Part 8 (1/2)
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 p.r.o.ne To covet shame still greater than his own.
Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore, Belies his innocence, and keeps a wh.o.r.e.
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' Phbus and the Nine for ever mow, Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.
The plenteous harvest calls me forward still, Till I surpa.s.s in length my lawyer's bill; A Welsh descent, which well paid heralds d.a.m.n; Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.
When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen, In comes a c.o.xcomb, and I write again.
See t.i.tyrus, 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 s.e.xes 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 outs.h.i.+ne; While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay; For generous lords had rather give than pay.