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Whilst these, what Nature gave, disown through Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surpris'à
In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd. Others affect what Nature has denied ;
| No sublunary chance his vestments fear; What Nature has denied, fools will pursue: | Valued, like leopards, as their spots appear. As apes are ever walking upon two.
| A fam'd surtout he wears, which once was blue, Crassus, a grateful sage, our awe and sport! And his foot swims in a capacious shoe; Supports grave forms; for forms the sage support. One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim ?) He hems; and cries, with an important air,
Levell’d her barbarous needle at his fame : “ If yonder clouds withdraw, it will be fair :" But open force was vain; by night she went, Then quotes the Stagyrite, to prove it true : And, while he slept, surpris'd the darling rent : And adds, “ The learn'd delight in something where yawn'd the frieze is now become a doubt, new.”
“ And glory, at one entrance, quite shut out.”. Is 't not enough the blockhead scarce can read, He scorns Florello, and Florello him; But must he wisely look, and gravely plead ? This hates the filthy creature ; that, the prim : As far a formalist from wisdom sits,
Thus, in each other, both these fools despise In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.
Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes; These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men, Their methods various, but alike their aim; Though Satire couch them with her keenest pen) The sloven and the fopling are the same. For ever will hang out a solemn face,
Ye Whigs and Tories ! thus it fares with you, To put off nonsense with a better grace :
When party-rage too warmly you pursue ; As pedlars with some hero's head make bold, Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride, Illustrious mark! where pins are to be sold. And folly joins whom sentiments divide. What 's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd? You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pass, The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.
Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass; A man of sense can artifice disdain;
While both are one : and henceforth be it known, As men of wealth may venture to go plain ;
Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone. And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot,
“ But who art thou ?" methinks Florello cries : Solemnity 's a cover for a sot.
“ Of all thy species art thou only wise?" I find the fool, when I behold the skreen ;
Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch, For 't is the wise man's interest to be seen. As crossing straws retard a passing witch,
Hence, Chesterfield, that openness of heart, Florello, thou my monitor shalt be; And just disdain for that poor mimic art;
I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee. Hence (manly praise !) that manner nobly free, O Thou myself! abroad our counsels roam, Which all admire, and I commend, in thee.
And, like ill husbands, take no care at home : With generous scorn how oft hast thou survey'd Thou too art wounded with the common dart, Of court and town the noontide masquerade ; And Love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart; Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace, And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose ? And hide secure behind a naked face!
Know, fame and fortune both are made of prose. Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme, And men talk only to conceal the mind :
Thou unambitious fool, at this late time? Where generous hearts the greatest hazard run, While I a moment name, a moment 's past; And he who trusts a brother, is undone!
| I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last : These all their care expend on outward show What then is to be done? Be wise with speed; For wealth and fame: for fame alone, the beau. A fool at forty is a fool indeed. Of late at White's was young Florello seen!
And what so foolish as the chase of fame? How blank his look! how discompos'd his mien! How vain the prize ! how impotent our aiin! Sc hard it proves in grief sincere to feign!
For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, Sunk were his spirits ; for his coat was plain. But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,
Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace ; That rise, and fall, that swell, and are no more, His health was mended with a silver lace.
Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour ?
TO THE RIGHT Hox. MR. DODINGTON. And either shoulder has its share of fame ; His sumptuous watch-case, though conceal'd it lies, Long, Dodington, in debt I long have sought Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.
To ease the burthen of my grateful thought; He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)
And now a poet's gratitude you see; Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.
Grant him two favours, and he 'll ask for three : Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws bis eye For whose the present glory, or the gain? On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,
You give protection, I a worthless strain. With how sublime a transport leaps his heart! You love and feel the poet's sacred flame, But Fate ordains that dearest friends must part. And know the basis of a solid fame; In active measures, brought from France, he wheels, i Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend, And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels. You read with all the malice of a friend;
So have I seen, on some bright suminer's day, Nor favour my attempts that way alone, A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,
| But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own. Dance on the bank, as if inspir’d by fame, Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.
