The fafe director of unguided youth,
Fraught with kind wishes, and fecur'd by truth;
That cordial-drop heaven in our cup has thrown,
To make the naufeous draught of life go down;
On which one only bleffing God might raise,
In lands of Atheists, fubfidies of praife:
For none did e'er fo dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and blefs'd his power, in love:
This only joy, for which poor we are made,
Is grown, like play, to be an arrant trade:
The rooks creep in, and it has got of late
As many little cheats and tricks as that;
But, what yet more a woman's heart would vex,
'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own sex;
Our filly fex, who born, like monarchs, free,
Turn Gipfies for a meaner liberty,
And hate restraint, though but from infamy :
'That call whatever is not common nice,
And, deaf to Nature's rule, or Love's advice,
Forfake the pleasure, to pursue the vice.
To an exact perfection they have brought
The action Love, the paffion is forgot.
'Tis below wit, they tell you, to admire,
And ev❜n without approving they defire:
Their private with obeys the public voice,
'Twixt good and bad whimfy decides, not choice:
Fashions grow up for taste, at forms they strike,
They know what they would have, not what they❘
like.

Bovy's a beauty, if fome few agree
To call him fo, the rest to that degree
Affected arc, that with their ears they fee.

Where I was visiting the other night,
Comes a fine lady, with her humble knight,
Who had prevail'd with her, through her own
fkill,

At his request, though much against his will,
To come to London-

}

As the coach ftopt, I heard her voice, more loud
Than a great-belly d woman's in a croud;
Telling the knight, that her affairs require
He, for fome hours, obfequiously retire.
I think she was afham'd he fhould be feen:
Hard fate of hufbands! the gallant had been,
Though a difeas'd, ill-favour'd fool, brought in.
Difpatch, fays fhe, the bufinefs you pretend,
Your beaftly visit to your drunken friend,
A bottle ever makes you look fo fine;
Methinks I long to fmell you ftink of wine.
Your country drinking breath 's enough to kill;
Sour ale corrected with a lemon-peel.
Pr'ythee, farewell; we'll meet again anon:
The neceffary thing bows, and is gone.
She flies up ftairs, and all the hafte does fhow
That fifty antic poftures will allow;

And then burfts out-Dear madam, am not I
The strangeft, alter'd creature: let me die,
I find myself ridiculously grown,
Embarraft with my being out of town:
Rude and untaught, like any Indian queen,
My country nakedness is plainly feen.

How is Love govern'd? Love that rules the state;
And pray who are the men moft worn of late?
When I was marry'd, fools were à-la-mode,
The men of wit were then held incommode :

}

}

Slow of belief, and fickle in defire,
Who, ere they'll be perfuaded, muft enquire,
As if they came to fpy, and not t' admire :
With fearching wisdom, fatal to their ease,
They ftill find out why what may should not pleafe;
Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare
Make them think better of us than we are;
And if we hide our frailties from their fights,
Call us deceitful jilts and hypocrites;
They little guess, who at our arts are griev'd,
The perfect joy of being well deceiv'd;
Inquifitive as jealous cuckolds grow;
Rather than not be knowing, they will know
What, being known, creates their certain woe.
Women fhould thefe, of all mankind, avoid,
For wonder, by clear knowledge, is destroy'd.
Woman, who is an arrant bird of night,
Bold in the dusk, before a fool's dull fight
Must fly, when Reafon brings the glaring light.
But the kind easy fool, apt to admire
Himself, trufts us; his follies all confpire
To flatter his, and favour our defire:
Vain of his proper merit, he with cafe
Believes we love him beft, who beft can please;
On him our grofs, dull, common flatteries pais,
Ever most happy when moft made an afs;
Heavy to apprehend, though all mankind
Perceive us falfe, the fop himself is blind;
Who, doating on himself-

Thinks every one that fees him of his mind.
These are true womens men-Here, forc'd to cele
Through want of breath, not will, to hold het

peace,

She to the window runs, where she had spy'd
Her much-esteem'd dear friend, the monkey, ty'¿;
With forty smiles, as many antic bows,
As if 't had been the lady of the house,
The dirty chattering monfter fhe embrac'd,
And made it this fine tender fpeech at laft:

Kifs me, thou curious miniature of man;
How odd thon art, how pretty, how japan!
Oh! I could live and die with thee: then on,
For half an hour, in compliments she ran:
I took this time to think what Nature meant,
When this mixt thing into the world fhe fent,
So very wife, yet fo impertinent:

One that knows every thing that God thought it,
Should be an afs through choice, not want of wit;
Whose foppery, without the help of fenfe,
Could ne'er have rofe to fuch an excellence:
Nature's as lame in making a true fop,
As a philofopher; the very top
And dignity of folly we attain

By ftudious fearch and labour of the brain,
By obfervation, counsel, and deep thought:
God never made a coxcomb worth a great;
We owe that name to industry and arts:
An eminent fool must be a fool of parts,
And fuch a one was fhe, who had turn'd o'er
As many books as men, lov'd much, read mort,
Had a difcerning wit; to her was known
Every one's fault, or merit, but her own.
All the good qualities that ever bleft
A woman fo diftinguish'd from the reft,
Except difcretion only, she poffeft.

But now, mon cher, dear Pug, fhe cries, adieu; And the difcourfe broke off does thus renew:

You smile to fee me, who the world perchance Mistakes to have fome wit, fo far advance The intereft of fools, that I approve Their merit more than men of wit in love; But in our fex too many proofs there are Of fuch whom wits undo, and fools repair. This, in my time, was fo obferv'd a rule, Hardly a wench in town but had her fool; The meaneft common flut, who long was grown The jeft and fcorn of every pit buffoon, Had yet left charms enough to have fubdued Some fop or other, fond to be thought lewd. Fofter could make an Irifh lord a Nokes, And Betty Morris had her city Cokes. A woman's ne'er fo ruin'd, but she can Be ftill reveng'd on her undoer, man: How loft foe'er, fhe'll find fome lover more A lewd abandon'd fool than fhe a whore. That wretched thing Corinna, who has run Through all the feveral ways of being undone : Cozen'd at firft by love, and living then

By turning the too-dear-bought cheat on men: Gay were the hours, and wing'd with joy they flew,

When first the town her early beauties knew;
Courted, admir'd, and lov'd, with prefents fed,
Youth in her looks, and pleafure in her bed;
Till fate, or her ill angel, thought it fit
To make her doat upon a man of wit;
Who found 't was dili to love above a day,
Made his ill-natur'd jeft, and went away.
Now fcorn'd of all, forfaken and oppreft,
She's a memento mori to the reft:

Difeas'd, decay'd, to take up half a crown
Mult mortgage her long fast and mantua gown;
Poor creature, who, unheard-of, as a tly
In fome dark hole muft all the winter lie,
And want and ditt endure a whole half-year,
That for one month the tawdry may appear.
In Eafter-term fhe gets her a new gown;
When my young mafter's worship comes to town,
From pedagogue and mother juft fet free,
The heir and hopes of a great family;
Who with ftrong beer and beef the country rules,
And ever fince the Conqueft have been fools;
And now, with careful profpect to maintain
This character, left croffing of the ftrain
Should mend the booby breed, his friends provide
A cousin of his own to be his bride:
And thus fet out-

With an eftate, no wit, and a young wife,
The folid comforts of a coxcomb's life,
Dunghill and peafe forfook, he comes to town,
Turns fpark, learns to be lewd, and is undone;
Nothing fuits worfe with vice than want of fenfe,
Fools are ftill wicked at their own expence.
This o'er-grown school-boy loft Corinna wins;
At the first dash to make an afs begins:
Pretends to like a man that has not known
The vanities or vices of the town;
Fresh is the youth, and faithful in his love,
Eager of joys which he does feldom prove;

YOL. II.

Healthful and ftrong, be does no pains endure
But what the fair-one he adores can cure;
Grateful for favours, does the fex efteem,
And bibels none for being kind to him;
Then of the lewdnefs of the town complains,
Rails at the wits and atheifts, and maintains
'Tis better than good fenfe, than power or wealth
To have a blood untainted, youth, and health.
The unbred puppy, who had never feen
A creature look fo gay, or talk fo fine,
Believes, then falls in love, and then in debt;
Mortgages all, ev'n to the ancient feat,
To buy his mistress a new house for life,
To give her plate and jewels, robs his wife;
And when to th' height of fondnefs he is grown,
Tis time to poifon him, and all's her own:
Thus metting in her common arms his fate,
He leaves her baftard heir to his eftate;
And, as the race of fuch an owl deferves,
His own dull lawful progeny he starves..
Nature (that never made a thing in vain,
But does each infect to fome end ordain)
Wifely provokes kind keeping fools, no doubt,
To patch up vices men of wit wear out.

