Faith, I fhall give the answer Reynard gave:
"I cannot like, dread Sire, your Royal Cave; 115
"Because I fee, by all the tracks about,
"Full many a Beaft goes in, but none come out."
Adieu to Virtue, if you 're once a Slave:
Send her to Court, you fend her to her grave.
Well, if a King's a Lion, at the least
The People are a many-headed Beast:
Can they direct what measures to pursue,
Who know themselves fo little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one Luft of Gold,
I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to fquare, and square again to round;
You never change one muscle of your face,
You think this Madnefs but a common cafe,
Nor once to Chancery, nor to Hale apply;
120 Yet hang your Ep, to fee a Seam awry!
Careless how ill I with myself agrer,
Kind to my drefs, my figure, not to Me
Is this my Guide, Philofopher, and Friend?
This he, who loves me, and who ought to mend;
Who ought to make me (what he can, or none)
125 That Man divine, whom Wisdom calls her own;
Just half the land would buy, and half be fold:
Their Country's wealth our mightier Misers drain,
Or cross, to plunder Provinces, the Main;
Great without Title, without Fortune blefs'd;
The reft, fome farm the Poor-box, fome the Pews; Rich ev'n when plunder'd, honour'd, while op-
Some keep Affemblics, and would keep the Stews;
Some with fat Bucks on childlefs dotards fawn; Lov'd without youth, and follow'd without power;
130 At home, though exil'd; free, though in the
Tower;
Some win rich Widows by their Chine and Brawn;
While with the filent growth of ten per cent.
In dirt and darkness, hundreds ftink content.
In fhort, that reasoning, high, immortal Thing, 185
Juft lefs than Jove, and much above a King,
Nay, half in heaven-except (what 's mighty odd)
135 A fit of Vapours clouds this Demy-god!
Of all thefe ways, if each purfues his own, Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone: But fhew me one who has it in his power To act confiftent with himself an hour. Sir Job fail'd forth, the evening bright and still, "No place on earth (he cry'd) like Greenwichhill !"
At amorous Flavio is the flocking thrown?
That very night he longs to lie alone.
【OT to admire, is all the Art I know,
The Fool, whofe Wife clopes fome thrice a quar N To make men happy, and to keep them fo."
For matrimonial folace dies a martyr.
Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,
Transform themselves fo ftrangely as the Rich?
Well, but the Poor-The Poor have the fame)
They change their weekly Barber, weekly News,
155
Prefer a new Japanner, to their thoes ;
Difcharge their Garrets, move their beds, and run
(They know not whither) in a Chaife and one;
They hire their feuller, and when once aboard,
Grow fick, and damn the climate-like a Lord.
You laugh, half-Beau, half-Sloven if I ftand, My wig all powder, and all snuff my band; You laugh, if coat and breeches ftrangely vary, White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary! But when no Prelate's Lawn, with hair-fhirt
Is half fo incoherent as my mind,
When (each opinion with the next at firife,
One ebb and flow of Follies all my life)
(Plain Truth, dear MURRAY, needs no flowers of fpecoh,
So take it in the very words of Creech.)
This Vault of Air, this congregated Ball,
Self-center'd Sun, and Stars that rife and fall,
There are, my Friend! whofe philofophic eyes
Look through and trust the Ruler with his skies,
To him commit the hour, the day, the year,
And view this dreadful All without a fear.
Admire we then what Earth's low entrails hold,
Arabian hores, or Indian feas infold;"
All the mad trade of Fools and Slaves for Gold?
160 Or Popularity or Stars and Strings?
Thus good or bad, to one extreme betray
The unbalanc'd Mind, and snatch the Man away;
For Virtue's felf may too much zeal be had;
The worst of Madmen is a Saint run mad.
Go then, and if you can, admire the state
Of beaming diamonds and reflected plate;
Procure a fafte to double the furprize,
And gaze on Parian Charms with learned eyes:
Be ftruck with bright Brocade or Tyrian Dye,,
Our Birth day Nooles' fplendid Livery.
