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The jocund thunder wakes th' enliveu'd hounds, The fleccy ball their busy fingers cull,
Young New stratageips and doubling wiles she tries;
SATIRE 1. Now circling turns, and now at large she ftics; To his Grace the Duke of Dorset. Till,spent at last,she pants, and hcare's for breath, Then lays herdown, and waits devouring deaih.
--- Tanto major Famz sitis est, quam
JUV. $41.10, Butstay,advent'rous Muse! hást thou the force To wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse? My verse is Satire; Dorset, lend vour ear, To keep thy seat unmor'd, last thou the skill, And patronise a luse you cannot fear; . O’er the high gate, and down the headlong hill: To Poets sacred is a Dorsci's name, Canst thou the stay's laborious chace direct, Their wonted passport thro' the gates of fame; Or the strong fox thro' all his arts detect? It bribes the partial reader into praise, The theme demands a more experienc'd lay: Land Urows a glory round the shelter'd lays; Ye mighty hunters! spare this iveak essas. The dazzled judgement fewer faulis can see,
O happy plains, remote froin war's alarms, And gives applause to B- e, or to me. And all the ravages of hostile arms!
But you decline the mistress we pursue ; And happy shepherds, who, secure from fear, Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you. On open downs preserve your sleccy care! 1 Intructive Satire, truc to virtue's cause, Whosespaciousbarnsgroan with increasingstore, Thou shining supplement of public laws ! And whirling fails disjoint the crackling floor! When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age No barbarous soldier, bent on cruel poil, Reproach our silence, and demand our rage; Spreads desolation o'er your firtile soil: when purchas'd follies from each distant land, No trampling steed lays waste the ripend grain, Like arts, inprove in Britain's skilful hand : Nor crackling fires devour the promis'd gain : 1hen the law shows her teeth, but dares norbite, No flaming beacons cast their blaze afar, lind Souil-Sca treasures are not brought to light, The dreadful signal of invasive war:
When churchmen scripture for the classics quit; No trumpet's clangor wounds the mother's car, Polite aj ostale's from God's grace to wit; And calls the lover from his swoonilig fair. When men grow great from their revenue spent;
What happiness the rural maid attends, Ann fly froin bailiffs into parliament; In cheerful labor while each day she spends! When dying sinners to bloi out their score, She gratefully receives what Heaven his seot, Bejecatio the church the leavings of a whoreAnd, rich in poverty, enjoys content ;
To chase our spleen when themes like these in. (Such happiness, and such unblemish'd füme; cresc, Ne'er glad the bosom of the courtly dame); Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease? She never feels the spleen's imagin'd pains, Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right, Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins, And dedication wash an Ethiop wbite, She never loses life in thoughiles ease; Set up each senseless wretch for nature's boast. Nor on the relvet couch invites disease; JOn whom praise shines as trophies on a post?, Her home-spun dress in simple neainess lies, Shall funeral cloquence her colors spread, And for no glaring equipage she siglis : And scaiter rases on the wealthy dead? Her reputation, which is all her boast,
Shåll anthors smile on such illustrious days, In a malicious visit ne'er was lost;
And satirize will nothing but their praise? No midnight masquerade her beauty wears, i "l'hyslumbers l'ope, wholeadsthetunesalstrain, And health, not paint, the fading blooin repairs. Nor hears that virtue which he loves,complain! If love's soft passion in her bosom rcizni, Donne, Dorser, Dryden, Rochester are deat, An equal passion warms her happy swain : And guilt's chief foe in Addison is fled; No home-bred jars her quiet state control, Congreve, who crown'd with laurels fairly won, Nor watchful jealousy torments her soul ;, Sits smiling at the goal while others run, With secret joy she sees her little race
He will not write; and (more provoking still!) Ilang on her breast, and her small cottage grace, Yegods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly Donbly distrest, what author shall we find 1 Noris't enough all hearts are swoln with pride, Discreetly darins, and severely kind,
Her pow'r is mighty, as her realın is wide. The courtly * Roman's shiningpalli to tread, What can she not perform? The tove of fame And sharply smile prevailing folly dead? Made bold Alphonsus bis Creator blaine, Will no superior genius snatch the quill, Emperlocles hurl'd down the burning steep, And save me, on the brink, from writing ill? land (stronger still!) made Alexander weep. Tho'rain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise : Nay it holds Delia from a second bed, What will not men attempt for sacred praise? Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been
