Satire III.

[pg 084]Satire III.To the Right Honorable Mr. Dodington.Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have soughtTo ease the burthen of my grateful thought;And now a poet's gratitude you see;Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three:For whose the present glory, or the gain?You give protection, I a worthless strain.You love and feel the poet's sacred flame;And know the basis of a solid fame;Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,You read with all the malice of a friend;Nor favour my attempts that way alone,But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,When wanted Britain bright examples more?Her learning, and her genius too, decays,And dark and cold are her declining days;As if men now were of another cast,They meanly live on alms of ages past.Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;Or, if they fail, they justly still take placeOf such who run in debt for their disgrace;Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,And damn it with improvements of their own.We bring some new materials, and what's oldNew cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;[pg 085]Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;And from sour critics vindicate the muse."Your work is long," the critics cry. "Tis true,And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:Shorten my labour, if its length you blame;For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,Will I enjoy, (dread feast!) the critic's rage,And with the fell destroyer feed my page.For what ambitious fools are more to blame,Than those who thunder in the critic's name?Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,"Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!"Ye doctors sage, who thro' Parnassus teach,Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.One judges as the weather dictates; rightThe poem is at noon, and wrong at night:Another judges by a surer gage,An author's principles, or parentage;Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,The poem doubtless must be written well.Another judges by the writer's look;Another judges, for he bought the book;[pg 086]Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.The very best ambitiously advise,Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fryBurn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crownThan Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?Not all on books their criticism waste:The genius of a dish some justly taste,And eat their way to fame; with anxious thoughtThe salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay,And bids December yield the fruits of May;Their various cares in one great point combineThe business of their lives, that is—to dine.Half of their precious day they give the feast;And to a kind digestion spare the rest.Apicius, here, the taster of the town,Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.These worthies of the palate guard with careThe sacred annals of their bills of fare;In those choice books their panegyrics read,And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.If man by feeding well commences great,Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.[pg 087]To glory some advance a lying claim,Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame:Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen,Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen.Niger adopts stray libels; wisely proneTo covet shame still greater than his own.Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,And takes a memorandum to forget.Thus vain, not knowing what adorns, or blots,Men forge the patents, that create them sots.As love of pleasure into pain betrays,So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,When those, who bring that incense, we despise?For such the vanity of great and small,Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.Nor can ev'n satire blame them; for, 'tis true,They have most ample cause for what they do.O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meantA nurse of fools, to stock the continent.Tho' Phœbus and the Nine for ever mow,Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.[pg 088]The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;A Welsh descent, which well paid heralds damn;Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.See Tityrus, with merriment possest,Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest:What need he stay? for when the joke is o'er,His teeth will be no whiter than before.Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire:Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.Sometimes, thro' pride, the sexes change their airs;My lord has vapours, and my lady swears;Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.To show the strength, and infamy of pride,By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.What numbers are there, which at once pursuePraise, and the glory to contemn it, too!Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,To win applause; and takes it by surprise."To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate."[pg 089]You know your answer, he's exact in great."My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults."But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!That he wants algebra, he must confess;But not a soul to give our arms success."Ah; that's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries;"But who in heat of blood was ever wise?I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back,To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd attack;All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny;Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."Could this deceive in others, to be free,It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;And haunt the court, without a prospect there.Are these expedients for renown? ConfessThy little self, that I may scorn thee less.Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make.Ev'n men of merit, ere their point they gain,In hardy service make a long campaign;Most manfully besiege their patron's gate,And oft repuls'd, as oft attack the greatWith painful art, and application warm,And take, at last, some little place by storm;Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer Lane.Already this thy fortune can afford;[pg 090]Then starve without the favour of my lord.'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;But often, ev'n in doing right, they err:From caprice, not from choice, their favours come;They give, but think it toil to know to whom:The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance:'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.If merit sues, and greatness is so lothTo break its downy trance, I pity both.I grant at court, Philander, at his need,(Thanks to his lovely wife) finds friends indeed.Of every charm and virtue she's possest:Philander! thou art exquisitely blest;The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd,The man is found, who may be justly proud:But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast;For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy;And love a market where the rates run high:Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear;Their vanity is tickled, not their ear:Their taste would lessen, if the prices fell,And Shakespeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;Away the disenchanted fair would throng,And own that English is their mother tongue.To show how much our northern tastes refine,Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine;[pg 091]While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay;For generous lords had rather give than pay.Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!The legislature join'd with Drury Lane!When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run,And serve their country—if the dance is done."Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right.Worth, of politeness, is the needful ground;Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel;'Tis solid bodies only polish well.Great, chosen prophet! For these latter days,To turn a willing world from righteous ways!Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve;Well has he seen his servant should not starve.Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd;In various forms of worship seen him prais'd,Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.Inferior off'rings to thy god of viceAre duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;Thy sacrifice supreme, a hundred maids!That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!If maids the quite exhausted town denies,A hundred heads of cuckolds may suffice.Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land,To see the fifty churches at a stand.And that thy minister may never fail,But what thy hand has planted still prevail,[pg 092]Of minor prophets a succession sureThe propagation of thy zeal secure.See commons, peers, and ministers of state,In solemn council met, and deep debate!What godlike enterprise is taking birth?What wonder opens on th' expecting earth?'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings!Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings!Tho' bold these truths, thou, muse, with truths like these,Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please:Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou,Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.How terrible it were to common sense,To write a satire, which gave none offence!And, since from life I take the draughts you see,If men dislike them, do they censure me?The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend,And godlike an attempt the world to mend;The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.How hard for real worth to gain its price!A man shall make his fortune in a trice,If blest with pliant, tho' but slender, sense,Feign'd modesty, and real impudence:A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace,A curse within, a smile upon his face;A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,Are prizes in the lottery of life;Genius and virtue they will soon defeat,[pg 093]And lodge you in the bosom of the great.To merit, is but to provide a painFor men's refusing what you ought to gain.May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,Whom my presaging thoughts already viewBy Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd,Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd;And lending, here, those awful councils aid,Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd:Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.Satire IV.To the Right Honourable Sir Spencer Compton.Round some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows,And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs;So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be,(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee;Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;Deep to discern, and widely to survey,And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh;Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,The crown's asserter, and the people's friend:Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,To listen to the labours of the muse;Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,[pg 094]And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.Vex'd at a public fame, so justly won,The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone;Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,Devotes his service to the state and crown;All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves,Tho' Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves:But patriots differ; some may shed their blood,He drinks his coffee, for the public good;Consults the sacred steam, and there foreseesWhat storms, or sunshine, Providence decrees;Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate;A quid nunc is an almanack of state.You smile, and think this statesman void of use:Why may not time his secret worth produce?Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut,Since steeds of genius are expert at put;Since half the senate not content can say,Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.What makes him model realms, and counsel kings?An incapacity for smaller things:Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,And boldly claims a province higher still:To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot;Deep in the secret, he looks thro' the whole,And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;[pg 095]To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,Nor shock his tender reason with the creed:Howe'er well bred, in public he complies,Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.Peerage is poison, good estates are badFor this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief,And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous force;But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse.Such useful instruments the weather show,Just as their mercury is high or low:Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark;A fever argues better than a Clarke:Let but the logic in his pulse decay,The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray,While C—— mourns, with an unfeign'd zeal,Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well.C——, who makes so merry with the creed;He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;But only thinks so; to give both their due,Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.Of some for glory such the boundless rage,That they're the blackest scandal of their age.Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names;Omits no duty; nor can envy say,He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play:He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true;[pg 096]But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;His character and gloves are ever clean,And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;A smile eternal on his lip he wears,Which equally the wise and worthless shares.In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,Patient of idleness beyond belief,Most charitably lends the town his face,For ornament, in ev'ry public place;As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,And, join'd to two, he fails not—to make three:Narcissus is the glory of his race;For who does nothing with a better grace?To deck my list, by nature were design'dSuch shining expletives of human kind,Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along,Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.To counterpoise this hero of the mode,Some for renown are singular and odd;What other men dislike, is sure to please,Of all mankind, these dear antipodes;Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still,And birthdays are their days of dressing ill,Arbuthnot is a fool, and F—— a sage,S—ly will fright you, E—— engage;By nature streams run backward, flame descends,Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends;They take their rest by day, and wake by night,[pg 097]And blush, if you surprise them in the right;If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out,His passion for absurdity's so strong,He cannot bear a rival in the wrong;Tho' wrong the mode, comply; more sense is shownIn wearing others' follies, than your own.If what is out of fashion most you prize,Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.But what in oddness can be more sublimeThan Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances,And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adoreThat painted coat, which Joseph never wore!He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin."Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,Since that great plague that swept as many more,Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry,"It has not brought us one new butterfly!"In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,Unhappy I——y! how came you to please?Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;But, in effect, his chase is much the same;[pg 098]Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,Stanch to the foot of title and estate:Where'er their lordships go, they never findOr Lico, or their shadows, lag behind!He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,Close at their elbows, as a morning dun;As if their grandeur, by contagion, wrought,And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:But after seven years' dance, from place to place,The13Dane is more familiar with his grace.Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;Or living pendant dangling at his ear,For ever whisp'ring secrets, which were blownFor months before, by trumpets, thro' the town?Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,Still to reflect the temper of his face;Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave;Or cushion, when his heaviness shall pleaseTo loll, or thump it, for his better ease;Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke,When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not findHis lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,That can cry, chimney sweep, or drive a plough?With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!Scarce meaner they, who terms like these, impose.[pg 099]But what's the tribe most likely to comply?The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;The writing tribe, who shameless auctions holdOf praise, by inch of candle to be sold:All men they flatter, but themselves the most,With deathless fame, their everlasting boast:For fame no cully makes so much her jest,As her old constant spark, the bard profest."Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,And what to my great soul like glory dear?"Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,That fame's unwholesome taken without meat.And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,And wishes all his wants were in his wit.Ay! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,That his triumphant name adorns a post?Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?What foe to verse without compassion hears,What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,When the poor muse, for less than half a crown,A prostitute on every bulk in town,With other whores undone, tho' not in print,Clubs credit for Geneva in the mint?Ye bards! why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?Defunct by Phœbus' laws, beyond redress,Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?[pg 100]Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead.All other trades demand, verse makers beg;A dedication is a wooden leg;A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend."Is 't then a crime to write?"—If talent rareProclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men,Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;Who know the muse's worth, and therefore court,Their deeds her theme, their beauty her support;Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.Argyll true wit is studious to restore;And Dorset smiles, if Phœbus smil'd before;Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,And Henrietta like a muse inspires.But, ah! not inspiration can obtainThat fame, which poets languish for in vain.How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, striveTo grasp, what no man can possess alive!Fame's a reversion in which men take place(O late reversion!) at their own decease.This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,He starves his authors, that their works may sell.That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;That wealth is fame, another clan reply;[pg 101]Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags;And swell in just proportion to their bags.Nor only the low-born, deform'd and old,Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;The first young lord, which in the mall you meet,Shall match the veriest huncks in Lombard-street,From rescu'd candles' ends, who rais'd a sum,And starves to join a penny to a plumb.A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknownTo former times, a scandal all our own.Of ardent lovers, the true modern bandWill mortgage Celia to redeem their land.For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies:Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;No rival can prevail,—but half a crown.He glories to late times to be convey'd,Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made:Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd,When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd:He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain:Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain."Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries,While love of glory sparkles from his eyes:To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,—Just is his title,—for he will not fight:All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,As maids of honour beauty,—by their place:But, when indulging on the last campaign,His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;[pg 102]He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,A soldier should be modest as a maid:Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy;Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy:'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree;But if you pay yourself, the world is free.Were there no tongue to speak them but his own,Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous nameConfounds my reader, and misguides his aim,Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak,The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have soughtTo ease the burthen of my grateful thought;And now a poet's gratitude you see;Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three:For whose the present glory, or the gain?You give protection, I a worthless strain.You love and feel the poet's sacred flame;And know the basis of a solid fame;Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,You read with all the malice of a friend;Nor favour my attempts that way alone,But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,When wanted Britain bright examples more?Her learning, and her genius too, decays,And dark and cold are her declining days;As if men now were of another cast,They meanly live on alms of ages past.Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;Or, if they fail, they justly still take placeOf such who run in debt for their disgrace;Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,And damn it with improvements of their own.We bring some new materials, and what's oldNew cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;[pg 085]Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;And from sour critics vindicate the muse."Your work is long," the critics cry. "Tis true,And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:Shorten my labour, if its length you blame;For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,Will I enjoy, (dread feast!) the critic's rage,And with the fell destroyer feed my page.For what ambitious fools are more to blame,Than those who thunder in the critic's name?Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,"Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!"Ye doctors sage, who thro' Parnassus teach,Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.One judges as the weather dictates; rightThe poem is at noon, and wrong at night:Another judges by a surer gage,An author's principles, or parentage;Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,The poem doubtless must be written well.Another judges by the writer's look;Another judges, for he bought the book;[pg 086]Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.The very best ambitiously advise,Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fryBurn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crownThan Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?Not all on books their criticism waste:The genius of a dish some justly taste,And eat their way to fame; with anxious thoughtThe salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay,And bids December yield the fruits of May;Their various cares in one great point combineThe business of their lives, that is—to dine.Half of their precious day they give the feast;And to a kind digestion spare the rest.Apicius, here, the taster of the town,Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.These worthies of the palate guard with careThe sacred annals of their bills of fare;In those choice books their panegyrics read,And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.If man by feeding well commences great,Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.[pg 087]To glory some advance a lying claim,Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame:Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen,Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen.Niger adopts stray libels; wisely proneTo covet shame still greater than his own.Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,And takes a memorandum to forget.Thus vain, not knowing what adorns, or blots,Men forge the patents, that create them sots.As love of pleasure into pain betrays,So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,When those, who bring that incense, we despise?For such the vanity of great and small,Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.Nor can ev'n satire blame them; for, 'tis true,They have most ample cause for what they do.O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meantA nurse of fools, to stock the continent.Tho' Phœbus and the Nine for ever mow,Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.[pg 088]The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;A Welsh descent, which well paid heralds damn;Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.See Tityrus, with merriment possest,Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest:What need he stay? for when the joke is o'er,His teeth will be no whiter than before.Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire:Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.Sometimes, thro' pride, the sexes change their airs;My lord has vapours, and my lady swears;Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.To show the strength, and infamy of pride,By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.What numbers are there, which at once pursuePraise, and the glory to contemn it, too!Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,To win applause; and takes it by surprise."To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate."[pg 089]You know your answer, he's exact in great."My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults."But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!That he wants algebra, he must confess;But not a soul to give our arms success."Ah; that's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries;"But who in heat of blood was ever wise?I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back,To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd attack;All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny;Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."Could this deceive in others, to be free,It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;And haunt the court, without a prospect there.Are these expedients for renown? ConfessThy little self, that I may scorn thee less.Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make.Ev'n men of merit, ere their point they gain,In hardy service make a long campaign;Most manfully besiege their patron's gate,And oft repuls'd, as oft attack the greatWith painful art, and application warm,And take, at last, some little place by storm;Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer Lane.Already this thy fortune can afford;[pg 090]Then starve without the favour of my lord.'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;But often, ev'n in doing right, they err:From caprice, not from choice, their favours come;They give, but think it toil to know to whom:The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance:'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.If merit sues, and greatness is so lothTo break its downy trance, I pity both.I grant at court, Philander, at his need,(Thanks to his lovely wife) finds friends indeed.Of every charm and virtue she's possest:Philander! thou art exquisitely blest;The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd,The man is found, who may be justly proud:But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast;For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy;And love a market where the rates run high:Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear;Their vanity is tickled, not their ear:Their taste would lessen, if the prices fell,And Shakespeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;Away the disenchanted fair would throng,And own that English is their mother tongue.To show how much our northern tastes refine,Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine;[pg 091]While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay;For generous lords had rather give than pay.Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!The legislature join'd with Drury Lane!When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run,And serve their country—if the dance is done."Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right.Worth, of politeness, is the needful ground;Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel;'Tis solid bodies only polish well.Great, chosen prophet! For these latter days,To turn a willing world from righteous ways!Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve;Well has he seen his servant should not starve.Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd;In various forms of worship seen him prais'd,Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.Inferior off'rings to thy god of viceAre duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;Thy sacrifice supreme, a hundred maids!That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!If maids the quite exhausted town denies,A hundred heads of cuckolds may suffice.Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land,To see the fifty churches at a stand.And that thy minister may never fail,But what thy hand has planted still prevail,[pg 092]Of minor prophets a succession sureThe propagation of thy zeal secure.See commons, peers, and ministers of state,In solemn council met, and deep debate!What godlike enterprise is taking birth?What wonder opens on th' expecting earth?'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings!Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings!Tho' bold these truths, thou, muse, with truths like these,Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please:Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou,Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.How terrible it were to common sense,To write a satire, which gave none offence!And, since from life I take the draughts you see,If men dislike them, do they censure me?The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend,And godlike an attempt the world to mend;The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.How hard for real worth to gain its price!A man shall make his fortune in a trice,If blest with pliant, tho' but slender, sense,Feign'd modesty, and real impudence:A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace,A curse within, a smile upon his face;A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,Are prizes in the lottery of life;Genius and virtue they will soon defeat,[pg 093]And lodge you in the bosom of the great.To merit, is but to provide a painFor men's refusing what you ought to gain.May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,Whom my presaging thoughts already viewBy Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd,Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd;And lending, here, those awful councils aid,Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd:Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought

To ease the burthen of my grateful thought;

And now a poet's gratitude you see;

Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three:

For whose the present glory, or the gain?

You give protection, I a worthless strain.

You love and feel the poet's sacred flame;

And know the basis of a solid fame;

Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,

You read with all the malice of a friend;

Nor favour my attempts that way alone,

But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.

An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,

When wanted Britain bright examples more?

Her learning, and her genius too, decays,

And dark and cold are her declining days;

As if men now were of another cast,

They meanly live on alms of ages past.

Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,

Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;

Or, if they fail, they justly still take place

Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;

Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,

And damn it with improvements of their own.

We bring some new materials, and what's old

New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;

Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;

And from sour critics vindicate the muse.

"Your work is long," the critics cry. "Tis true,

And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:

Shorten my labour, if its length you blame;

For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;

As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,

Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,

That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,

Will I enjoy, (dread feast!) the critic's rage,

And with the fell destroyer feed my page.

For what ambitious fools are more to blame,

Than those who thunder in the critic's name?

Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,

To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,

Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,

As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,

"Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!"

Ye doctors sage, who thro' Parnassus teach,

Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

One judges as the weather dictates; right

The poem is at noon, and wrong at night:

Another judges by a surer gage,

An author's principles, or parentage;

Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,

The poem doubtless must be written well.

Another judges by the writer's look;

Another judges, for he bought the book;

Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;

Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,

To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.

The very best ambitiously advise,

Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.

Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,

Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;

Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry

Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.

Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown

Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?

Not all on books their criticism waste:

The genius of a dish some justly taste,

And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought

The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.

Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay,

And bids December yield the fruits of May;

Their various cares in one great point combine

The business of their lives, that is—to dine.

Half of their precious day they give the feast;

And to a kind digestion spare the rest.

Apicius, here, the taster of the town,

Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

These worthies of the palate guard with care

The sacred annals of their bills of fare;

In those choice books their panegyrics read,

And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.

If man by feeding well commences great,

Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.

To glory some advance a lying claim,

Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame:

Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;

They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.

Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,

When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;

And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen,

Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen.

Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone

To covet shame still greater than his own.

Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,

Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.

Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,

Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;

Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,

And takes a memorandum to forget.

Thus vain, not knowing what adorns, or blots,

Men forge the patents, that create them sots.

As love of pleasure into pain betrays,

So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.

But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,

When those, who bring that incense, we despise?

For such the vanity of great and small,

Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.

Nor can ev'n satire blame them; for, 'tis true,

They have most ample cause for what they do.

O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant

A nurse of fools, to stock the continent.

Tho' Phœbus and the Nine for ever mow,

Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.

The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,

Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;

A Welsh descent, which well paid heralds damn;

Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.

When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,

In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.

See Tityrus, with merriment possest,

Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest:

What need he stay? for when the joke is o'er,

His teeth will be no whiter than before.

Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,

That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?

Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;

Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire:

Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;

And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.

Sometimes, thro' pride, the sexes change their airs;

My lord has vapours, and my lady swears;

Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,

My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.

To show the strength, and infamy of pride,

By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.

What numbers are there, which at once pursue

Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!

Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,

And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;

Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,

To win applause; and takes it by surprise.

"To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate."

You know your answer, he's exact in great.

"My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults."

But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!

That he wants algebra, he must confess;

But not a soul to give our arms success.