If not fo pleas'd, at Council-board rejoice,
To fee their Judgments hang upon thy Voice;
From morn to night, at Senate, Rolls, and Hall,
Plead much, read more, dine late, or not all.
But wherefore all this labour, all this ftrife?
For Fame, for Riches, for a noble Wife?
Shall One whom Nature, Learning, Birth
fpir'd
Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste, é
And then fuch Friends-as cannot fail to laft.
25 A Man of wealth is dubb'd a Man of worth,
Venus fhall give him Form and Anstis Birth."
(Pelieve me, many a German Prince is worse,
Who, proud of Pedigree, is poor of Purse)
His Wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds; 85
30 Afk'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds;
Or if three Ladies like a lucklefs Play,
Takes the whole Houfe upon the Poet's day.
Now, in fuch exigencies not to need,
Upon my word, you must be rich indeed;
35 A noble fuperfluity it craves,
Not for yourself, but for your Fools and Knaves;
Something, which for your Honour they may cheat,
And which it much becomes you to forget.
If Wealth alone then make and keep us bleft,
con. Still, ftill be getting, never, never reft.
To form, not to admire, but be admir'd,
Sigh, while his Chloe blind to Wit and Worth
Weds the rich Dulness of fome Son of earth?
Yet time ennobles or degrades each Line;
It brighten'd Craggs's, and may darken thine:
And what is Fame? the Meanest have their day,
The Greatest can but blaze, and pafs away.
Grac'd as thou art, with all the Power of Words,
So known fo honour'd, at the houfe of Lords:
Confpicuous Scene! another yet is nigh,
(More filent far) where Kings and Poets lie;
Where Murray (long enough his Country's pride)
Shall be no more than Tully or than Hyde!
Rack'd with Sciatics, martyr'd with the Stone,
Will any mortal let himself alone?
See Ward by batter'd Beaux invited over,
And defperate Mifery lays hold on Dover.
The cafe is eafter in the Mind's difeafe;
There all Men may he cur'd, whene'er they pleafe.
Would ye be bleft ? defpife low Joys, low Gains;
Difdain whatever Cornbury difdains;
Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains.
But art thou one, whom new opinions fway,
One who believes as Tindal leads the way,
Who Virtue and a Church alike difowns,
Thinks that but words, and this but brick
ftones ?
But if to Power and Place your Passion lie,
If in the Pomp of Life confift the joy;
Then hire a Slave, or (if you will) a Lord,
To do the Honours, and to give the word;
Tell at your Levee, as the Crouds approach,
To whom to nod, whom take into your Coach,
Whom honour with your hand: to make remarks,
Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks: 105
"This may be troublesome, is near the Chair:
"That makes three members, this can chufe a
Mayor."
Inftructed thus, you bow, embrace protest,
Adopt him Son or Coufin at the the leaft,
Then turn about and laugh at your own Jeft. 110S
Or if your life be one continued Treat,
55 If to live well means nothing but to eat ;
Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day,
Go drive the Deer, and drag the finny prey;
With hounds and horns go hunt an Appetite 115
So Ruffel did, but could not eat at night;
Call'd happy Dog! the Beggar at his door,
And envy'd Thirft and Hunger to the Poor.
Or fhall we every Decency confound;
Through Taverns, Stews, and Bagnios take our
round i
65 Go dine with Chartres, in each Vice outdo
and K-1's lewa Cargo, or Ty-y's Crew ;
Fly then, on all the wings of wild defire,
Admire whate'er the maddeft can admire :
Is wealth thy paffion? Hence! from Pole to Pole,
Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll,
For Indian fpices, for Peruvian Gold,
Prevent the greedy, or outbid the bold:
Advance thy golden Mountain to the skies;
On the broad bafe of fifty thousand rife,
Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair)
Add fifty more, and bring it to a square.