Thus he ran on two hours, fome grains of fenfe
Still mixt with follies of impertinence.
But now 'tis time I the uld fome pity show
To Cloe, fince I cannot choofe but know,
Readers mult reap what dulleft writers fow.
By the next poit I will fuch ftories tell,
As, join'd to thefe, fhall to a volume fwell;
As true as heaven, more infamous than hell,
But you are tir d, and fo am I. Farewell.

AN EPISTOLARY ESSAY

FROM LORD ROCHESTER TO LORD MULGRAVE,

UPON

THEIR MUTUAL POEMS.

DEAR friend, Thear this town docs fo abound

In faucy cenfurers, that faults are found With what of late we, in poetic rage Beftowing, threw away on the dull age. But (howfoe'er envy their fpleen may raise, To rob my brows of the deferved bays) Their thanks, at least, I merit; fince through me. They are partakers of your poctry. And this is all I'll fay in my defence, T'obtain one line of your well-worded fenfe, I'll be content t' have writ the "British Prince." I'm none of thofe who think themselves infpir'd, Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd; But from a rule I have (upon long trial) T'avoid with care all fort of felf-denial. Which way foe'er defire and fancy lead, (Contenining fame), that path I boldly tread: And if expofing what I take for wit, To my dear felf a pleafure I beget, No matter though the cenfuring critics fret. Thefe whom my Mufe difpleafes are at ftrife, With equal fpleen, against my courfe of life, 4 [C]

The leaft delight of which I'll not forego,
For all the flattering praife man can bestow.
If I defign'd to please, the way were then
To mend my manners, rather than my pen :
The firft's unnatural, therefore unfit;
And for the fecond I defpair of it,
Since grace is not fo hard to get as wit:
Perhaps ill verfes ought to be confin'd,
In mere good breeding, like unfavory wind.
Were reading forc'd, I fhould be apt to think,
Men might no more write fcurvily than ftink.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.

Then who the devil would give this to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy?
These things confider'd, make me (in defpight
Of idle rumour) keep at home and write.

A TRIAL OF THE POETS FOR THE BAYS.

IN IMITATION OF A SATYR IN BOILEAU.

Fail me at once, yet fomething fo fublime
Shall ftamp my poem, that the world may fee,
It could have been produc'd by none but me.
And that's my end; for man can with no more
Than fo to write, as none e'er writ before;
Yet why am I no poet of the times?
I have allufions, fimiles, and rhymes,
And wit; or elfe 'tis hard that I alone,

}

Of the whole race of mankind, fhould have none. Unequally the partial hand of heaven Has all but this one only bleffing given. The world appears like a great family, Whofe lord, opprefs'd with pride and poverty, (That to a few great bounty he may fhow) Is fain to ftarve the numerous train below. Juft fo feems Providence, as poor and vain, Keeping more creatures than it can maintain: Here 'tis profufe, and there it meanly faves, And for one prince, it makes ten thousand faves. In wit alone 't has been magnificent, Of which fo just a fhare to each is fent, That the moft avaricious are content. For none e'er thought (the due divifion's fuch) His own too little, or his friend's too much. Yet moft men fhow, or find, great want of wit, Writing themselves, or judging what is writ. But I, who am of fprightly vigour full, Look on mankind as envious and dull." Born to myself, I like myself alone, And must conclude my judgment good, or none : For could my fenfe be naught, how should I know Whether another man's were good or no? Thus I refolve of my own poetry, That 'tis the beft; and there's a fame for me. If then I'm happy, what does it advance, Whether to merit due, or arrogance? Oh, but the world will take offence hereby! Why then the world fhall fuffer for't, not I. Did e'er this faucy world and I agree, To let it have its beaftly will on me? Why should my proflituted fenfe be drawn, To every rule their inufty cuftoms spawn? But men may cenfure you; 'tis two to one, Whene'er they cenfure, they'll be in the wrong. There's not a thing on earth, that I can name, So foolish, and fo falfe, as common fame. It calls the courtier knave, the plain-man rude, Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd, Impertinent the brifk, morofe the fad, Mean the familiar, the referv'd-one mad. Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more, She's a fly hypocrite, or public whore.

and loud,

For th' appealing fo factious and clamorous s croud,

Apollo thought fit, in fo weighty a caufe, T'eftablish a government, leader, and laws. The hopes of the bays, at the fummoning call, Had drawn them together, the Devil and all; All thronging and liftening, they gap'd for the blefing:

No prefbyter fermon had more crowding and prd fing:

In the head of the gang, John Dryden appear' That ancient grave wit fo long lov'd and fear'd, But Apollo had heard a story in town,

