Part 12 (2/2)

But Clio thus: ”What! railing without end?

Mean task! how much more gen'rous to commend!”

Yes, to commend as you are wont to do, My kind instructor, and example too.

”Daphnis,” says Clio, ”has a charming eye: What pity 'tis her shoulder is awry!

Aspasia's shape indeed-but then her air- The man has parts who finds destruction there.

Almeria's wit has something that's divine; And wit's enough-how few in all things s.h.i.+ne!

Selina serves her friends, relieves the poor- Who was it said Selina's near threescore?

At Lucia's match I from my soul rejoice; The world congratulates so wise a choice; His lords.h.i.+p's rent-roll is exceeding great- But mortgages will sap the best estate.

In Sherley's form might cherubims appear; But then-she has a freckle on her ear.”

Without a but, Hortensia she commends, The first of women, and the best of friends; Owns her in person, wit, fame, virtue, bright: But how comes this to pa.s.s?-She died last night.

Thus nymphs commend, who yet at satire rail: Indeed that's needless, if such praise prevail.

And whence such praise? Our virulence is thrown On others' fame, thro' fondness for our own.

Of rank and riches proud, Cleora frowns; For are not coronets akin to crowns?

Her greedy eye, and her sublime address, The height of avarice and pride confess.

You seek perfections worthy of her rank; Go, seek for her perfections at the bank.

By wealth unquench'd, by reason uncontrol'd, For ever burns her sacred thirst of gold.

As fond of five-pence, as the veriest cit; And quite as much detested as a wit.

Can gold calm pa.s.sion, or make reason s.h.i.+ne?

Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?

Wisdom to gold prefer; for 'tis much less To make our fortune, than our happiness.

That happiness which great ones often see, With rage and wonder, in a low degree; Themselves unblest. The poor are only poor; But what are they who droop amid their store?

Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state; The happy only are the truly great.

Peasants enjoy like appet.i.tes with kings; And those best satisfied with cheapest things.

Could both our Indies buy but one new sense, Our envy would be due to large expense.

Since not, those pomps which to the great belong, Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng.

See how they beg an alms of flattery!

They languis.h.!.+ oh support them with a lie!

A decent competence we fully taste; It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast: More, we perceive by dint of thought alone; The rich must labor to possess their own, To feel their great abundance; and request Their humble friends to help them to be blest; To see their treasures, hear their glory told, And aid the wretched impotence of gold.

But some, great souls! and touch'd with warmth divine, Give gold a price, and teach its beams to s.h.i.+ne.

All h.o.a.rded treasures they repute a load; Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'd.

Grand reservoirs of public happiness, Through secret streams diffusively they bless; And, while their bounties glide conceal'd from view, Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too.

But satire is my task; and these destroy Her gloomy province, and malignant joy.

Help me, ye misers! help me to complain, And blast our common enemy, Germain: But our invectives must despair success; For next to praise, she values nothing less.

What picture's yonder, loosen'd from its frame?

Or is't Asturia? that affected dame.

The brightest forms, through affectation, fade To strange new things, which nature never made.

Frown not, ye fair! so much your s.e.x we prize, We hate those arts that take you from our eyes.

In Albucinda's native grace is seen What you, who labour at perfection, mean.

Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease, Retain your gentle selves, and you must please.

Here might I sing of Memmia's mincing mien, And all the movements of the soft machine: How two red lips affected zephyrs blow, To cool the Bohea, and inflame the beau: While one white finger, and a thumb, conspire To lift the cup, and make the world admire.

Tea! how I tremble at thy fatal stream!

As Lethe, dreadful to the love of fame.

What devastations on thy banks are seen!

What shades of mighty names which once have been!

An hecatomb of characters supplies Thy painted altars' daily sacrifice.

H--, P--, B--, aspers'd by thee, decay, As grains of finest sugars melt away, And recommend thee more to mortal taste: Scandal's the sweet'ner of a female feast.

But this inhuman triumph shall decline, And thy revolting naiads call for wine; Spirits no longer shall serve under thee; But reign in thy own cup, exploded tea!

Citronia's nose declares thy ruin nigh, And who dares give Citronia's nose the lie?(16) The ladies long at men of drink exclaim'd, And what impair'd both health and virtue, blam'd; At length, to rescue man, the generous la.s.s Stole from her consort the pernicious gla.s.s; As glorious as the British queen renown'd, Who suck'd the poison from her husband's wound.

Nor to the gla.s.s alone are nymphs inclin'd, But every bolder vice of bold mankind.

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