An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,
In those choice books their panegyrics read, When wanted Britain bright examples more? | And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed. Her learning, and her genius too, decays;
If man by feeding well commences great, . And dark and cold are her declining days;
Much more the worm to whom that man is meat. As if men now were of another cast,
To glory some advance a lying claim, They meanly live on alms of ages past.
Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame : Men still are men; and they who boldly dare, Their front supplies what their ambition lacks; Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair ;
They know a thousand lords, behind their backs. Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer, Of such who run in debt for their disgrace; When turn'd away, with a familiar leer; Who borrow much, then fairly make it known, And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen, And damn it with improvements of their own. Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen. We bring some new materials, and what's old Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone New-cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould; To covet shame still greater than his own. Late times the verse may read, if these refuse; Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore, And from sour critics vindicate the Muse.
Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore. " Your work is long,” the critics cry. 'T' is true, Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame, And lengthens still, to take in fools like you : Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name ; Shorten my labour, if its length you blame ; Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set, For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game; And takes a memorandum to forget. As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue, Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots, Renounce their four legs, and start up on two. Men forge the patents that create them sots. Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,
As love of pleasure into pain betrays, That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,
So niost grow infamous through love of praise. Will I enjoy (dread feast !) the critic's rage, But whence for praise can such an ardour rise, And with the fell destroyer feed iny page.
When those, who bring that incense, we despise ? For what ambitious fools are more to blame, For such the vanity of great and small, Than those who thunder in the critic's name? Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all. Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this, Nor can e'en Satire blame them; for 't is true, To see what wretches gain the praise they miss. They have most ample cause for what they do. Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,
O fruitful Britain ! doubtless thou wast meant Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
A nurse of fools, to stock the continent. As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,
Though Phæbus and the Nine for ever mow, “ Ten thousand worlds for the three unities !" Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow. Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach, The plenteous harvest calls me forward still, Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach. Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;
One judges as the weather dictates; right A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn; The poem is at noon, and wrong at night:
Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram. Another judges by a surer gage,
When cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen, An author's principles, or parentage ;
In comes a coxcomb, and I write again. Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,
See Tityrus, with merriment possest, The poem doubtless must be written well.
Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest : Another judges by the writer's look ;
What need he stay? for, when the joke is o'er, Another judges, for he bought the book ;
His teeth will be no whiter than before. Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep; | Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth, Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.
That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth? Thus all will judge, and with one single aim, Some, vain of paintings, bid the world adınire ; To gain themselves, not give the writer fame. Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire : The very best ambitiously advise,
Some (perfect wisdom !) of a beauteous wife ; Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise. And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life. (airs;
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their Proclaim the glory, and augment the state ; My lord has vapours, and my lady swears ; Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind, Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die. My lord wears breeches, and my lady 's kind. Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown To show the strength, and infamy of pride, Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown? By all 't is follow'd, and by all denied. Not all on books their criticism waste :
What numbers are there, which at once pursue The genius of a dish some justly taste,
Praise, and the glory to contcmn it, too! And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shanie, The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.
And therefore lays a stratagem for famne; Impatient art rebukes the Sun's delay,
Makes liis approach in modesty's disguise, And bids December yield the fruits of May; To win applause; and takes it by surprise. Their various caros in one great point combine “ To err," says he, “in small things is my fate.” The business of their lives, that is -- to dine. You know your answer, “ He's exact in great." Half of their precious day they give the feast ; “ My style," says he, “ is rude and full of faults." And to a kind digestion spare the rest.
“ But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!” Apicius, here, the taster of the town,
That he wants algebra, he must confess; Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.
“ But not a soul to give our arms success." These worthies of the palate guard with care “ Ah! That 's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries ; The sacred annals of their bills of fare ;
1" But who in heat of blood was ever wise?
I own 't was wrong, when thousands call'd me back, Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,
And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown. All say, 't was madness; nor dare I deny;
Inferior offerings to thy god of vice Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."
Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice ; Could this deceive in others, to be free,
Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids ! It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;
That solemn rite of midnight masquerades ! Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue, If maids the quite exhausted town denies, So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong. An hundred lead of cuckolds may suffice. Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;
Thou sinil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land, And haunt the court, without a prospect there. To see the fifty churches at a stand. Are these expedients for renown ? Confess
And that thy minister may never fail,
But what thy hand has planted still prevail,
See coinions, peers, and ministers of state, In hardy service make a long campaign ;
In solemn council met, and deep debate ! Most manfully besiege the patron's gate,
What god-like enterprise is taking birth? And, oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great
What wonder opens on th' expecting Earth? With painful art, and application warm,
'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings! And take, at last, some little place by storm; Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings ! Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,
Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with trutlas And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-Lane.
like these, Already this thy fortune can afford;
Wilt none offend, whom 't is a praise to please : Then starve without the favour of my lord. Let others flatter to be flatter'd; thou,
T is true, great fortunes some great men confer : Like just tribunals, bend an aweful brow.
How terrible it were to common-sense,
The fool, and knave, 't is glorious to offend, If merit sues, and greatness is so lo:h
And god-like an atteinpt the world to mend; To break its downy trance, I pity both.
The world, where lucky throws to blockheats fall, I grant at court, Philander, at his need,
anaves know the game, and honest men pay all. (Thanks to his lovely wife,) tinds friends indeed. How hard for real worth to gain its price! Of every charm and virtue she's possest:
A man shall make his fortune in a trice, Philander! thou art exquisitely blest;
If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense, The public envy! Now then, 't is allow'd,
Feign’d modesty, and real impudence : The man is found, who may be justly proud : A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace, But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!
A curse within, a smile upon his face: Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast;
A beauteous sister, or convenient wife, For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,
Are prizes in the lottery of life ; In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.
Genius aud virtue they will soon defeat, Some nymphs sell reputation ; others buy ; And lodge you in the bosoin of the great And love a market where the rates run high : : To meril, is but to provide a pain Italian music 's sweet, because 't is dear; ! For men's refusing what you ought to gain. Their vanity is tickled, not their ear :
May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you, Their tastes would lessen, if the prices fell, Whom my presaging thoughts already view And Shakspeare's wretched stuff do quite as well; By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grae', Away the disenchanted fair would throng,
Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd; And own, that English is their mother tongue. And lending, here, those aweful councils aid,
To show how much our northern tastes refine, Which you, abroad, with such success obeya! Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine ;
Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear; While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay; What most we wish, with ease we fancy near. For generous lords had rather give than pay.
Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!
TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR SPENCER COMPTOS.
grows, Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found. And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs: Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel;
So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be, 'T' is solid bodies only puolish well.
(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee ; Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days, Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside, To turn a willing world from righteous ways! Their dignity to raise, their councils guide ; Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve ; Deep to discern, and widely to survey, Well has he seen his servant should not starve. And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh; Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais’d; Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend, In various forms of worship, seen hiin prais d., The crown's assertor, and the people's friend :
Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views, | Most charitably lends the town his face,
For ornament, in every public place;
And is the furniture of drawing-rooms :
When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free, The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone ; And, join'd to two, he fails not — to make three : Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,
Narcissus is the glory of his race;
What other men dislike, is sure to please,
Arbuthnot is a fool, and F- a sage, Since half the Senate “ Not content" can say, S-ly will fright you, E- engage; Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray. By nature streams run backward, flame descends, What makes him model realms, and counsel Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends; kings?
They take their rest by day, and wake by night, An incapacity for smaller things:
And blush, if you surprise them in the right; Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware, And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.
A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair. Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,
Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt, And boldly claims a province higher still :
A fool in fashion, but a fool that 's out. To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,
His passion for absurdity 's so strong, At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot;
He cannot hear a rival in the wrong ;
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime Peerage is poison, good estates are bad
Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time? For this disease ; poor rogues run seldom mad. His nice ambition lies in curious fancies, Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief, His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances, And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?