For, mark th' advantage; juft fo many score,
Will gain a Wife with half as many more,
From Latian Syrens, French Circæan Feafts,
Return well travell'd, and transform'd to Beafts;
Or for a titled Punk, or foreign Flame,
Renounce our Country and degrade our Name?
If after all, we must with Wilmot own,
The Cordial Drop of Life is Love alone,
And Swift cry wifely, "Vive la Bagatelle !"
The Man that loves and laughs, muft fure do well,
75 Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,
E'en take the Counsel which I gave you firft:
Or better Precepts if you can impart,
Why do, I'll follow them with all my heart,
"HILE you great Patron of mankind! fuftain
The balanc'd World, and open all the Main;
Your Country, chief, in Arms abroad defend;
At Home, with Morals, Arts, and Laws amend;
How fhall the Mufe, from fuch a Monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the Public Weal?
Edward and Henry, now the Boaft of Fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more facred Name,
After a Life of generous toils endur'd,
The Gaul fubdued or Property fecur'd,
Ambition humbled, mighty cities ftorm'd,
Or Laws establish'd, and the world reform'd;
Clos'd their long Glories with a figh, to find.
Th' unwilling Gratitude of base mankind;
All human Virtue, to its latest breath,
Finds Envy never conquer'd, but by Death
The great Alcides, every Labour past,
Had ftill this Monster to fubdue at last.
Sure fate of all, beneath whofe rifing ray
Each ftar of meaner merit fades away!
Opprefs'd we feel the beam directly beat,
Thofe Suns of Glory pleafe not till they fet.
To thee, the World its prefent homage pays,
The Harveft early, but mature the praife:
Great Friend of Liberty! in Kings a Name
Above all Greek, above all Roman Fame:
Whofe Word is Truth, as facred and rever'd,
As Heaven's dwn Oracles from Altars heard.
Wonder of Kings! like whom to mortal eyes
None e'er has rifen, and none c'er fhall rife.
Juft in one instance, be it yet confeft
Your People, Sir, are partial to the reft;
Foes to all living worth except your own,
And Advocates for folly dead and gone.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow
Suppofe he wants a year, will you compound? And fhall we deem him Ancient, right and found, Or damn to all eternity at once,
At ninety-nine a Modern and a Dunce?
"We fhall not quarrel for a year or two;
"By courtely of England, he may do "
Then, by the rule that made the Horfe tail bare,
pluck out year by year, as hair by hair,
And melt down Ancients like a heap of fnow: 65
While you to measure merits, look in Stowe,
And, eftimating authors by the year,
Beftow a Garland only on a Bier.
Shakespeare (whom you and every Playhouse bill
Style the divine, the matchlefs, what you will) 70
For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight,
Io And grew Immortal in his own defpight.
Ben, old and poor, as little feem'd to heed
The Life to come in every Poet's Creed.
Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet,
His Moral pleases, not his pointed wit;
Forgot his Epic, nay Pindaric Art,
But ftill I love the language of his heart.
"Yet furely, furely, thefe were famous men ! "What boy but hears the faying of old Ben? In all debates where Critics bear a part, "Not one but nods, and talks of Johnson's Art "Of Shakespeare's Nature and of Cowley's Wit; "How Beaumont's judginent check'd what Fletcher ❝ writ;
"How Shadwell hafty, Wycherly was flow; 85
"But for the Paffions, Southerne fure and Rowe.
"Thefe, only thefe, fuppo.t the crowded ftage,
From eideft Heywood down to Cibber's age."
All this may be; the people's Voice is odd,
It is, and it is not, the voice of God.
30 To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays,
And yet deny the Careless Hufband piaife,
Or fay our Fathers never broke a rule;
Why then, I fay, the Public is a fool.
But let them own, that greater Faults than we 95 old; They had, and greater Virtues, I'll agree. 35 Spenfer himself affects the Obfolete,
It is the ruft we value, not the gold.
Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote,
And beaftly Skelton heads of houses quote:
One likes no language but the Faery Queen;
A Scot will fight for Chrift's Kirk of the Green;
And each true Briton is to Ben fo civil,
He fwears the Mufes met him at the Devil.
Though juftly Greece her eldeft fons admires,
Why should not we be wifer, than our fires?
In every Public Virtue we excell;
We build, we paint, we fing, we dance as well;
And learned Athens to our art muft floop,
Could the behold us tumbling through a hoop.
If Time improve our Wits as well as Wine,
Say at what age a Poet grows divine?
Shall we, or hall we not, account him fo,
Who dy'd perhaps, an hundred years ago?
End all difpute; and fix the year precife
When British Bards begin t' immortalize?
"Who lafts a century can have no flaw; “I hold that Wit a Claffic, good in law.”
And Sydney's verse halts ill on Roman feet:
Milton's ftrong pinion now not Heaven can bound,
Now ferpent-like, in profe he fweeps the ground,
In Quibbles, Angel and Archangel join,
And God the Father turns a School-divine.
40 Not that I'd lop the Beauties from his book,
Like flashing Bently with his defperate hook,
Or damn all Shakespeare, like th' affected Fool 105
At court, who hates whate'er he read at school.
But for the Wits of either Charles's days,
The Mob of Gentlemen who wrote with Eafe;
Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more,
(Like twinkling ftars the Mifcellanies o'er)
One Simile, that folitary fhines
In the dry defert of a thousand lines,
50 Or lengthen'd Thought that gleams through many
Has fanctify'd whole poems for an age.
I lofe my patience, and I own it too, When works are cenfur'd, not as bad but new; 55 While, if our Elders break all reafon's laws,
Thefe fools demand not pardon but Applaufe.
On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow,
I but afk if any weed can grow;
One Tragic fentence if I dare deride,
Which Betterton's grave action dignify'd,
We wake next morning in a raging fit, 120 And call for pen and ink to
Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphafis proclaims,
(Though but, perhaps, a mufter-roll of Names)
How will our Fathers rife up in a rage,
And fwear, all fhame is loft in George's Age!
You'd think no Fools difgrac'd the former reign,
Did not fome grave examples yet remain,
Who fcorn a Lad fhould teach his father skill,
And, having once been wrong, will be to ftill.
He, who to feem more deep than you or I,
Extols old Bards, or Merlin's Prophecy,
Mistake him not; he envies, not admires,
And, to debafe the Sons, exalts the Sires.
Had ancient times conspir'd to disallow
What then was new, what had been
now?
Or what remain'd, fo worthy to be read
By learned Critics, of the mighty dead?
He ferv'd a 'Prenticeship, who fets up fhop;
Ward try'd on Puppies, and the Poor, his Drop;
Ev'n Radcliffe's Doctors travel first to France,
Nor dare to practife till they 've learn'd to dance.
Who builds a Bridge that never drove a pile? 185
(Should Ripley venture, all the world would
(mile)
But thofe who cannot write, and those who can,
All rhyme, and ferawl, and fcribble, to a man.
Yet, Sir, reflect, the mischief is not great;
Thefe Madmen never hurt the Church or State :
190
Sometimes the Folly benefits mankind;
And rarely Avarice taints the tuneful mind.
135 Allow him but his plaything of a Pen,
ancient He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men:
In Days of Eafe, when now the weary Sword Was sheath'd, and Luxury with Charles reftor'd;
In every taste of foreign Courts improv'd,
"All, by the King's Example, liv'd and lov'd."
Then Peers grew proud in Horfemanship t' excel,
Newmarket's Glory rofe, as Britain's fell;
The Soldier breath'd the Gallantries of France,
And every flowery Courtier writ Romance.
Then Marble, foften'd into life, grew warm,
And yielding Metal flow'd to human form: .