The love of praise, howe'er conceall by art, This passion with a pimple have I seen [dead. Reigns, more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart: Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen. The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; By this inspir’d (oh ne'er to be forgot!) The niodest shun it but to make it sure. Some lords have learnt to spells and some to knot. O'er globes and sceptres now on thrones it swells, It makes Globose a speaker in the housc; Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells. He hems -- and is delivered of his mouse. 'Tis Tory, Wig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail, Hamngues in senates, squeaks in masquerades: And I the little hero of each tale. Here, to $- e's humor inakes a boll pretence; Sick with the love of fame, what throngs pour There, bolder aims at Puli'ncy's eloquence: Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin! [in, It aids the dancer's hecl, the writer's head, lly growing subject seems but just begun, And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead. And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run. Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes, Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules, Adorns her hearse, and Hatters on our tombs. To take a catalogue of British fools Who is not proud? the pimp is proud to see Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine, So many like himself in high degree:
A knave or fool should perish in each line : The whore is proud her beauties are the dread Tho'for the first all Westminster should plead, Of peevish virtue, and the marriage bed; And for the last all Gresham intercede. And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims Begin -- who first the catalogue shall grace ? To slaughter, glories in his gilded born. [born To quality belongs the highest place.
Some go to church, proud humbly to repeni, My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Others with wishful eyes on glory look, If virtues at his noble hand you crave,
Men shouldpressforwardin fame's glorious chace; Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine. Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
If at his title T- had dropt his quill, Let high birth triumph! what can be more T- might have pass'd for a great senius still; Nothing but merit in a low estate. [great? But T- , alas! (excuse him if you can) To Virtue's burnblest son let none prefer Is now a scribbler, who was onde a man. Vice, tho' descended from the Conqueror.
Imperious some a classic fame demand, Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base, For heaping up with a laborious hand
Slight or important, only by their place ? A waggon loal of meanings for one word, Tiiles are marks of honest men and wise; While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restor’d. The fool or knave that wears a tiile, lies.
Some for renown on scraps of learning doat, They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, And think they grow immortal as they quote. | Produce their debt instead of their discharge, To patchwork' learn'd quotations are allied; |Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line, Both strive to make our poverty our pride. Like thee, in worth hereditary shine. On glass how witty is a noble peer!
Vain as false greatness is, the Muse mist own Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone. Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Mean sons of Earth, who on a South Sea tide Which, if uufortunately well, they feign, Of full success swain into wealth and pride, On death-beds some in conscious glory lie, Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate, Since of the doctor in the mode they die ; And beg to be descended from the great. Whose wondrous skillis, headsman-like, to know When men of infamy to grandeur goar, For better pay to give a surer blow.
They light a torch to show their shame the more. Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see : Those governments which curb not evils, cause; And (stranger still) of blockheads flattery, And a rich knave 's a libel on our laws.
Those praise defames; as if a fool should mean - Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
But builds himself a name; and to be great, What bodily fatigue is half so bad?
With anxious care they labor to be glad.
The tavern, park, assembly, mask, and play,
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day! When, lo! my Lord to some small corner ruins, That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town! And leaves state-rooms lo strangers and to duns. Call it diversion, and the pill goes down ; __ The man who builds, and wants wherewith to Fools grin on fools; and Stoic-like support, Provides a home from which to ruw away. (pay, Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court. In Britain what is many a lordly scat,
Courts can give nothing to the wise and good, But a discharge in full for an estate?
