricle the last;
Some future Bronze, upon the Bankrupt score,
Shall tend his summons in a coach and four!

Then tradesmen's sons, by no ambition led,
But just the footsteps of their sires to tread,
Thought commerce honour, prudence holy writ,
Payment good-breeding, and shrewd dealing wit;
Dress'd like good Christians, taverns ne'er went near,
And saw no plays, save Barnwell once a year;
Left pride and prostitutes to upstart Lords;
And blush'd at blasphemy, and kept their words.

Ere tradesmen's daughters, modest as the morn,
Held Nature cheap, and housewifery in scorn;
Left Glasse and Sherlock, for Romance and Hoyle;
Or by cosmeticks learnt Heaven's work to spoil;
Vapours and coquetry, and scandal priz'd;
The ton affected—by the ton despis'd;
Neglected church, to flirt it through the town,
And spurn'd discretion, like some cast-off gown.

Ere tradesmen's wives grew connoisseurs in Taste;
Thought folly dignified, and trade disgrac'd;
Took glare for grandeur, in the heat of pride,
And sense and fashion equally belied.
With cards and songs made God's good day a joke;
And, aping duchesses, their husbands broke;

And, aping duchesses, the good man's brow
Adorn'd with—Heav'n knows what, and Heav'n knows how!

Time was, when private coaches were so rare,
E'en gentry boasted of a hackney fare;
Now mark an equipage, two hours or more
Ere wanted call'd at ev'ry other door.
Ere wanted call'd, to catch, of weakness proud,
The vacant homage of a gaping crowd.
Britons, distrust this cavalcade of wealth;
The scarlet flush ensures not stable health;
The gayest people of the feather'd throng,
Are least esteem'd for sustenance or song,
The parterre glories in a thousand blooms;
The parterre's pride the first keen blast consumes;
The decent box around its margin seen
Braves winter's rigour in its chearful green.
And, lo! the Moon, tho' mild the light she casts,
The Sun supports her, and with Time she lasts;
While the proud meteor, with a short-liv'd glare,
Springs from foul vapours, and concludes in air.

All hail to Luxury! the boundless theme;
All hail to Luxury! of ills supreme;
All hail to Luxury! that conquer'd Rome,
And threatens Britain with a speedy doom!

High sits the Jezebel in bloated state,
As meanly insolent as proudly great;
More dire than that great sorc'ress Homer sung,
Or scarlet Babylon, from whom she sprung.
Twelve luscious Turtles, each for size a whale,
Sustain her throne upon their backs of mail;
Th' ignoble passions, with each dirty care,
In bestial forms, her various household share;
Chain'd round her courts the abject senses lie;
And her sad footstool Health and Peace supply.

Her premier, Fashion, who at transformatiou
Exceeds the ablest Courtier in the nation;
And the most bungling Courtier—Gay I follow—
Can beat old Proteus, aye, and ten such, hollow.
This fickle being, with the helm at play,
Stamps the implicit order of the day;
Th' intemperate Despot of our blindest awe;
Whose word is gospel, and whose look is law.
The Great, at war with principle and sense,
Witness their modes of payment and expense,
Have fealty sworn; and, by example won
The mean consent, though by consent undone.
So, when the leader of young Colin's sheep
O'er some broad slough dares meditate a leap,
Superior strength a safe descent ensures,
And off he springs, and all his aim secures:
The flock, so prompt to dangle at his tail,
All quickly follow, and as quickly fail;
Some few, perhaps, the wish'd-for margin make,
The rest drop, headlong, in the stagnant lake;
Some, with soil'd fleeces, gain at length the shore;
Some, struggling, plunge, and sink—to rise no more

Explore yon mansion, at whose ad'mant gate
A heartless Cerberus keeps eternal state;
Within whose walls Repentance vainly weeps,
And Want long Lent with many a heart-ach keeps;
Where hectick Plague infects the breath of day,
And dumb Despair with anguish wastes away;
There, where the mouldy scrap all hands invade,
Behold, what wretches Luxury has made!