"Ah; that's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries;

"But who in heat of blood was ever wise?

I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back,

To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd attack;

All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny;

Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."

Could this deceive in others, to be free,

It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;

Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,

So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.

Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;

And haunt the court, without a prospect there.

Are these expedients for renown? Confess

Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.

Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;

Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make.

Ev'n men of merit, ere their point they gain,

In hardy service make a long campaign;

Most manfully besiege their patron's gate,

And oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great

With painful art, and application warm,

And take, at last, some little place by storm;

Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,

And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer Lane.

Already this thy fortune can afford;

Then starve without the favour of my lord.

'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;

But often, ev'n in doing right, they err:

From caprice, not from choice, their favours come;

They give, but think it toil to know to whom:

The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance:

'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.

If merit sues, and greatness is so loth

To break its downy trance, I pity both.

I grant at court, Philander, at his need,

(Thanks to his lovely wife) finds friends indeed.

Of every charm and virtue she's possest:

Philander! thou art exquisitely blest;

The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd,

The man is found, who may be justly proud:

But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!

Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast;

For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,

In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.

Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy;

And love a market where the rates run high:

Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear;

Their vanity is tickled, not their ear:

Their taste would lessen, if the prices fell,

And Shakespeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;

Away the disenchanted fair would throng,

And own that English is their mother tongue.

To show how much our northern tastes refine,

Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine;

While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay;

For generous lords had rather give than pay.

Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!

The legislature join'd with Drury Lane!

When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run,

And serve their country—if the dance is done.

"Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"

Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right.

Worth, of politeness, is the needful ground;

Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.

Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel;

'Tis solid bodies only polish well.

Great, chosen prophet! For these latter days,

To turn a willing world from righteous ways!

Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve;

Well has he seen his servant should not starve.

Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd;

In various forms of worship seen him prais'd,

Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,

And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.

Inferior off'rings to thy god of vice

Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;

Thy sacrifice supreme, a hundred maids!

That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!

If maids the quite exhausted town denies,

A hundred heads of cuckolds may suffice.

Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land,

To see the fifty churches at a stand.

And that thy minister may never fail,

But what thy hand has planted still prevail,

Of minor prophets a succession sure

The propagation of thy zeal secure.

See commons, peers, and ministers of state,

In solemn council met, and deep debate!

What godlike enterprise is taking birth?

What wonder opens on th' expecting earth?

'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings!

Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings!

Tho' bold these truths, thou, muse, with truths like these,

Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please:

Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou,

Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.

How terrible it were to common sense,

To write a satire, which gave none offence!

And, since from life I take the draughts you see,

If men dislike them, do they censure me?

The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend,

And godlike an attempt the world to mend;

The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,

Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.

How hard for real worth to gain its price!

A man shall make his fortune in a trice,

If blest with pliant, tho' but slender, sense,

Feign'd modesty, and real impudence:

A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace,

A curse within, a smile upon his face;

A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,

Are prizes in the lottery of life;

Genius and virtue they will soon defeat,

And lodge you in the bosom of the great.

To merit, is but to provide a pain

For men's refusing what you ought to gain.

May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,

Whom my presaging thoughts already view

By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd,

Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd;

And lending, here, those awful councils aid,

Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd:

Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

Satire IV.To the Right Honourable Sir Spencer Compton.Round some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows,And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs;So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be,(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee;Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;Deep to discern, and widely to survey,And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh;Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,The crown's asserter, and the people's friend:Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,To listen to the labours of the muse;Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,[pg 094]And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.Vex'd at a public fame, so justly won,The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone;Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,Devotes his service to the state and crown;All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves,Tho' Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves:But patriots differ; some may shed their blood,He drinks his coffee, for the public good;Consults the sacred steam, and there foreseesWhat storms, or sunshine, Providence decrees;Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate;A quid nunc is an almanack of state.You smile, and think this statesman void of use:Why may not time his secret worth produce?Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut,Since steeds of genius are expert at put;Since half the senate not content can say,Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.What makes him model realms, and counsel kings?An incapacity for smaller things:Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,And boldly claims a province higher still:To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot;Deep in the secret, he looks thro' the whole,And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;[pg 095]To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,Nor shock his tender reason with the creed:Howe'er well bred, in public he complies,Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.Peerage is poison, good estates are badFor this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief,And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous force;But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse.Such useful instruments the weather show,Just as their mercury is high or low:Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark;A fever argues better than a Clarke:Let but the logic in his pulse decay,The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray,While C—— mourns, with an unfeign'd zeal,Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well.C——, who makes so merry with the creed;He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;But only thinks so; to give both their due,Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.Of some for glory such the boundless rage,That they're the blackest scandal of their age.Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names;Omits no duty; nor can envy say,He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play:He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true;[pg 096]But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;His character and gloves are ever clean,And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;A smile eternal on his lip he wears,Which equally the wise and worthless shares.In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,Patient of idleness beyond belief,Most charitably lends the town his face,For ornament, in ev'ry public place;As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,And, join'd to two, he fails not—to make three:Narcissus is the glory of his race;For who does nothing with a better grace?To deck my list, by nature were design'dSuch shining expletives of human kind,Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along,Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.To counterpoise this hero of the mode,Some for renown are singular and odd;What other men dislike, is sure to please,Of all mankind, these dear antipodes;Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still,And birthdays are their days of dressing ill,Arbuthnot is a fool, and F—— a sage,S—ly will fright you, E—— engage;By nature streams run backward, flame descends,Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends;They take their rest by day, and wake by night,[pg 097]And blush, if you surprise them in the right;If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out,His passion for absurdity's so strong,He cannot bear a rival in the wrong;Tho' wrong the mode, comply; more sense is shownIn wearing others' follies, than your own.If what is out of fashion most you prize,Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.But what in oddness can be more sublimeThan Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances,And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adoreThat painted coat, which Joseph never wore!He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin."Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,Since that great plague that swept as many more,Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry,"It has not brought us one new butterfly!"In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,Unhappy I——y! how came you to please?Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;But, in effect, his chase is much the same;[pg 098]Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,Stanch to the foot of title and estate:Where'er their lordships go, they never findOr Lico, or their shadows, lag behind!He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,Close at their elbows, as a morning dun;As if their grandeur, by contagion, wrought,And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:But after seven years' dance, from place to place,The13Dane is more familiar with his grace.Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;Or living pendant dangling at his ear,For ever whisp'ring secrets, which were blownFor months before, by trumpets, thro' the town?Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,Still to reflect the temper of his face;Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave;Or cushion, when his heaviness shall pleaseTo loll, or thump it, for his better ease;Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke,When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not findHis lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,That can cry, chimney sweep, or drive a plough?With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!Scarce meaner they, who terms like these, impose.[pg 099]But what's the tribe most likely to comply?The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;The writing tribe, who shameless auctions holdOf praise, by inch of candle to be sold:All men they flatter, but themselves the most,With deathless fame, their everlasting boast:For fame no cully makes so much her jest,As her old constant spark, the bard profest."Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,And what to my great soul like glory dear?"Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,That fame's unwholesome taken without meat.And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,And wishes all his wants were in his wit.Ay! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,That his triumphant name adorns a post?Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?What foe to verse without compassion hears,What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,When the poor muse, for less than half a crown,A prostitute on every bulk in town,With other whores undone, tho' not in print,Clubs credit for Geneva in the mint?Ye bards! why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?Defunct by Phœbus' laws, beyond redress,Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?[pg 100]Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead.All other trades demand, verse makers beg;A dedication is a wooden leg;A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend."Is 't then a crime to write?"—If talent rareProclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men,Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;Who know the muse's worth, and therefore court,Their deeds her theme, their beauty her support;Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.Argyll true wit is studious to restore;And Dorset smiles, if Phœbus smil'd before;Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,And Henrietta like a muse inspires.But, ah! not inspiration can obtainThat fame, which poets languish for in vain.How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, striveTo grasp, what no man can possess alive!Fame's a reversion in which men take place(O late reversion!) at their own decease.This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,He starves his authors, that their works may sell.That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;That wealth is fame, another clan reply;[pg 101]Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags;And swell in just proportion to their bags.Nor only the low-born, deform'd and old,Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;The first young lord, which in the mall you meet,Shall match the veriest huncks in Lombard-street,From rescu'd candles' ends, who rais'd a sum,And starves to join a penny to a plumb.A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknownTo former times, a scandal all our own.Of ardent lovers, the true modern bandWill mortgage Celia to redeem their land.For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies:Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;No rival can prevail,—but half a crown.He glories to late times to be convey'd,Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made:Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd,When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd:He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain:Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain."Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries,While love of glory sparkles from his eyes:To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,—Just is his title,—for he will not fight:All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,As maids of honour beauty,—by their place:But, when indulging on the last campaign,His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;[pg 102]He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,A soldier should be modest as a maid:Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy;Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy:'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree;But if you pay yourself, the world is free.Were there no tongue to speak them but his own,Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous nameConfounds my reader, and misguides his aim,Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak,The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