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude. 1 In sinaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame; High stations tunult, but not bliss, create : Noi domes, but antique statues, are his flame.' None think the great unhappy, but the great. Noif-i-n's selfinorePariancharmshasknown, Fools gaze and envy: envy darts a sting, Nor is good Pembroke inore in love with stone, Which makes a swain as wretched as a king. The builiffs come (rude men, profanely bold!) I envy none their pageantry and show; And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
I envy none the gilding of their wee. « No, sirs," he cries; “ I'll sooner rot in jail ! Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene, “ Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English buil?" And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene. Such heads might make their very bustos laugh, No splendid porerty, no smiling care, His daughter starves, but * Cleopatra 's safe, No well-bred hatc, or servile grandeur there; Men overloaded with a large estate
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest, May spill their treasure in a nice conceit: | The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest; The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'uis sad On er’ry thorn (lelightful wisdom grows, To say you 're curious, when we swear you 're In ev'ryrill a sweet instruction tiows: By our revenue measure your expence, (mad. But soine untauglit o'erhear the whispering rill, And to your funds and acres join your sense: In spite of sacred leisure, block heads still, No man is blest by accident or guess,
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler blooin True wisdorn is the price of happiness : In her own native soil, the drawing-room. Yet sew without long discipline are sage; . The 'squire is proud to see his courser strain, And our youth only lays up sighs for age. Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.
But how, my Muse, canst thou refuse so long Say, dear Hippolitus (whose drink is ale, The bright temptation of the courtly throng; Whose erudition is a Christinas tale, Thy most inviting theme? The court affords Whose mistress is dcluded with a smack, back, Much food for satire ; it abounds with lords. And friend receiv’d with thumps upon the “What lords are those saluting with a grin ?" When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound, One is just out, and one is lately in.
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground, “ How comes it then to pass we see preside Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone, !! On both their brows an equal share of pride?"| Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own; Pride, that impartial passion, reigns thro all; Nor envies when a gypsey you commit, Attenris our glory, nor deserts our fall : And shake the clumsy bench with country wit; As in its home, it triumphs in high place, When you the rullest of dull things have said, And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace. | And then ask pardon for the jest you made. (new, Some lords it bids admire their wands so white, Hear breathe, my Muse! and then thy task res Which bloom, likeAaron's, to their ravish'd sight: Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view. Soine lords it bids resign, and turn their wands, Fewer lay atheists made by church debates : Like Moses', into serpents in their hands. Fewer great beggars fam’rl for large estates; These sink, as divers, for renown! and boast Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind; a With pride inverted of their honors lost. Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind; But against reason sure 'tis equal sin
Fewer grave lords to Scroope discreetly bend; To boast of merely being out or in.
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend. What nunbers here, thiro'odd ambition, strive Is there a man of an eternal vein, To seen the most transported things alive! Who lulls the town in winter with his strain, As if by joy desert was understood,
| At Bath in summer chants the reigning lass, And all the fortunate were wise or good. And sweetly whistles as the waters pass? Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay, Is there a tongue, like Delia's over her çup, And stifled groans frequent the ball and play. That runs for ages without winding up? Completely dress'd by Monteuel, and grimace, Is there whom his tenth Epic mounts to fames They take iheir birth-day suit, and public face; Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme, Their smiles are only part of what they wear, Nor would these heroes of the task be glad; Put off at night with lacly B 's hair. ! For who can write so fast as nen run pad?
| With what, () Codrus! is thiy fancy smit? To the Right Honorable the Earl of Scarborough..
ob The slow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit.
*/The gaudy shelves with crimison bindings glow, Tanto major Famæ sitis est, quam
| And Epictetus is a perfect beau. Virtutis.