Lely on animated Canvas ftole
Flight of Cahiers, or Mobs, he'll never mind;
And knows no loffes while the Mufe is kind.
To cheat a Friend, or Ward, he leaves to Peter;
The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre,
Enjoys his Garden and his Book in quiet;
And then-a perfect Hermit in his diet.
Of little ufe the Man you may fuppofe,
Who fays in verfe what others fay in profe:
Yet let me fhow, a Poet's of fome weight,
And (though no Soldier) ufeful to the State.
What will a Child learn fooner than a fong?
What better teach a Foreigner the tongue ?
What 's long or short, each accent where to place,
And fpeak in public with fome fort of grace.
1501 fcarce can think him fuch a worthless thing, ..
Unlefs he praife fome Monster of a King:
Or Virtue, or Religion turn to fport,
The fleepy Eye, that spoke the melting foul.
No wonder then, when all was love and fport,
The willing Muíes were debauch'd at Court:
On each enervate ftring they taught the note
To pant, or tremble through an Eunuch's throat.
But Britain, changeful as a Child at play,
Now calls in Princes, and now turns away.
Now Whig, now Tory, what we lov'd we hate;
Now all for Pleasure, now for Church or S ate;
Now for Prerogative, and now for Laws;
Effects unhappy! from a Noble Cause.
Time was, a fober Englishman would knock
His fervants up, and rife by five o'clock,
Inftruct his family in every rule,
To please a lewd, or unbelieving Court.
Unhappy Dryden!—In all Charles's days,
Rofcommon only boasts unspotted bays;
And in our own (excufe fome Courtly stains) 215
No whiter page than Addison's remains ;
He, from the taste obfcene reclaims our youth,
And fets the Paffions on the fide of Truth,
160 Forms the foft bofom with the gentleft art,
And pours each human Virtue in the heart.
Let Ireland tell, how Wit upheld her caufe,
Her trade fupported, and fupplied her laws;
And leave on SwIFT this grateful verse engrav'd,
165" The Rights a Court attac- 'd, a Poet sav’d.”
Behold the hand that wrought a Nation's cure, 225
Stretch'd to relieve the Ideot and the Poor,
Proud Vice to brand, or injur'd Worth adorn,
And ftretch the Ray to ages yet unborn.
Not but there are, who merit other palms;
170 Hopkins and Stern hold glad the heart with Pfalms:
the
239
And fend his Wife to Church, his Son to School,
To worship like his Fathers, was his care;
To teach their frugal Virtues to his Heir;
To prove that Luxury could never hold;
And place, on good Security, his Gold.
Now times are chang'd, and one Poetic Itch
Has feiz'd the Court and City, poor and
Sons, Sires, and Grandfires, all will wear
bays,
The Boys and Girls whom Charity maintains, Implore your help in these pathetic, strains : How could Devotion touch the country pews, Unless the Gods bestow'd a proper Muse? 175 Verfe cheers their leisure, Verse affifts their work, 235
Our Wives read Milton, and our Daughters Plays,
To Theatres and to Rehearsals throng,
And all our Grace at table is a Song.
I, who so oft renounce the Mufes, lye,
Not's felf e'er tells more Fibbs than I;
When fick of Mufe, our follies we deplore,
And promife our beft Friends to rhyme no more;
Verfe prays for Peace, or fings down Pope and
Turk.
The filene'd Preacher yields to potent strain,
And feels that grace his prayer befought in vain;
The bleffing thrills through all the labouring throng,
And Heaven is won by Violence of Song.
With what a fhifting gale your courfe you ply,
For ever funk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but thort repose,
240 A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
Farewell the ftage! if juft as thrives the play,
The filly bard grows fat, or falls away.