Round some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows,And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs;So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be,(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee;Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;Deep to discern, and widely to survey,And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh;Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,The crown's asserter, and the people's friend:Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,To listen to the labours of the muse;Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,[pg 094]And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.Vex'd at a public fame, so justly won,The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone;Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,Devotes his service to the state and crown;All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves,Tho' Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves:But patriots differ; some may shed their blood,He drinks his coffee, for the public good;Consults the sacred steam, and there foreseesWhat storms, or sunshine, Providence decrees;Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate;A quid nunc is an almanack of state.You smile, and think this statesman void of use:Why may not time his secret worth produce?Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut,Since steeds of genius are expert at put;Since half the senate not content can say,Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.What makes him model realms, and counsel kings?An incapacity for smaller things:Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,And boldly claims a province higher still:To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot;Deep in the secret, he looks thro' the whole,And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;[pg 095]To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,Nor shock his tender reason with the creed:Howe'er well bred, in public he complies,Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.Peerage is poison, good estates are badFor this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief,And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous force;But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse.Such useful instruments the weather show,Just as their mercury is high or low:Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark;A fever argues better than a Clarke:Let but the logic in his pulse decay,The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray,While C—— mourns, with an unfeign'd zeal,Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well.C——, who makes so merry with the creed;He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;But only thinks so; to give both their due,Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.Of some for glory such the boundless rage,That they're the blackest scandal of their age.Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names;Omits no duty; nor can envy say,He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play:He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true;[pg 096]But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;His character and gloves are ever clean,And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;A smile eternal on his lip he wears,Which equally the wise and worthless shares.In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,Patient of idleness beyond belief,Most charitably lends the town his face,For ornament, in ev'ry public place;As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,And, join'd to two, he fails not—to make three:Narcissus is the glory of his race;For who does nothing with a better grace?To deck my list, by nature were design'dSuch shining expletives of human kind,Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along,Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.To counterpoise this hero of the mode,Some for renown are singular and odd;What other men dislike, is sure to please,Of all mankind, these dear antipodes;Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still,And birthdays are their days of dressing ill,Arbuthnot is a fool, and F—— a sage,S—ly will fright you, E—— engage;By nature streams run backward, flame descends,Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends;They take their rest by day, and wake by night,[pg 097]And blush, if you surprise them in the right;If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out,His passion for absurdity's so strong,He cannot bear a rival in the wrong;Tho' wrong the mode, comply; more sense is shownIn wearing others' follies, than your own.If what is out of fashion most you prize,Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.But what in oddness can be more sublimeThan Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances,And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adoreThat painted coat, which Joseph never wore!He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin."Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,Since that great plague that swept as many more,Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry,"It has not brought us one new butterfly!"In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,Unhappy I——y! how came you to please?Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;But, in effect, his chase is much the same;[pg 098]Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,Stanch to the foot of title and estate:Where'er their lordships go, they never findOr Lico, or their shadows, lag behind!He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,Close at their elbows, as a morning dun;As if their grandeur, by contagion, wrought,And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:But after seven years' dance, from place to place,The13Dane is more familiar with his grace.Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;Or living pendant dangling at his ear,For ever whisp'ring secrets, which were blownFor months before, by trumpets, thro' the town?Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,Still to reflect the temper of his face;Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave;Or cushion, when his heaviness shall pleaseTo loll, or thump it, for his better ease;Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke,When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not findHis lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,That can cry, chimney sweep, or drive a plough?With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!Scarce meaner they, who terms like these, impose.[pg 099]But what's the tribe most likely to comply?The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;The writing tribe, who shameless auctions holdOf praise, by inch of candle to be sold:All men they flatter, but themselves the most,With deathless fame, their everlasting boast:For fame no cully makes so much her jest,As her old constant spark, the bard profest."Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,And what to my great soul like glory dear?"Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,That fame's unwholesome taken without meat.And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,And wishes all his wants were in his wit.Ay! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,That his triumphant name adorns a post?Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?What foe to verse without compassion hears,What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,When the poor muse, for less than half a crown,A prostitute on every bulk in town,With other whores undone, tho' not in print,Clubs credit for Geneva in the mint?Ye bards! why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?Defunct by Phœbus' laws, beyond redress,Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?[pg 100]Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead.All other trades demand, verse makers beg;A dedication is a wooden leg;A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend."Is 't then a crime to write?"—If talent rareProclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men,Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;Who know the muse's worth, and therefore court,Their deeds her theme, their beauty her support;Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.Argyll true wit is studious to restore;And Dorset smiles, if Phœbus smil'd before;Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,And Henrietta like a muse inspires.But, ah! not inspiration can obtainThat fame, which poets languish for in vain.How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, striveTo grasp, what no man can possess alive!Fame's a reversion in which men take place(O late reversion!) at their own decease.This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,He starves his authors, that their works may sell.That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;That wealth is fame, another clan reply;[pg 101]Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags;And swell in just proportion to their bags.Nor only the low-born, deform'd and old,Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;The first young lord, which in the mall you meet,Shall match the veriest huncks in Lombard-street,From rescu'd candles' ends, who rais'd a sum,And starves to join a penny to a plumb.A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknownTo former times, a scandal all our own.Of ardent lovers, the true modern bandWill mortgage Celia to redeem their land.For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies:Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;No rival can prevail,—but half a crown.He glories to late times to be convey'd,Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made:Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd,When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd:He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain:Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain."Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries,While love of glory sparkles from his eyes:To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,—Just is his title,—for he will not fight:All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,As maids of honour beauty,—by their place:But, when indulging on the last campaign,His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;[pg 102]He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,A soldier should be modest as a maid:Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy;Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy:'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree;But if you pay yourself, the world is free.Were there no tongue to speak them but his own,Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous nameConfounds my reader, and misguides his aim,Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak,The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

Round some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows,

And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs;

So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be,

(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee;

Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,

Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;

Deep to discern, and widely to survey,

And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh;

Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,

The crown's asserter, and the people's friend:

Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,

To listen to the labours of the muse;

Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,

And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

Vex'd at a public fame, so justly won,

The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone;

Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,

Devotes his service to the state and crown;

All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves,

Tho' Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves:

But patriots differ; some may shed their blood,

He drinks his coffee, for the public good;

Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees

What storms, or sunshine, Providence decrees;

Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate;

A quid nunc is an almanack of state.

You smile, and think this statesman void of use:

Why may not time his secret worth produce?

Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut,

Since steeds of genius are expert at put;

Since half the senate not content can say,

Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.

What makes him model realms, and counsel kings?

An incapacity for smaller things:

Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,

And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.

Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,

And boldly claims a province higher still:

To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,

At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot;

Deep in the secret, he looks thro' the whole,

And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;

To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,

Nor shock his tender reason with the creed:

Howe'er well bred, in public he complies,

Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

Peerage is poison, good estates are bad

For this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.

Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief,

And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?

While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous force;

But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse.

Such useful instruments the weather show,

Just as their mercury is high or low:

Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark;

A fever argues better than a Clarke:

Let but the logic in his pulse decay,

The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray,

While C—— mourns, with an unfeign'd zeal,

Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well.

C——, who makes so merry with the creed;

He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;

But only thinks so; to give both their due,

Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.

Of some for glory such the boundless rage,

That they're the blackest scandal of their age.

Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;

Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names;

Omits no duty; nor can envy say,

He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play:

He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true;

But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;

His character and gloves are ever clean,

And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;

A smile eternal on his lip he wears,

Which equally the wise and worthless shares.

In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,

Patient of idleness beyond belief,

Most charitably lends the town his face,

For ornament, in ev'ry public place;

As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,

And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:

When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,

And, join'd to two, he fails not—to make three:

Narcissus is the glory of his race;

For who does nothing with a better grace?

To deck my list, by nature were design'd

Such shining expletives of human kind,

Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along,

Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.

To counterpoise this hero of the mode,

Some for renown are singular and odd;

What other men dislike, is sure to please,

Of all mankind, these dear antipodes;

Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still,

And birthdays are their days of dressing ill,

Arbuthnot is a fool, and F—— a sage,

S—ly will fright you, E—— engage;

By nature streams run backward, flame descends,

Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends;

They take their rest by day, and wake by night,

And blush, if you surprise them in the right;

If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,

A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,

A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out,

His passion for absurdity's so strong,

He cannot bear a rival in the wrong;

Tho' wrong the mode, comply; more sense is shown

In wearing others' follies, than your own.

If what is out of fashion most you prize,

Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.

But what in oddness can be more sublime

Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?

His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,

His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances,

And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,

Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!

How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore

That painted coat, which Joseph never wore!

He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,

That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin.

"Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,

Since that great plague that swept as many more,

Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry,

"It has not brought us one new butterfly!"

In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,

Unhappy I——y! how came you to please?

Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;

But, in effect, his chase is much the same;

Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,

Stanch to the foot of title and estate:

Where'er their lordships go, they never find

Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind!

He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,

Close at their elbows, as a morning dun;

As if their grandeur, by contagion, wrought,

And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:

But after seven years' dance, from place to place,

The13Dane is more familiar with his grace.

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;

Or living pendant dangling at his ear,

For ever whisp'ring secrets, which were blown

For months before, by trumpets, thro' the town?

Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,

Still to reflect the temper of his face;

Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,

When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave;

Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please

To loll, or thump it, for his better ease;

Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke,

When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?

Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not find

His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,

For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,

That can cry, chimney sweep, or drive a plough?

With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!

Scarce meaner they, who terms like these, impose.

But what's the tribe most likely to comply?

The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;

The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold

Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold:

All men they flatter, but themselves the most,

With deathless fame, their everlasting boast:

For fame no cully makes so much her jest,

As her old constant spark, the bard profest.

"Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,

Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,

And what to my great soul like glory dear?"

Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,

That fame's unwholesome taken without meat.

And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:

Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,

And wishes all his wants were in his wit.

Ay! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,

That his triumphant name adorns a post?

Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)

Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?

What foe to verse without compassion hears,

What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,

When the poor muse, for less than half a crown,

A prostitute on every bulk in town,

With other whores undone, tho' not in print,

Clubs credit for Geneva in the mint?

Ye bards! why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?

Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?

Defunct by Phœbus' laws, beyond redress,

Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?

Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,

Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead.

All other trades demand, verse makers beg;

A dedication is a wooden leg;

A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,

Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.

Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;

Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend.

"Is 't then a crime to write?"—If talent rare

Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:

For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men,

Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;

Who know the muse's worth, and therefore court,

Their deeds her theme, their beauty her support;

Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;

My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.

Argyll true wit is studious to restore;

And Dorset smiles, if Phœbus smil'd before;

Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,

And Henrietta like a muse inspires.

But, ah! not inspiration can obtain

That fame, which poets languish for in vain.

How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive

To grasp, what no man can possess alive!

Fame's a reversion in which men take place

(O late reversion!) at their own decease.

This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,

He starves his authors, that their works may sell.

That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;

That wealth is fame, another clan reply;

Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags;

And swell in just proportion to their bags.

Nor only the low-born, deform'd and old,

Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;

The first young lord, which in the mall you meet,

Shall match the veriest huncks in Lombard-street,

From rescu'd candles' ends, who rais'd a sum,

And starves to join a penny to a plumb.

A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknown

To former times, a scandal all our own.

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band

Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.

For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies:

Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.

Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;

No rival can prevail,—but half a crown.

He glories to late times to be convey'd,

Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made:

Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd,

When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd:

He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain:

Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain.

"Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries,

While love of glory sparkles from his eyes:

To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,—

Just is his title,—for he will not fight:

All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,

As maids of honour beauty,—by their place:

But, when indulging on the last campaign,

His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;

He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,

A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,

A soldier should be modest as a maid:

Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy;

Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy:

'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree;

But if you pay yourself, the world is free.

Were there no tongue to speak them but his own,

Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.

Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name

Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim,

Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak,

The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

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