Juv. Sat. 10. (How fii for thee bound up in crimson too, My Jese, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end, Gilt, and like thein devoted to the view ! Tho'toil and danger the bold task attend. Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard Heroes and girls make other poems fine, That science should be purchas'd by the yard; Plain satire cails for sense in ev'ry line : Aud Ton:01, turu'd upholsterer, send home Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose ! The gilded leather to fit up thy room. All friends to vice and folly are tiy foes;
If not to some peculiar end assign'd, When such the foe, a war eternal wage, Study 's the specious trifling of the mind; Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage,
Or is at best a secondary aim,
| If so, sure they who the mere volume prize, So weak are humain kind by nature made, But love the thicket where the quarry lies. Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd, On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, Alinishiy Vanity! to thee they owe
| But found at length that it reduc'd his rent. Their zest of pleasure, and thcir balm of woe. His farms were flown; when lo! a sale comes on, Thu, like the sun, all colors dost contain, TA choice collection! What is to be done? Varving like rays of light on drops of rain; He sells his last, for he the whole will buy; Forev ry soul tinds reason to be proud, Sells ev'n his house, nay wants whereon to lie; Tho' his d and hooted by the pointing crowd. So high the gen'ronis ardor of the man
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown, For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. Hippoljlus demands the sylvan crown*; To make the purchase, he gives all his store, Bui Florio's fame, the product of a show'r, Except one darling diamond that he wore : Grows in his garden, an illustrious flow'r! | For what a mistress gave, 'tis death to pawn, Why tecms the earth! why melt the vernalskies? Yet when the terms were fix'd, and writings Why shines the sumn? To make Paul Diack frise. drawn, From morn to night has Florio gazing stood, The sight so ravish'd him, he gave the clerk And wonder'd how the gods could be so good. Love's sacred pledge, and sign d them with his What shape! what hue! was ever nymph so fair? Unlearned men of books assume the care, (mark. He doats, he dies! he too is rooted there. As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy Not in his author's liveries alone Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.
Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown. In faine's full bloom lies Florio down at night, Editions various, at high prices bought, And wakes next day a mnost inglorious wight; Inform the world whaiCodrus would be thought; The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate, And to this cost another must succeed, 0C ! and be kind cre 'tis too late. To pay a sage who says that he can read,
Nor are those enemies I mention'd all; Who titles knows, and indexes has scen, Beware, ( Florist, thit ambition's fall.
But leaves to what lies between : A friend of mine indulg'll this noble flame; Of pompous books who shuns the proud expence, A quaker servd him, Adam was his name. | And humbly is contented with their sense. To one lov'd tulip oft the master went, LOLumley, whose accomplishinents make good Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ; The promise of a long illustrious blood; But came and miss'd it one ill-fated hour, In arts and manners eminently grac'd, He rag'd! he roard " What damon cropp'd The strictest honor, and the finest taste! “ my flow'r?"
Accept this verse; if Satire can agree Serene, quoth Arlam, 'Lo!'twas crush'd by me: With so consummate an huinanity. “ Fallen is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy But know, my Lord, if you resent the wrong, - knee."
"That on your candor I obtrude my song; "Butallinen want amusement, and whatcrime 'Tis Satire's just revenge on that fair name, " In such a Paradise to fool their time?” Which all their malice eannot make her theme None, but why proud of this? To Fame they soar; By your example would Hilario mend, We grant they're idle, if they 'll ask no more. How would it grace the talents of my friend,
We smile at Florists! we despise their joy, Who, with the charms of his owii genius smit,
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
The name of a culip.
He spares nor friend nor foc ; but calls to mind, Whilst these what nature gave disown thro' pride
Who thu' wit tickles! tickling is unsafe, What nature has denied fools will pursue,
Parts may be prais'd, good nature is ador'd; He lems and cries, with an important air,
“ new." So wit is by politeness sharpest set.
