For much I hate the forced apish tricks-
Of those our home-disdaining politics,
Who to the foreign guise are so affected,
That English honesty is quite rejected;
And in the stead thereof, they furnish'd home
With shadows of humanity do come.
Oh! how judicious in their own esteem,
And how compleatly travelled they seem,
If in the place of real kindnesses,
Which nature could have taught them to express,
They can with gestures, looks, and language sweet,
Fawn like a courtezan on all they meet,
And vie in humble and kind speeches, when
They do most proudly and most falsely mean.
On this, too many falsely set their face,
Of courtship and of wisdom; but 'tis base.
For servile unto me it doth appear,
When we descend to sooth and flatter, where
We want affection; yea, I hate it more
Than to be born a slave, or to be poor.
I have no pleasure or delight in ought
That by dissembling must to pass be brought.
If I dislike, I'll sooner tell them so,
Than hide my face beneath a friendly show.
For he who to be just hath an intent,
Needs nor dissemble nor a lie invent.
I rather wish to fail with honesty,
Than to prevail in ought by treachery.
And with this mind I'll safer sleep, than all
Our Machiavellian politicians shall.
I have no mind to flatter, though I might
Be made some lord's companion, or a knight;
Nor shall my verse for me on begging go,,
Though I might starve unless it did do so.
I have no Muses that will serve the turn
every triumph, and rejoice or mourn
Upon a minute's warning, for their hire,
If with old Sherry they themselves inspire.
I am not of a temper like to those
That ean provide an hour's sad talk in prose,
For any funeral; and then go dine,
And choke my grief with sugar-plums and wine.
I cannot at the claret sit and laugh,
And then, half tipsy, write an epitaph;
Or howl an epiccedium for each groom
That is by fraud or nigardize become
A wealthy alderman; nor for each gull
That hath acquir'd the stile of worshipful.
I cannot for reward adorn the hearse
Of some old rotten miser with my verse;
Nor like the poetasters of the time,
Go howl a doleful elegy in rhyme,
For every lord or ladyship that dies,
And then perplex their heirs to patronise
That muddy poesy. Oh how I scorn,
Those raptures, which are free and nobly born,
Should, fiddler-like, for entertainment scrape
At strangers' windows; and go play the ape,
In counterfeiting passion, when there's none;
Or in good earnest foolishly bemoan,
In hope of cursed bounty, their just death,
Who, living, merit not a minute's breath
To keep their fame alive, unless to blow
Some trumpet which their black disgrace may shew.
I cannot, for my life, my pen compel
Upon the praise of any man to dwell;
Unless I know, or think at least, his worth
To be the same which I have blazon'd forth.
Had I some honest suit, the gain of which
Would make me noble, eminent, and rich,
And that to compass it no means there were,
Unless I basely flatter'd some great peer;
Would with that suit my ruin I might get,
If on those terms I would endeavour it.
I have not been to their condition born,
Who are inclined to respect, and scorn,
As men in their estates do rise or fall:
Or rich or poor, I virtue love in all;
And where I find it not, I do despise
To fawn on them, how high soe'er they rise: For where proud greatness without worth I see, Old Mordecai had not a stiffer knee.
I cannot give a plaudit, I protest,
When as his lordship thinks he breaks a jest,
Unless it move me; neither can I grin,
When he a causeless laughter doth begin.
I cannot swear him truly honourable,
Because he once receiv'd me to his table,
And talk'd as if the Muses glad might be,
That he vouchsafed such a grace to me.
His slender worth I could not blazon so,
By strange hyperboles, as some would do,
Or wonder at it, as if none had been
His equal since King William first came in.
Nor can I think true virtue ever car'd
To give or take, for praise, what I have heard.
For if we poise them well, what goodly grace
Have outward beauties, riches, titles, place,
Or such, that we the owners should commend,
When no true virtues do on those attend?
If beautiful he be, what honour's that?
As fair as he is many a beggar's brat.
If we his noble titles would extol,
Those titles he may have and be a fool.
If seats of justice he hath climb'd, we say,
So tyrants and corrupt oppressors may.
If for a large estate his praise we tell,
A thousand villains may be praised as well.
If he his Prince's good esteem be in,
Why, so hath many a bloody traitor been.
And if in these things he alone excel,
Let those that list upon his praises dwell:
Some other worth I find, ere I have sense
Of any praise-deserving excellence.
I have no friends, that once affected were,
But to my heart they sit this day as near
As when I most endear'd them, though they seem
To fall from my opinion or esteem ;
For precious time in idle would be spent,
If I with all should always compliment;
And till my love I may to purpose shew,
I care not whe'er they think I love or no;
For sure I am, if any find me chang'd,
Their greatness, not their meanness, me estrang'd.
I have not priz❜d men's loves the less or more,
Because I saw them either rich or poor;
But as their love and virtues did appear,
I such esteem'd them, whosoe'er they were.
I have no trust or confidence in friends
That seek to know me merely for their ends;
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