Of his quitting the Mufes, to wear the Mar gown;

And fo gave him leave now his poetry's done, To let him turn priest fince R is turn'd re This reverend author was no sooner fet by, But Apollo had got gentle Georget in his eye, And frankly confefs'd, of all men that writ, There's none had more fancy, fenfe, judgment, a

wit:

place;

No gentleman writer that office fhould bear,
But a trader in wit the laurel fhould wear,
As none but a Cit-e'er makes a Lord-Mayer.
Next into the crowd, Tom Shadwell does was
And fwears by his guts, his paunch, and his tall
That 'tis he alone best pleases the age,
Himself and his wife have fupported the stage:
Apollo, well pleas'd with fo bonny a lad,
T'oblige him, he told him, he should be huge
glad,

Had he half fo much wit, as he fancy'd he had.
Nat Lee ftepp'd in next, in hopes of a prize,
Apollo remember'd he had hit once in thrice;
By the rubies in's face, he could not deny,
But he had as much wit as wine could supply;

*See "The Seffion of the Poets," in the State Poems, vol. I. and "The Election of the Pos Laurcat, 1719," in Sheffield Duke of Bucking ham's Works.

+ Sir George Etherege. Mr. Wycherley.

Confefs'd that indeed he had a musical note,

throat ;

n the numerous croud that encompass'd him round, Little ftarch'd Johnny Crown at his elbow he found,

His cravat-ttring new iron'd, he gently did stretch
His lily-white hand out, the laurel to reach.
Alledging that he had most right to the bays,
For writing romances, and fh-ting of plays:
Apollo rose up, and gravely confefs'd,

Of all men that writ, his talent was beft;
For fince pain and difhonour man's life only.
damn,

The greatest felicity mankind can claim,

Is to want fenfe of fmart, and be past sense of fhame:

And to perfect his blifs in poetical rapture,
He bid him be dull to the end of the chapter.
The poetels Afra next fhew'd her sweet face,
And fwore by her poetry, and her black ace,
The laurel by a double right was her own,
For the plays fhe had writ, and the conquefts fhe

had won.

Apollo acknowledg'd 'twas hard to deny her,
Yet, to deal frankly and ingenuously by her,
He told her, were conquests and charms her pre-
tence,

She ought to have pleaded a dozen years fince. Nor could D'Urfey forbear for the laurel to fticklc,

Protesting that he had the honour to tickle
Th' ears of the town, with his dear madam
Fickle.

With other pretenders, whofe names I'd rehearse,
But that they're too long to ftand in my verse :
Apollo, quite tir'd with their tedious harangue,
At laft found Tom Betterton's face in the gang,
For, fince poets without the kind players may

hang,

The fenfes are too grofs, and he'll contrive
A fixth, to contradict the other five;
And, before certain inftinct, will prefer
Reafon, which fifty times for one does err.
Reafon, an ignis fatuus of the mind,
Which leaves the light of nature, sense, behind:
Pathlefs and dangerous wandering ways it takes,
Through error's fenny bogs, and thorny brakes;
Whilft the mifguided follower climbs with pain
Mountains of whimfies, heapt in his own brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong
down

Into Doubt's boundless fea, where like to drown
Books bear him up a while, and make him try
To fwim with bladders of philofophy;
In hopes ftill to o'ertake the skipping light,
The vapour dances in his dazzled fight,
Till, fpent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then Old Age and Experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to Death, and make him understand,
After a fearch fo painful and fo long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong.
Huddled in dirt, this reafoning engine lies,
Who was fo proud, fo witty, and fo wife :
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a wretch:
His wifdom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know the world he fhould enjoy:
And wit was his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleafing others at his own expence ;
For wits are treated just like common whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out of doors:
The pleasure paft, a threatening doubt remains,
That frights th' enjoyer with fucceeding pains.
Women, and men of wit, are dangerous tools,
And ever fatal to admiring fools.

Pleasure allures; and when the fops efcape, 7
'Tis not that they are lov'd, but fortunate;
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.