Yet to that mansion, lo! what thousands swarm,
To take destruction, maniack like, by storm:
Allur'd by Splendour, and alarm'd by Pride,
The feeble hobble where the powerful stride;
And, emulative of the shameless Peer,
Bankrupt for ever with a plumb per year,

E'en the low menial, with romantick joy,
Barters his tiny credit for a toy!

View yonder mart; no generous commerce there
Confirms the vigour of industrious Care;
There Beauty's barter'd, Nature's rights are sold,
And Nature's curses speed the proffer'd gold.
Steel'd in the traffick, and of lewdness vain,
Without temptation, but disease in grain,
Behold what swarms besiege the busy way,
To scatter worse than pestilence for pay:
There, like the bud just opening to a rose,
In the same moment blighted that it blows,
New from the nursery, lo! an infant race,
With faltering oaths, defy the name of Grace;
Ting'd o'er with shame Obscenity pursue;
And, loathing, shudder at the wretch they woo!

Oh! wreck of loveliness, accurs'd of fame!
Grand boast of luxury, and first pride of Shame!
My Muse no farther can thy fate reveal,
Sick with such pangs as holy horrors feel;
And, while her soul with indignation burns,
To scenes less wretched, and tremendous, turns.

“Hard are the times!” exclaim a croaking band;
“Hard are the times!” re-echoes all the land.
Witness, O Drury! with thy sister bear,
What time e'er seem'd so void of want or care?
In your gay domes, where all conditions throng,
Suspicion laughs, but hints that things go wrong:
For high and low, from Criticks to the Gods,
The diamond sparkles, and the plumage nods.
There soft Voluptuousness erects her throne,
And Prudence seems the only want that's known.
For, spite of times, of taxes, and distress,
There, without end, the headlong million press.

Save those, and those increase, a giant train
Who Prynn and Collier's ancient creed maintain
That plays and pageants are but baits to lure
The soul that busy Satan would secure.
Dramas there are immodest and absurd,
But are all Sermons transcripts of the Word?
Shall Reason hence all Homilies devote,
Or banish Shakespeare because ------ wrote?

“A verse may reach him who a Sermon flies,”
And plays attract who books and bards despise;
And some good drama forcibly exprest,
Rousing some latent spark within the breast,
May lead to books for Reason's law to search,
And books, enlight'ning, pave the way to church,

Immortal Avon! pride of ev'ry Muse!
Whose stream the Bard with aweful rapture views;
That stream to him more sacred than the fount
Whose magic waters lave the mystic mount;
Far less inspir'd with warmth poetic he
From quaffing Helicon than quaffing thee.
Immortal Avon! thy “sweet swan” has prov'd
In Virtue's cause (by ev'ry Muse belov'd)
An abler chief, tho' zealots may deride,
Than Quixote sect'ries mad with bigot pride.
And, sure, when such the tenor of the mind
To pastime more then Piety inclin'd;
(So frail is man!) that medium of delight
Which can the social and the sage unite,
Shall claim regard—Thus, lest the sick'ning child
Refuse the potion, by indulgence spoil'd,
The subtle leech, to stem Disorder's stealth,
Sweetens the draught, and cheats it into health.

The thoughtless young, the giddy, and the gay,
Church it for form, but banquet on a play.

And view the large majority among
The gay, the giddy, and the thoughtless young
Then, Bards, be wary when the Muse ye woo;
One ardent aim with honest zeal pursue;
Virtue to guard, and teach us to despise
Vice as it stalks, and “folly as it flies.”
The stage has faults, and venal bards are found,
And venal preachers cumber too the ground;
The richest vineyards dangerous weeds disclose,
And sharpest thorns surround the lovely rose;
One source of ill more baneful than the stage
Infests this whimful variegated age,
A horrid poison, an insidious fire;
The monstrous birth of prostituted hire!
Romance, and Novel, and a nameless race,
Alike devoid of grammar as of grace.
Chiefly from where—hard by that lumbering fane,
Sacred to sainted Crispin and his train—
To mark the place, as with indignant pout,
Wisdom, alas! for ever stands without.
O'er tomes like these, whose quantity and sort
Might build a Babel, or corrupt a court,
Youth wastes its morn, to sacred study due,
Reads without end, and only reads to rue:
As Miss is punish'd, through her rage for plumbs,
With canker'd teeth, and ever-aching gums.
From tomes like these, for these with scenes abound
In all her walks by nature never found;
Quaintly affected faiths, and squeamish strife,
Unknown to Reason in the walks of life;
Creatures, for Nature's and for Reason's sake,
God never made, nor ever meant to make:
From tomes like these, where Love's th' eternal theme,
That love the bastard of a brain-sick dream,
Springs all that canting sentiment of Art
Which comes not near, or, touching, taints the heart;
Hence Sloth's loose languish, with the sighs of Spleen,
And Folly wed to Ruin at fifteen;

