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Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's
Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress;
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
That fop whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame;
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And show the sense of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour injur'd to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the dean and silver bell can swear,
And sees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads but with a lust to misapply,
Make satire a lampoon, and fiction lie-
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble.-A. What! that thing
Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?
Satire of sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor servile; be one Poet's praise,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That flatt'ry evin to Kings he held a shame,
And thought a lie in verse or prose the same:
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song:
That not for fame but virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half-approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit ;
Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The distant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trash and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
In puus, or politics, of tales, or iies,
Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.
His wit all see-saw, between that and this ;
Now high,now low,now master up,now miss,
And he himself one vile antithesis.
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart;
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have express'd:
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the
The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread;
A friend in exile, or a father dead; .
The whisper that, to greatness still too near,
Perhaps yet vibrates on his sov'reign's ear—
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue ! all the past;
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the last!
A. But why insult the poor, affront the
P. A knave's a knave to me in ev'ry state:
Alike my scorn if he succeed or fail,
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire;
If on a pillory, or near a throne,
He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own.
Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded sat'rist Dennis will confess
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibald's door,
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for
Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?
Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's
To please a mistress, one aspers'd his life;
He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife :
Let Budgel charge low Grub-street on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse
His father, mother, body, soul, and muse.
Yet why? that father held it for a rule,
It was a sin to call our neighbour fool :
That harmless mother thought no wife a
Hear this, and spare his family, James Moor!
Unspotted names, and memorable long !
If there be force in virtue or in song.
Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, || O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
While yet in Britain honour had applause) Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy
Each parent sprung -4. What fortune, pray?
P. Their own;
And better got than Bestia's from the throne
Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife;
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine :
Me let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of reposing age;
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of
No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky!
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle On cares like these, if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my
Preserve him social, cheerful and serene,
And just as rich as when he serv'd a Queen.
A. Whether that blessing be denied or given,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven,
No language but the language of the heart.
By nature honest, by experience wise,
Healthy by temp`rance, and by exercise;
His life, tho' long, to sickness pass'd unknown,
His death was instant and without a groan.
SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED.
P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am
There are to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much too
Or nobly wild, with Budgel's fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?
F. Then all your muse's softer art display,
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And sweetly flow thro' all the royal line.
P. Alas! few verses touch their uicer ear; They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year;
You'll give me, like a friend both sage and And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays;
It is to history he trusts for praise.
F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille,
Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in
The lines are weak, another's pleas'd to say;
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to counsel learned in the law :
Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.
F. I'd write no more.
Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder,
With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and
P. Not write? but then I think:
And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night;
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.
F. You could not do a worse thing for your
Ev'n those you touch not, hate you.
P. What should ail them?
F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaamn.
The fewer still you name, you wound the more;
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.
P. Each mortal has his pleasure: Lone deny
Scarsdale his bottie, Darty his ham-pye;
Ridotta sips and dances, till she see
The doubling lustres dance as fast as she:
Floves the senate, Hockley-hole his
Why, if the night seems tedious, take a wife:
Or rather truly, if your point be rest,
Lettuce and cowslip wine-probatum est.
But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise
Hartshorn, or something that shall close your
Or, if you needs must write, write Cæsar's
You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays.
P. What! like Sir Richard, rumbling,rough, || Like in all else as one egg to another.
[the verse, I love to pour out all myself, as plain
With arms, and George, and Brunswick crowd As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne :
In them, as certain to be lov'd as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within :
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glass my muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the present age; but where my text
Is vice too high, reserve it for the next :
My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
And ev'ry friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing thro' my
Verseman or Proseman, term me which you
Papist or Protestant, or both between,
Like good Erasmus in an honest mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,
While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;
I only wear it in a land of hectors,
Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, aud guns, with everlasting rust!
Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more:
But touch me, and no minister so sore.
Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burthen of some merry song.
Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage; Hard words, or hanging, if your judge be Page: From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate, Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels ; Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; 'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; And no man wonders he's not stung by pug. So drink with Waters, or with Chartres eat; They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat.
Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court, Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the ev'uing of my day; Or death's black wing already be display'd, To wrap me in the universal shade; Whether the darkeu'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write,|| In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print. F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long;
Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car ; Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star; Can there be wanting, to defend her cause, Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws?
In flow'r of age you perish for a song! Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Will club their testers now to take your life!
P. What? arm'd for virtue when I point the
pen, Brandthe bold front of shameless guilty men;
Could pension'd Boileau lash in honest strain
Flatt'rers and bigots even in Louis' reign ?
Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage,
Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?
And I not strip the gilding off a knave,
Unplac'd, unpension'd, no man's heir or slave?
I will, or perish in the gen'rous cause :
Hear this, and tremble! you who 'scape the
Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave
Shall walk the world in credit to his grave.
To virtue only and her friends a friend,
The world besides may murmur or commend.
Know, all the distant din that world can keep,
Rolls o'er my grotto, and but sooths my sleep,
There, my retreat the best companions grace,
Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
The feast of reason and the flow of soul:
And he, whose lightning pierc'd th' Iberian
Now forms my quincunx, and now rauks my vines;
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.
Envy must own, I live among the great,
No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state;
With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er re-
Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats;
To help who want, to forward who excel ;
This, all who know me know; who love me,
And who unknown defame me, let them be Scribblers to peers, alike are mob to me. | This is my plea, on this I rest my causeWhat saith my counsel, learned in the laws? F. Your plea is good; but still I say, beware! Laws are explain'd by men-so have a care. It stands on record, that in Richard's times A man was hang'd for very honest rhymes! Consult the statute, quart. I think it is, Edwardii sext. or prim. et quint. Eliz. See Libels, Satires-here you have it—read.
P. Libels and Satires! lawless things indeed! But grave Epistles, bringing vice to light, Such as a King might read, a Bishop write, Such as Sir Robert would approve→→
F. Indeed? The case is alter'd-you may then proceed; In such a cause the plaintiff will be hiss'd, My lords the judges laugh, and you're dis
TO MR. BETHEL.
WHAT, and how great, the virtue and the
To live on little with a cheerful heart, (A-doctrine sage, but truly none of mine), Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine. Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride Turns you from sound philosophy aside ; Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dancing to the mantling bowl. Hear Bethel's sermon, one not vers'd in schools,
But strong in sense,and wise without the rules,
Go work, bunt, exercise! (he thus began)
Then scorn a homely dinner if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler stroll'd
Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw'd),
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.
Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheasant still before a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Except you eat the feathers green and gold. Of carps and mullets why prefer the great, (Tho' cut in pieces ere my lord can eat), Yet for small turbots such esteem profess? Because God made these large, the other less. Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endued, Cries, "Send me, gods! a whole hog barbecued!
O blast it, south winds, till a stench exhale
Sell their presented partridges and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
One half pint bottle serves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.
But on some lucky day (as when they found
A lost Bank bill, or heard their son was
2 Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail!
By what criterion do you eat, d'ye think,
If this is priz'd for sweetness, that for stink?
When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat,
He finds no relish in the sweetest meat;
He calls for something bitter, something sour,
And the rich feast concludes extremely poor :
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we
Thus much is left of old simplicity!
The robin red-breast till of late had rest
And children sacred held a martin's nest.
Till Becca-ficas sold so dev'lish dear
To one that was, or would have been a peer.
Let me extol a cat on oysters fed,
I'll have a party at the Bedford-head;
Or even to crack live crawfish recommend,
I'd never doubt at court to make a friend.
'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
About one vice, and fall into the other :
Between excess and famine lies a mean;
Plain, but not sordid; tho' not splendid clean.
Avidien, or his wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a dog and her a bitch,)
At such a feast, old vinegar to spare,
Is what two souls so gen'rous cannot bear :
Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart;
But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.
