Part 9 (1/2)

To deck my list, by nature were design'd Such s.h.i.+ning expletives of human kind, Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along, Sense to be right, and pa.s.sion 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 Suss.e.x 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 fas.h.i.+on, but a fool that's out, His pa.s.sion 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 sh.e.l.l inhances, And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view, Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!

How his eyes languis.h.!.+ 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 b.u.t.terfly!”

In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Unhappy I--y! how came you to please?

Not gaudy b.u.t.terflies 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 t.i.tle and estate: Where'er their lords.h.i.+ps go, they never find Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind!

He sets them sure, where'er their lords.h.i.+ps 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, The(13) Dane 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 gla.s.s, 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 cus.h.i.+on, when his heaviness shall please To loll, or thump it, for his better ease; Or a vile b.u.t.t, 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 lords.h.i.+p's jest; or, if his nose broke wind, For blessings to the G.o.ds 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 s.h.i.+nes in council, Mordaunt in the fight, Pelham's magnificent; but I can write, And what to my great soul like glory dear?”

Till some G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ning page (provoking fate!) Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?

What foe to verse without compa.s.sion hears, What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears, When the poor muse, for less than half a crown, A prost.i.tute on every bulk in town, With other wh.o.r.es 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 Phbus' 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 fas.h.i.+on, Exposes borrow'd brats to move compa.s.sion.

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 G.o.d, 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 Phbus 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, n.o.ble, 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 t.i.tle,-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.