Sappho her fame and perjur'd Phaon mourns,
And many a temple throbs with coming horns;
Chlo, skill'd in knights from Valentine to Gaul,
Calls Job, Evangelist—and Pilate, Paul;
While Florio knows, with half his sex beside,
Better why Werter, than the Saviour, died.

O bless'd, or burthen'd, with a rising breed,
While reading, ponder—ye, who deign to read.
But, chiefly, who the female morals guard,
With candour listen, to the meanest Bard,
Know, half the train on yon parade who ply,
Near where R. A.'s for reputation vie,
By Novels erst morality were taught,
And from Romance a wild religion caught;
Learnt taste from Plays, economy from Balls,
And at St. James's to despise St. Paul's.
Then, O, be watchful! but with skill preside;
Let not the partial for the prudent guide.
Not frigid Arctos, nor the burning Line,
But where due seasons still revolve be mine.
Moments abound when youth's inconstant mind
Bears with disgust the solemn and refin'd;
When Pope and Johnson unregarded lie,
And Grub Street's welcome, if no better's by.
Then what or Novel or Romance supplies,
Fraught with the moral, sanction'd by the wise,
Proves, to tired hinds as intervals of rest,
Source of new strength, and renovated zest.
And such there are; but, in proportion'd share,
Less than if good men we with bad compare;
Then mark for choice the preference of Age,
Temperate by time, and from experience sage.

“A time for all things,” said the wisest King,
And wisest man; alike to sleep or sing;
Feast or forbear, for penitence or play;
As roll the seasons, or change night and day.

Youth was not meant, as sung the Bard of Care,
“To waste its sweetness on the desart air.”
Thence box and ring debarr'd were petty treason,
While here reigns Decency, and there shines Reason:
But box and ring, an occupation made,
Damn as securely as a Masquerade.

Combat with care that promptitude to dress,
Whence toys and top-knots more than health can bless;
A rage for finery, like a rage for play,
Acts as the worm that gnaws the root away.

Female or Male, a Fop's a fool, at best,
The good man's pity, and the rabble's jest;
Like gilded flies, unprofitably gay,
Or Sweep bedizen'd for the morn of May.

Dress, to be graceful, must, ye fair! be chaste;
A glare of colours is disgustful waste.
Greens, blues, reds, yellows, undigested all,
Make that stain'd trash we marble-paper call;
While one meek tint will form, by varying shade,
The loveliest portrait Nature ever made.
And, O sweet nymphs! but let it first be told,
That I no benefice, or tythings, hold;
For mention church, and priestcraft comes of course;
Hat for the head, or saddle for the horse.
Ye gentle fair! 'twould never spoil one face,
Would ye but now and then our churches grace.
'Twould seem like prudence, and be no restraint:
Church not requires the primness of a saint,
Save here and there “Amen,” or “Kingdom come;”
Who act much other than they would at home?
Each, as good lawyers oaths, the priest regards;
Sleeps, ogles, talks, and just not plays at cards.
Save a few drones, who, piously inclin'd,
Take home the Text, and leave the rest behind.

