Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;
Nay, a free-mason, with some terrour, names;
Omits no duty; nor can envy say,
He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play :
He makes no noise in parliameat, 't is true;
But pays his debts, and visit, when 't is due ;
His character and gloves are ever clean,
And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,
Which equally the wise and worthless shares.
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belief,
Most charitably lends the town his face,
For ornament, in every public place;
As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,
And is the furniture of drawing-rooms!
When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,
And, join'd to two, he fails not -to make three:
Narcissus is the glory of his race;
For who does nothing with a better grace?
To deck my list, by nature were design'd
Such shining expletives of human kind,
Who want, while through blank life they dream along,
Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.
To counterpoise this hero of the mode,
Some for renown are singular and odd;
What other men dislike, is sure to please,
Of all mankind, these dear antipodes ;
Through pride, not malice, they run counter still,
And birth-days are their days of dressing ill.
Arbuthnot is a fool, and F- a sage,
S-ly will fright you, E engage;
By nature streams run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends;
They take their rest by day, and wake by night,
And blush, if you surprise them in the right;
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,
A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.
Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that 's out.
His passion for absurdity 's so strong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong;
Though wrong the mode, comply; more sense is
In wearing others' follies, than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime
Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances,
And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,
Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat, which Joseph never wore!
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,
That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin. "Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, Since that great plague that swept as many more, Was ever year unblest as this?" he 'll cry, "It has not brought us one new butterfly !"
In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,
Unhappy I―y! how came you to please?
Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;
But, in effect, his chase is much the same:
Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title and estate :
Where'er their lordships go, they never find
Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind;
He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,
Close at their elbows, as a morning-dun ;
As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
And fame was like a fever, to be caught:
But after seven years' dance, from place to place,
The Dane is more familiar with his grace.
Who 'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;
Or living pendant dangling at his ear,
For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
For months before, by trumpets, through the town?
Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,
Still to reflect the temper of his face?
Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,
When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave?
Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
To loll, or thump it, for his better ease?
Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke,
When the peer rashly swears he 'll club his joke?
Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not
His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,
* A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyll.
For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,
That can cry, " Chimney sweep," or drive a plough?
With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!
Scarce meaner they, who terms like these impose.
But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
The men of ink, or ancient authors lye;
The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold
Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold:
All men they flatter, but themselves the most,
With deathless fame, their everlasting boast:
For Fame no cully makes so much her jest,
As her old constant spark, the bard profest.
"Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,
Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,
And what to my great soul like glory dear ?"
Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
That fame 's unwholesome taken without meat,
And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:
Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ
And wishes all his wants were in his wit.
Ah! what avails it, when his dinner 's lost,
That his triumphant name adorns a post?
Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)
Defends sirloins, which sons of dullness eat?
What foe to verse without compassion hears,
What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,
When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown,
A prostitute on every bulk in town,
With other whores undone, though not in print,
Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint?
Ye bards! why will you sing, though uninspir'd? Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?
Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,
Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?
Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,
Like hair, will sprout, although the poet's dead.
All other trades demand, verse-makers beg;
A dedication is a wooden-leg;
A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,
Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.
Though such myself, vile bards I discommend;
Nay more, though gentle Damon is my friend.
"Is 't then a crime to write ?"-If talent rare
Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear: [men,
For some, though few, there are, large-minded
Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;
Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court,
Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support;
Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;
My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
Argyll true wit is studious to restore ;
And Dorset smiles, if Phoebus smil'd before;
Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires
And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.
But ah! not inspiration can obtain
That fame, which poets languish for in vain.
How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive
Το grasp, what no man can possess alive!
Fame 's a reversion, in which men take place
(O late reversion!) at their own decease.
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,
He starves his authors, that their works may sell.
That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;
That wealth is fame, another clan reply;
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