He knows to live who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this side nor on that;
Nor stops for one bad cork his butler's pay;
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;
Nor lets, like Nævius, ev'ry error pass;
The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass.
Now hear what blessings Temperance can bring:
(Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing) First health: the stomach (cramm'd from ev'ry dish,
A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish, Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the man is one intestine war) Remembers oft the school boy's simple fare, The temp'rate sleeps, and spirits light as air.
How pale each worshipful and rev'rend guest Rise from a clergy or a city feast! What life in all that ample body, say? What heavenly particle inspires the clay? The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines To seem but mortal, even in sound divines. On morning wings how active springs the mind
That leaves the load of yesterday behind!
How easy ev'ry labour it pursues!
How coming to the Poet ev'ry Muse;
Not but we may exceed some holy time,
Or tir'd in search of truth, or search of rhyme;
Ill health some just indulgence may engage,
And more the sickness of long life, old age;
For fainting age what cordial drop remains,
If our intemp'rate youth the vessel drains?
Our fathers prais'd rank ven'son. You sup-
Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose.
Not so: a buck was then a week's repast,
And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last;
More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could
Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.
Why had not I in those good times my birth,
Ere coxcomb pyes or coxcombs were on earth?
Unworthy he the voice of Fame to hear,
That sweetest music to an honest ear,
(For, faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong;
The world's good word is better than a song)
Who has not learn'd fresh sturgeon and hampye,
Are no rewards for want and infamy?
When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Curs'd by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself;
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame,
Think how posterity will treat thy name;
And buy a rope, that future times may tell
Thou hast at least bestow'd a penny well.
"Right," cries his Lordship, "for a rogue in
"To have a taste, is insolence indeed : "In me, 'tis noble, suits my birth and state, "My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great." Then, like the sun, let Bounty spread her ray, And shine that superfluity away.
O impudence of wealth! with all thy store,
How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor?
Shall half the new built churches round thee
Make quays, build bridges, or repair White-
Or to thy country let that heap be lent,
As Mo's was, but not at five per cent.
Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her
Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.
And who stands safest? tell me, is it he
That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity;
Or, blest with little, whose preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war?
Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought,
And always speaks the very thing he ought:
His equal mind I copy what I can,
And as I love, would imitate the man,
In South-sea days not happier, when surmis'd
The lord of thousands, than if now excis'd;
In forest planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On brocoli and mutton round the year;
But ancient friends (tho' poor, or out of play),
That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards;
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames
To Hounslow-heath I point, and Bausteddown;
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:
From yon old walnut tree a show'r shall fall;
And grapes, long ling'ring on my only wall,
And figs from standard and espalier join;
The devil is in you, if you cannot dine:
Then cheerful healths (your mistress shall have
TO LORD BOLINGBROKE.
ST. JOHN, whose love indulg'd my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last! Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now sick alike of envy and of praise.
And what's more rare, a poet shall say grace. Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; Tho' double tax'd, how little have I lost!
My life's amusements have been just the same
Before and after standing armies came.
My lands are sold, my father's house is gone :
I'll hire another's; is not that my own,
And yours, my friends? thro'whose free op'ning
None comes too early, none departs too late;
For I who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.
"Pray Heaven it last! (cries Swift) as you go
"I wish to God this house had been your own. "Pity! to build without a son or wife; "Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life." Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one, Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon? What's property? dear Swift! you see it alter From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share; Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir; Or in pure equity, (the case not clear) The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year: At best, it falls to some ungracious son, Who cries, "My father's damn'd, and all's my own."
THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.
Shades that to Bacon could retreat afford,
Become the portion of a booby lord;
And Hensley, once proud Buckingham's delight,
Slides to a scriv'ner or a city knight.
Let lauds and houses have what lords they will, Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.
Public too long, ah! let me hide my age;
See modest Cibber now has left the stage;
Our gen'rals, now, retire to their estates,
Hang their old trophies o'er the garden gates;
In life's cool ev'ning, satiate of applause,
Nor fond of bleeding even in Brunswick's