Is 't not enough the blockhead scarce can read, Their want of edge from their ofience is seen; but must be wisciy look and gravely plead? Both pain us least when exquisitely keen. As far a formalist from wisdom sits, The fanie men give, is for the joy i bey find ; In judging eves, as libertines from wits. Dull is the jesier, when the joke's unkind. Nav, of true wisdom there too much may be,
Since Marcus doubtless thinks himself a wit, The gen'rous mind delights in being free; To pay my compliment what place so fit? Your men of parts an over-care despise; His most facetious letters * came to hand, Dull rogues have nought to do but to be wise, Which my first Satire sweetly reprimand. Horace has sail-and that decides the case If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
'Tis sweet to Trifle in a proper place. Sav, Marcus, which art thou-a fool, orknare? Yet subtle wichis co blind are mortal men, For all but such with caution I forbore; Tho' Satire couch obem with her keenest pen), That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before; For ever will lian' out a solenn face, I know thee now, both what thou art, and who; To put off nonsense with a better grace; Nomask so good but Marcus must shine through; las pedlars with some hero's bicad make bold, False names are vain, thy lines their author tell, Illustrious mark where pins are to be sold. Thy best concealment had been writing well; What's the bent brow,orneckinthought reclind? But thou a brave neglect of Fame hast shown, The body's wisdom to conceal the mind. Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own. A man of sense can artifice lisclain, Write on unheeded, and this maxiin know: As inen of wealth may venture to go plain; The man who pardons, disappoints his foe. And be this truth eternal pe'er forgot
In malice to proud wits, some proudly lall Solemnity 's a corer for a sot. Their peerish reason, vain of being dullisouls, I find the fool, when I behold the screen ; When some hone-joke has stung their solemn For 'tis the wise man's intrest to be seen. In vengeance they determine -- to be fools; Hence, Scarborough, that openness of heart, Thro' spleen, that little nature gare, make less, And just disdaiu for that poor nimic art; Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness; Hence (inanly praise !) that manner nobly free, Ti lumps inanimate a fonduess take,
Which all admire, and I commend in thee. A:ni disinherit sons that are awake.
With gen'rous scorn hov; oft hast thousurveyd, These, when their utmost venom they wouldspit, Of court and town the noon-tide masquerade, Most barbarously tell you “he's a wit." Where swarms of knares thevizorquite disgrace, Poor negroes thus, to show your burning spite And hide secure behind a naked face! To Cacodæmons, say they ’re de: ilish white. Where nature's end of language is declin'd,
Lampridius from the bottom of his breast And men talk only to conceal the mind; Sighs o'er one child, but triumphs in the rest. Where gen'rous hearts the greatest hazaru run, How just is grief! one carries in his head And he who trusts a brother is undone! A less proportion of the father's lead ;
My brother swore it, therefore it is true; And is in danger, without special grace, O strange induction, and at court quite new. To rise above a Justice of the Peace.
As well thou might'st aver, thou simple swain, The dunghill-breed of men a diamond scorn, “ 'Tis just, and thercfore I my cause shall gain." And feel a passion for a grain of corn; | With such odd maxims to thy focks retreat, Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight, Nor furnish mirth for ministers of state. Wlio wins their hearts by knowing black from Some master spirit far beyond the throng white,
Refin' in ill, more righily bent on wrong, Who with much pains exerting all his sense, With exquisite discernment play their game, Can range arighthis shillings, pounds, andpence. More nice of conduct, and more fair of fame. This booby father crares a booby son,
The neatly injur'd thinks his thanks are due, And by Heaven's blessinythinks himself undone. Robb’d of his right, and good opinion too: Wants of all kinds are made to Fame a plea; False honor, pride's first-born, this clan controls, One learns to lisp, another not to see;
Who wisely part with nothing but their souls. Miss D-- toitering catches at your hand: Albertus hugs himself in ravish'd thought,
as ever thing so pretty born to stand ? To find a peerage is so cheaply bought.
* Letters sent to the Author, signed Murcus,