And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view, While the Sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru! force;
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse. That painted coat, which Joseph never wore! Such useful instruments the weather show,
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin, Just as their mercury is high or low :
That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin. Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark ;
“ Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, A fever argues better than a Clarke :
Since that great plague that swept as many more, let but the logic in his pulse decay,
Was ever year unblest as this ?" he 'll cry, The Grecian he 'll renounce, and learn to pray; “ It has not brought us one new butterfly !" While C- mourns, with an unfeigned zeal, In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well. Unhappy 1-—-y! how came you to please ? C , who makes merry with the Creed,
Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game; He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;
But, in effect, his chase is much the same : But only thinks so: to give both their due,
Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title and estate :
He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run, Nay, a free-mason, with some terrour, names; Close at their elbows, as a morning-dun; Ornits no duty; nor can envy say,
As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
Who 'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer ;
For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
• A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyll.
Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,
| Fame 's a reversion, in which men take place Still to reflect the temper of his face ?
(O late reversion !) at their own decease. Or happy pin to stiek upon his sleeve,
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well, When my lord 's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave? He starves his authors, that their works may sell. Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry; To loll, or thump it, for his better ease ?
That wealth is fame, another clan reply; Or a vile brutt, for noon, or night, bespoke,
Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags; When the peer rashly swears he 'll club his joke? | And swell in just proportion to their bags. Who 'd shake with laughter, though he could not | Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old, find
Think glory nothing but the beams of gold ; His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind, The first young lord, which in the Mall you meet, For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,
Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street, That can cry, “ Chimney sweep,” or drive a plough? From rescued candles' ends who rais'd a sum, With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close! | And starves, to join a penny to a plum. Scarce meaner they, who terms like these impose. | A beardless miser! 'T is a guilt unknown
But what 's the tribe most likely to comply? To former times, a scandal all our own. The men of ink, or ancient authors lye;
Of ardent lovers, the true modern band
For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies;
He glories to late times to be convey'd,
Not such anbition his great fathers fir'de And what to my great soul like glory dear?" When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd: Till some god whispers in his tingling ear, He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain : That fame 's unwholesome taken without meat, Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain. And life is best sustain’d by what is eat :
• Who'd be a slave?" the gallant Colonel cries, Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes. And wishes all his wants were in his wit.
To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right Ah! what avails it, when his dinner 's lost, Just is his title — for he will not fight : That his triumphant name adorns a post ?
All soldiers valour, all divines have grace, Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)
As maids of honour beauty — by their place: Defends sirloins, which sons of dullness cat? But, when indulging on the last campaign,
What foe to verse without compassion hears, His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain; What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears, He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word, When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown, A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword A prostitute on every hulk in town,
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, With other whores undone, though not in print, A soldier should be modest as a maid: Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint ?
Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy ; Ye bards ! why will you sing, though uninspir'd? Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy. Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd ? | 'T is the world's debt to deeds of high degree; Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,
But if you pay yourself, the world is free. Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press ? Were there no tongue to speak them but his own, Bad metre, that ercrescence of the head,
Augustus' deeds in arms bad ne'er been known Like hair, will sprout, although the poet 's dead. Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name
All other trades demand, verse-makers beg; Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, A dedication is a wooden-leg ;
Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak; A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,
The Roman would not blush at the mistake.
ON WOMEN. For some, though few, there are, large-minded men,
O fairest of creation ! last and best! Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;
Of all God's works! Creature in whom excell'de Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court, Whatever can to sight, or thought, be form'd Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support;
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;
How art thou lost!
Mitter My sole excuse, alas! for having writ. Argyll true wit is studious to restore;
Nor reigns ambition in bold man alone; And Dorset smiles, if Phæbus smil'd before ; Soft female hearts the rude invader own; Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires, But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things, And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.
Than routing armies, and dethroning kings :
Attend, and you discern it in the fair