Our rural Ancestors, with little bleft,
Patient of labour when the end was reft,
Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain,
With feafts, and offerings, and a thankful strain:
The joy their wives, their fons, and fervants
There ftills remains, to mortify a Wit,
The many headed Monster of the Pit;
A fenfelefs, worthlefs, and unhonour'd crow'd a
Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud,
Clattering their fticks before ten lines are spoke,
Call for the Farce, the Fear, or the Black-joke.
What dear delight to Britons Farce affords !
Ever the Taite of Mobs, but now of Lords;
250(Tafte, that eternal wanderer, which flies
From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes)
The Play ftands ftill; dam.n action and difcourfe,
Back fy the fcenes, and enter foot, and horse;
255
Appeal'd to Law, and Juftice lent her arm.
At length, by wholesome dread of ftatutes bound,
The Poets learn'd to please, and not to wound :
Moft warp'd to Flattery's fide; but fome,
nice,
Preferv'd the freedom, and forebore the vice.
Hence Satire rofe, that just the medium hit,
And heals with morals what it hurts with Wit.
We conquer'd France, but felt our Captive's
Ease of their toil, and partners of their care:
The laugh, the jeft, attendants on the bowl,
Smooth'd every brow, and open'd every foul:
With growing years the pleasing Licence grew,
And Taunts alternate innocently flew.
But Times corrupt, and Nature ill-inclin'd,
Produced the point that left a fting behind;
Till, friend with friend, and families at ftrife,
Triumphant Malice rag'd through private life.
Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th' alarm, Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn,
Peers, Heralds, Bifhops, Ermin, Gold and Lawn;
The Champion' too! and, to complete the jeft,
Old Edward's Armour beams on Cibber's breaft.
With laughter fure Democritus had dy'd,
more Had he beheld an Audience gape fo wipe.
Let Bear or Elephant be e'er fo white,
260 The people, fure, the people are the fight!
Ah lucklefs Poet! ftretch thy lungs and roar,
That Bear or Elephant fhall heed thee more;
While all its throats the gallery extends,
And all the Thunder of the Pit afcends!
Loud as the Wolves, on Orca's stormy steep,
Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep.
Such is the fhout, the long-appauding note,
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat;
Or when from Court a birth-day fuit bestow'd,
Sinks the loft Actor in the tawdry load.
Booth enters-hark! the universal peal!
But has he fpoken ?" Not a fyllable.
What hook the ftage, and made the people ftare?
Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd
Her Arts victorious triumph'd o'er our Arms;
Britain to foft refirements less a foe,
Wit grew polite, and Numbers learn'd to flow.
Waller was fmooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full refounding line,
The long majestic March, and Energy divine.
Though ftill fome traces of our rustic vein
And fplayfoot verfe remain'd, and will remain.
Late, very late, correctnefs grew our care,
When the tir'd Nation breath'd from civil war.
Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire,
Show'd us that France had fomething to admire.
Not but the Tragic fpirit was our own,
And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway fhone:
But Otway fail'd to polish or refine,
And fluent Shakespeare scarce effac'd a line.
Ev'n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The laft and greatest Art, the Art to blot.
Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire,
The humbler Mufe of Comedy require.
But in known Images of life, I guess
The labour greater, as th' indulgence lefs.
Obferve how feldom ev'n the best succeed :
Tell me if Congreve's Fools are Fools indeed?
What pert low Dialogue has Farquhar writ!¦
How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit!
The ftage how loosely does Aftræa tread,
Who fairly puts all Characters to bed!
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinkey eat with vaft applause!
But fill their purfe, our Poets' work is done,
Alike to them, by Pathos or by Pun.
O you! whom Vanity's light bark conveys
On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praf,
Yet, left you think I rally more than teach, 275 Or praife malignly Arts I cannot reach, Let me for once prefume t' inftruct the times, 340. To know the Poet from the man of rhymes: Tis he who gives my breaft a thousand pains, Can make me feel each Paffion that he feigns; 280 Inrage, compofe, with more than magic Art; With pity, and with terror, tear my heart; And fnatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.
But not this part of the Poetic state
|