Yet, hold!—th' advice on second thought I rest,
And second thoughts, grey gossips say, are best;
Haply, like poverty, or small-pox scar,
Church, as to marriage, might your fortunes mar.
Prudent 'twould look; but there th' objection lies;
The sober, formal creature, we despise.
For let each wife do all that prudence can,
Or love suggest, to fix her dear, good man;
Her dear good man to other nymphs will roam,
Tir'd of his wife, and tasteless of his home.
Let her, with all the insolence of shame,
Brazen abroad a meretricious flame;
Gods! how he doats!—too fatally for peace;
Still finds his passion with her guilt increase;
And, when she's known at half the Bagnios round,
Computes his damage at ten thousand pound!

So, while God's word for common waste is sold,
Some huge lewd folio brings its weight in gold!

Patrician orders! ye, whom stars and strings
From other folks make far, far different things;
Ye, whom thick blood (I've somewhere seen the phrase)
Exempts from caution, and prefers for praise;
Who, in some climes—thank Heaven! not here—may kill
And gobble rude Plebeians up at will;
To you my Muse inscribes her modest lay;
O deign to notice what she dares to say!
But oh! most noble! fancy not my Muse
So vile your worship'd order to abuse;
Read without bile; nor, seeking for offence,
Strain every word a “libel on the sense.”
As in such sort, 'twould make the Devil vex'd,
Coblers clear Scripture at a groat per text.

A virtuous Peer, more sacred than the law,
The Muse contemplates with religious awe:

But rank and vice combin'd—herself 'twas said it—
She holds as cheaply as your lordships' credit.
Thick blood and thin!—lies honour in a word?
An honest Hind exceeds a knavish Lord.

Illustrious Lords! illustrious Ladies! too;
The times are bad; Reform depends on you.
You must have seen a monkey archly scan
The manners first, then imitate the man.
Perfection's hopes the mimick ape incite;
For all conclude their betters must be right.
So we, the humble, copy you, the high;
Step as you step, and where you turn we fly.
If you the rattle and the cap assume,
Ourselves as proudly on the same we plume;
And, in the zeal of impotent conceit,
We add the bells, to make the cap compleat.
If you take Reason kindly by the hand,
“Reason!” we cry, and Reason rules the land.
Is Vice your choice? we're vicious to the core;
And, if 'tis Virtue, Virtue we adore.

Virtue and Reason! these to make us blest,
I've read, have Influence far beyond the rest;
('Twas when at nurse, in book of strange old print,
And Goody wont to keep her ribbands in't.)
Yet we Plebeians doubt if it be true,
And hope we've good authority in you.
You disbelieve it, I may safely swear,
Or every action would your faith declare;
For you, appointed eye-sight to the blind,
Could never sin against the light of mind.

But, though, while hope holds every bliss in view,
With blindest zeal your footsteps we pursue;
Alas! like famish'd Tantalus we fare,
And strive and languish only to despair;

Nay, as if Fate sport of our yearnings made,
Our best exertions are the worst repaid.

Suppose, for once—yet think not I'd presume
To teach you, Sires! who should the Age illume—
I'd only hint, with most profound respect,
What you, at will, may sanction or reject;
For fame has said, and will the charge maintain,
Your noble pleasures, too, are mix'd with pain.
Suppose, for once, that Book's advice we try,
And see what pleasure Virtue can supply;
Enquire if Reason can one charm afford
Worthy the condescension of a Lord.
Though Fashion holds them cheap as an old song,
The wisest folks are sometimes in the wrong.
When Warwick Lane despairs of doing more,
Old wives' prescriptions often health restore.
Deign, then, ye mighty! to lead on the way,
And, for the whim, bring these awhile to play;
Encourage Candour; Decency enhance;
Prudence distinguish; Honesty advance;
Give Temperance colour; Chastity embrace;
Cede to old Hospitality his place;
Be seen at church, if but to make us stare,
And, if you can, your prayer-books read when there;
As reading prayers is fashion, now a-days—
For ten priests read to Heaven for one who prays;
Your Tradesmen's bills, some thousand reams, defray,
Nor more contract, unless you mean to pay;
Let Charity those thousands show'r abroad,
Design'd for sensuality and fraud:
Briefly, my Lords, your present modes reverse,
Then rule, a Blessing; and not rage, a Curse.

