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By your revenue measure your expense ;
Say, dear Hippolytus, (whose drink is ale,
Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back,) Yet few without long discipline are sage;
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound, And our youth only lays up sighs for age.
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground, But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long Is that thy praise ? Let Ringwood's fame alone; The bright temptation of the courtly throng, Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own; Thy most inviting theme? The court affords Nor envies, when a gypsy you commit, Much food for satire ;-it abounds in lords. And shake the clumsy bench with country wit; “What lords are those saluting with a grin ?" When you the dullest of dull things have said, One is just out, and one as lately in.
And then ask pardon for the jest you made. “How comes it then to pass, we see preside
Here breathe, my Muse! and then thy task renew. On both their brows an equal share of pride ?" Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view. Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all, Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates; Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates; As in its home it triumphs in high place,
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind; And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind; Some lords it bids admire their hands so white, Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend; Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight: And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend. Some lords it bids resign; and turns their wands, Is there a man of an eternal vein, Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain, These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast, At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass, With pride inverted, of their honors lost.
And sweetly whistles as the waters pass? But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup, The boast of merely being out, or in.
That runs for ages witout winding-up? What numbers here, through odd ambition,estrive Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame? To seem the most transported things alive! Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme: As if by joy, desert was understood;
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad,
For who can write so fast as men run mad ?
Plain Satire calls for sense in every line : With anxious care they labor to be glad.
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose !
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite
So weak are human-kind by Nature made,
Thou, like the Sun, all colors dost contain, High stations lumult, but not bliss, create :
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain. None think the great unhappy, but the great : For every soul finds reason to be proud, Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd. Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown, envy none their pageantry and show; Hippolytus* demands the sylvan crown; I envy none the gilding of their woe.
But Florio's fame, the product of a shower, Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene, Grows in his garden, an illustrious hower! And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene; Why teems the Earth? Why melt the vernal skies? No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
Why shines the Sun? To make Paul Diackt rise. No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there: From morn to night has Florio gazing stood, There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest ; And wonder'd how the gods could be so good : The sense is ravishd, and the soul is blest; What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph so fair! On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
He dotes! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O solid bliss ! which nothing can destroy,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,
* This refers to the first Satire.
| The name of a tulip.
Nor are those enemies I mention'd, all;
Who, with the charms of his own genius smit, Beware, O florist, thy ambition's fall.
Conceives all virtues are compris d in wit!
In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense ;
What though wit tickles ? tickling is unsafe, Serene, quoth Adam, “Lo! 'twas crush'd by me; If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh. Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee." Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
But all men want amusement ; and what crime Would leave a sting within a brother's heart? In such a Paradise to fool their time?
Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd; None: but why proud of this ? To fame they soar : Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword ; We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more. And never on the weak; or you'll appear
We smile at florists, we despise their joy, As there no hero, no great genius here. And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy : As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, But are those wiser whom we most admire, So wil is by politeness sharpest set : Survey with envy, and pursue with fire ?
Their want of edge from their offence is seen ; What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or power ? Both pain us least when exquisitely keen. Another Florio doting on a flower!
The fame men give is for the joy they find; A short-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind. From sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.
Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit, With what, 0 Codrus! is thy fancy smit? To pay my compliment, what place so fit? The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit. His most facetious letters* came to hand, Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow, Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand : And Epictetus is a perfect beau.
If that a just offence to Marcus gave, How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too, Say, Marcus, which art thou, a fool, or knave ? Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
For all but such with caution I forbore ; Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before : That science should be purchas'd by the yard ; I know thee now, both what thou art, and who; And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, sent home No mask so good, but Marcus must shine through: The gilded leather to fit up thy room.
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell; If not to some peculiar end design'd,
Thy best concealment had been writing well: Study's the specious trifling of the mind;
But thou a brave neglect of fame hast shown, Or is at best a secondary aim,
of others' fame, great genius! and thy own. A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
Write on unheeded ; and this maxim know, If so, sure they who the mere volume prize, The man who pardons, disappoints his foe. But love the thicket where the quarry lies.