4 [C] 2

But now, methinks, fome formal band and beard
Takes me to tafk: come on, Sir, I'm prepar'd.
Then, by your favour, any thing that's writ,
Againft this gibing, gingling knack, call Wit,
Likes me abundantly; but you'll take care,
Upon this point, not to be too fevere;
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part;
For, I profefs, I can be very fmart

On wit, which I abhor with all my heart.
I long to lafh it in fonte fharp effay,
But your grand indifcretion bids me ftay,
And turns my tide of ink another way.
What rage ferments in your degenerate mind,
To make you rail at reafon and mankind?
Bleft glorious man, to whom alone kind heaven
An everlasting foul hath freely given;
Whom his great Maker took fuch care to make,
That from himfelf he did the image take,
And this fair frame in fhining reafon dreft,
To dignify his nature above beaft:
Reafon, by whofe afpiring influence,
We take a flight beyond material fenfe,
Dive into myfteries, then foaring pierce
The flaming limits of the univerfe,

Search heaven and hell, find out what's acted there,

And give the world true grounds of hope and fear.
Hold, mighty man, I cry; all this we know
From the pathetic pen of Ingelo,
From Patrick's Pilgrim, Sibb's Soliloquies,
And 'tis this very reafon I'd sp ́fe
This fupernatural gift, that makes a mite
Think he's the image of the Infinite;
Comparing his fhort life, vei i of all reft,
To the Eternal and the Ever-blet.
This bufy puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep myfteries, then finds them out,
Filling with frantic crouds of thinking fools,
The reverca bedlams, colleges and fchools,
Borne on whofe wings, each heavy fot can pierce
The limits of the boundlefs univerfe.

So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcafe through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whofe bulinefs lies
In nonfenfe and impoflibilities:
This made a whimsical philofopher,
Before the fpacious world his tub prefer;
And we have many modern coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'caufe they have nought to do.
But thoughts were given for actions' government,
Where action ceafes, thought 's impertinent.
Our sphere of action is life's happiness,
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an afs.
Thus whilft againft falfe reafoning I inveigh,
I own right reafon, which I would obey;
That reafon, which diftinguishes by fenfe,
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence;
That bounds defires with a reforming will,
To keep them more in vigour, not to kill:
Your reafon hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing appetites, yours would deftroy.
My reafon is my friend, yours is a cheat;
Hunger calls out, my reafen bids me eat;
Perverfely yours, your appetite does mock;
This afks for food; that anfwers, what's a clock?

This plain diftin&ion, Sir, your doubt fecure;
'Tis not true reafon I defpife, but yours.
Thus I think reafon righted: but for man,
I'll ne'er recant, defend him if you can.
For all his pride, and his philofophy,
'Tis evident beafts are, in their degree,
As wife at leaft, and better far than he.
Thofe creatures are the wifeft, who attain,
By fureft means, the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler finds, and kills his hare,
Better than Meres fupplics committee-chair;
Though one's a statefman, th' other but a hound,
Jowler in juftice will be wifer found.

You fee how far man's wifdom here extends:
Look next if human nature makes amends;
Whofe principles are most generous and juft;
And to whofe morals you would fooner truf:
Be judge yourself, I'll bring it to the teft,
Which is the baseft creature, man or beaft:
Birds feed on birds, beatts on each other prey,
Ent favage man alone does man betray,
Preft by neceflity, they kill for food;
Man undocs man, to do himself no good:
With teeth and claws by nature arm'd, they h
Nature's allowance, to fapply their want.
But man, with miles, embraces, friendships, prak,
Inhumanly his fellow's life betrays;
With voluntary pains works his diftrefs;
Not through neceffity, but wantonnefs.
For hunger or for love, they bite or tear,
Whilt wretched man is fill in atms for fear:
For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid,
From fear to fear fucceflively betray'd:
Bafe fear, the fource whence his bafe pa

сате,

His boafted honour, and his dear-bought fame:
The luft of power, to which he's fuch a flave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave;
To which his various projects are defign'd,
Which makes him generous, affable, and kin':
For which he takes fuch pains to be thought wi
And fcrews his actions in a forc'd disguise;
Leads a moft tedious life, in mifery,
Under laborious, mean hypocrify.
Look to the bottom of his vaft defign.
Wherein man's wifdom, power, and glory,
The good he acts, the ill he does endure,
'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.
Mercly for fafety, after fame they thirst;
For all men would be cowards if they durft:
And honefty's against all common fenfe;
Men must be knaves; 'tis in their own defense,
Mankind's honeft; if you think it fair,
Among known cheats, to play upon the square
You'll be undone

Nor can weak truth your reputation fave;
The knaves will all agree to call you knave.
Wrong'd shall he live, infulted o'er, oppreßt,
Who dares be lefs a villain than the reft.
Thus here you fee what human nature craves,
Moft men are cowards, all men fhould be knaves
The difference lies, as far as I can fee,
Not in the thing itself, but the degree;
And all the subject-matter of debate,
Is only who's a knave of the first rate.