SECTION LI.
OF GENTLEMEN FOOLS.
Licet superbus ambules pecuniæ,
Fortuna non mutat genus.
Some cheesemonger or tallowchandler,
Who's got by trade of gold command sir;
To vie with gentlefolks aspires;
Thinks no one half so bless'd by fate,
As when he's got a fine estate;
And to his country seat retires
.
With purse-proud folly overbearing,
And ignorance beyond comparing,
He struts the potent village peer;
Not conqu'ring Alexander fam'd,
Could with this pompous fool be nam'd,
Or half so high his visage rear
.
Forgetful when he was his shop in,
And bacon rashers sold in Wapping,
With cheese and butter, eggs in scores;
Or else the cotton which was dipping
In stinking tallow, cook maids' dripping;
And sold spruce moulds, short eights, long fours.
No longer such plain truths allowing,
He looks of course to others' bowing;
As when on Sabbath holy;
Quite consequential to the view,
He struts along the aisle to pew,
While peasants bend quite lowly
.
Behind, his rib—dame Lard, or Wick, sir,
Struts on, with heir apparent Dick, sir,
And miss, with tawdry sash and frock;
Mamma, with face both broad and brawny,
And lank-hair'd master, quite a sawney,
The miss's head a barber's block.
Devoid of manners, taste, and science
,
To books this jolt-head bids defiance,
His booby spoil'd son goes astray;
Spends all his wealth—weds a street-walker;
Miss is in love—John's a fine talker,
So with dad's footman runs away.
L'ENVOY OF THE POET.
Vain would this dolt the mental pow'rs refresh,
And banish ills by habit long inhal'd;
What's in the bone must ever taint the flesh,
He's the bad shilling to the counter nail'd.
THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.
Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.
