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To live dissolv'd in pleasures ftill they feign,
Though their whole life 's but intermitting pain :
So much of surfeits, head-aches, claps are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between :
Well-meaning men who make this gross mistake,
And pleasure lose only for pleasure's fake;
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we squander life away.
Thus Dorset, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Marry'd, but wiser puss ne'er thought of that :
And first he worry'd her with railing rhime,
Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time ;
Then for one night sold all his slavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife;
Swell’d by contact of such a fulsom toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load ;
Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill restor’d him to his liberty ;
Which he would use in his old sneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times
Had fam'd for dulness in malicious rhymes.
Mulgrave had much ado to scape the snare,
Though learn'd in all those arts that cheat the fair :
For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks,
With beauty dazz!cd, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes,
To see hiin catch his tartar for his prize :
Th' impatient town waited the with’d-for change,
And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge ;
Till Petworth plot made us with forrow see,
As his estate, his person too was free :
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move ;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against his will :
'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and
power Break not his boasted quiet every hour.
And little Sid. for fimile renown'd,
Pleasure has always sought but never found :
Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong,
His meat and mistresses are kept too long.
But sure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his perfon all he can :
What we uncharitably take for fin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin ;
For never hermit under grave pretence,
Has liv’d more contrary to common sense ;
And ’tis a miracle we may suppose,
No nattiness offends his skilful nose;
Which from all sink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume and essence from a fat:
Expecting supper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night :
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Rochester I despise for want of wit,
Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet;
For while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find :
And so like witches justly suffers shame,
Whose harmless malice is so much the same.
False are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To every face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks :
Mean in each action, lewd in every limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him :
A proof that chance alone makes every creature,
A very Killigrew without good-nature.
For what a Bessus has he always liv’d,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd ?
For, there's the folly that's still mixt with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear ;
Of fighting sparks fome may their pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away :
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For every fault does prove his penance still :
Falsely he falls into some dangerous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose ;
A life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry ;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
'Tis under so much nafty rubbis laid,
To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade;
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Must toil all day in athes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deserve no comments here;
Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulness must atone.
How vain a thing is man, and how unwise ;
Ev’n he, who would himself the most despise !
I, who so wise and humble seem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't see.
While the world's nonsense is so sharply shewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own ;
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And are but satires to set
I, who have all this while been finding fault,
Ev’n with my master, who first satire taught;
And did by that describe the taik so hard,
It seems stupendous and above reward;
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time :
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
T is not my intention to make an apology for my
poem : fome will think it needs no excuse, and others will receive none. The design I am sure is honelt : but he who draws his pen for one party, must expect to make enemies of the other. For wit and fool are consequents of Whig and Tory; and every man is a knave or an ass to the contrary fide. There is a treasury of merits in the Fanatic church, as well as in the Popish; and a pennyworth to be had of saintship, honesty, and poetry, for the lewd, the factious, and the blockheads : but the longest chapter in Deuteronomy has not curses encugh for an Anti-Bromingham. My comfort is, their manifest prejudice to my cause will render their judgment of less authority against
Yet if a poem have genius, it will force its own reception in the world. For there is a sweetness in good verse, which tickles even while it hurts : and no man can be heartily angry with him who pleases him against his will. The commendation of adversaries is the greatest triumph of a writer, because it never