In malice to proud wils, some proudly lull On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, Their peevish reason; vain of being dull; But found at length that it reduc'd his rent; When some home joke has stung their solemn souls, His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on, In vengeance they determine to be fools ; A choice collection! what is to be done? Through spleen, that little Nature gave, make less, He sells his last ; for he the whole will buy; Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness ; Sells e'en his house ; nay, wants whereon to lie: To lumps inanimate a fondness take; So high the generous ardor of the man
And disinherit sons that are awake. For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
These, when their utmost venom they would spit, When terms were drawn, and brought him by the Most barbarously tell you—“ He's a wit.” clerk,
Poor negroes, thus to show their burning spite Lorenzo sign'd the bargain—with his mark. To cacodemons, say, they're devilish white. Unlearned men of books assume the care,
Lampridius, from the bottom of his breast, 44 eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest. Not in his authors' liveries alone
How just his grief! one carries in his head Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:
A less proportion of the father's lead; Editions various, at high prices bought,
And is in danger, without special grace,
The dung-hill breed of men a diamond scorn,
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
O Stanhope, whose accomplishments make good The booby father craves a booby son; The promise of a long-illustrious blood,
And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone. In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea; The strictest honor! and the finest taste!
One learns to lisp; another, not to see : Accept this verse; if Satire can agree
Miss D, tottering, catches at your hand :
Was every thing so pretty born to stand ?
* Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus.
Whilst these, what Nature gave, disown through Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surpris'd pride,
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,
Level'd her barbarous needle at his fame: If ycnder 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 yawnd the frieze is now become a doubt,
" 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; thal, 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 yon 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 fouls 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 screen; Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch, For 'tis the wise man's interest to be seen.
As crossing straws retard a passing witch,
I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee.
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 10 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 iscompos'd his mien!
How vain the prize! how impotent our aim ! So 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 HON. MR. DODINGTON.
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 favors, and he'll ask for three : Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his 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, 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 summer's day, Nor favor 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
Couil 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. "Tis 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 labor, 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 palents 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 most grow infamous through love of praise. Will I enjoy (dread feast !) the critic's rage,
But whence for praise can such an ardor rise, And with the fell destroyer feed my 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 damnd, have their revenge in this, Nor can e'en Satire blame them; for 'tis true, To see what wretches gain the praise they miss. They have most ample cause for what they do. Balbutius, muffed 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 gauge,
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 admire; To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame. Of houses soine ; nay, houses that they hire : The very best ambitiously advise,
Some (persect wisdom !) of a beauteous wife; Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise. And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Sometimes, through pride, the seres change their airs Proclaim the glory, and augment the state ; My lord has vapors, 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 'tis 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 contemn it, too! And eat their way to fame ; with anxious thought Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame, The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.
And therefore lays a stratagem for fame; Impatient art rebukes the Sun's delay,
Makes his approach in modesty's disguise, . And bids December yield the fruits of May; To win applause; and takes it by surprise. Their various cares 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." Tlalf 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 !" Apicins, 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 ;
But who in heat of blood was ever wise?
I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call’d me back, Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,
And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.
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 head of cuckolds may
But what thy hand has planted still prevail,
See commons, peers, and ministers of state,
In solemn council met, and deep debate! Most manfully besiege the patron's gate,
What godlike 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 truths And slarve upon discreetly, in Sheer-lane.
like these, Already this thy fortune can afford ;
Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please : Then starve without the favor of my
Let others flatter to be flatter'd; thou, "Tis true, great fortunes some great men conser; Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow. But often, even in doing right, they err:
How terrible it were to common-sense, From caprice, not from choice, their favors come; To write a satire, which gave none offence! They give, but think it toil to know to whom : And, since from life I take the draughts you see, The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance : If men dislike them, do they censure me? "Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.
The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend, If merit sues, and greatness is so loth
And godlike an attempt the world to mend; To break its downy trance, I pity both.
The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall, I grant at court, Philander, at his need, Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all. (Thanks to his lovely wife,) finds 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, 'tis 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 lothes a feast;
A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,
Are prizes in the lottery of life;
Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy; And lodge you in the bosom of the great.
For men's refusing what you ought to gain.
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 gracid, Away the disenchanted fair would throng, Still higher in your prince's favor plac'd ; And own, that English is their mother tongue. And lending, here, those awful councils aid,
To show how much our northern tastes refine, Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd ! Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine ;
Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;
Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!
TO THE RIGHT HON, SIR SPENCER COMPTON.
So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be, "Tis solid bodies only polish well.
(0! 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 him prais'd, The crown's asserter, and the people's friend :