This simple scheme, great Topknots of the nation!
I hope you'll scan with due consideration;
And, O ennobled fair! ye will, I'm sure,
Discreet of manner, of intention pure;

Ye who ne'er Modesty's sweet blush lay by,
Its place by some damn'd pigment to supply;
Ye who ne'er game, in envious Slander's spite,
From night till morn, then sleep from morn till night;
Nor hang your husband's coronets on horn;
Nor laugh God's day, and God himself, to scorn;
Who, in the fever of salacious mood,
Ne'er do all things, save just the thing ye should;
Ye will, I'm sure, most chearfully persuade
Your Lords my plan with all their power to aid.
If not delight, 'twill novelty dispense,
And that forms Fashion's very soul and sense.
And Fashion, though of every deadly seed full,
You will acknowledge, as the “one thing needful.”
But, from experience, should the step disgust,
A full resumption of old Modes were just:
And then confirm'd, through failure of the plan,
That Vice and Folly are the best for man;
Those reverend powers would all their rights ensure,
Our homage justify, and hearts secure.

Then Shame might Decency in blanket toss,
And ply, in statu quo, at Charing Cross,
E'en at noon-day; St. Paul's a stew appear,
And bawds be canoniz'd, by way of sneer;
Bishops sing ballads to support Life's breath;
And lean Religion drink herself to death;
Proud Infidelity fair Truth enslave,
Destroy and triumph, fiddling, o'er her grave;
And Patriots, if such monsters may be found,
Be rooted out, as “cumbering up the ground.”
The Muse to Vice, of Prostitution proud,
Ring brazen Pæans thro' the drunken crowd.
Our Royal Oak, the victim of excess,
Export most apt for fopperies of dress!
Might build the navies of more sombre powers,
Too meanly sober for a taste like ours.

Then might old Neptune, him we've prais'd so long,
Provide a theme for other sort of song;
Spurn down Britannia from her coral throne,
And break the sceptre he has made her own.
Then, on all sides, might envious foes rush in,
Our bliss increasing by mad Rapine's din;
And, while Despair sat brooding o'er the storm,
A glorious Chaos the just climax form!

O Albion! badge of Lunacy and Pride!
By those betray'd Heav'n sent to guard and guide;
Whose Great Ones, rais'd to justify your fame,
Are first to blast it with the deeds of shame;
Whose Bards, inform'd as temperers of your mind,
Its sources poison, and its judgments blind;
Whose priests deprive you of the faith they teach,
Few but in practice damning what they preach.

O! lost to honour, and to meanness wed!
O! blind to nature, and to feeling dead!
Say, when shall Reason in thy mind take part,
Or Conscience touch thy worse than Pharaoh's heart?
O self-conceited! fragrant without fruit,
All blossom'd o'er, but canker'd at the root!
What boots refinement, thy eternal boast,
If all that makes it valuable be lost?

But know, mad boaster! that refinement's thine,
No more than Horace' deathless Muse is mine.
The senseless fair who thinks her charms too few,
Health's bloom too coarse, too dingy Nature's hue,
The aim of amel to improve her seeks,
Her bosom blanches, and retints her cheeks;
The poisonous varnish works through every vein,
Gangrenes her vitals, and infects her brain;
And, while she flaunts it with conceited zest,
She shines at once a picture and a pest.

Thy blazon'd charms with hers, O Specious! blend
As pure in essence, and as blest in end.

O Albion! steel'd in infamy and pride;
Whom Bards, when honest, to no end deride,
Instruct or lash; whom Priests, when truly pure,
Unheeded threaten, and unheard adjure!
Bow down thy spirit, and a fast proclaim;
Nor longer glory in thy lustful shame;
Hasten, ere vengeance thunders from the sky—
“For why, presumptuous Israel! wouldst thou die?”

Ægeon, or Briareus was one of the giants who warred against Jupiter: he had one hundred hands and fifty heads, with as many mouths belching out fire.

Saint Paul is here alluded to.