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"Quelle manche ! ce galon eft groffiérement rangé; "Voila quelque chofe de fort beau et degagé !" This faid: on his red heel he turns, and then Hums a foft minuet, and proceeds again:
"Well; now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly own
"Your boasted London feems a country town;
"Has chriftianity yet reach'd your nation?
"Are churches built? Are mafquerades in fashion?
"Do daily foups your dinners introduce?
Are mufick, fnuff, and coaches, yet in ufe?"
Pardon me, Sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather politesse from courts abroad.
Like you, our courtiers keep a numerous train
To load their coach, and tradesmen dun in vain.
Nor has religion left us in the lurch;
And, as in France, our vulgar croud the church;
Our ladies too fupport the masquerade,
The fex by nature love th' intriguing trade.
Straight the vain fop in ignorant raptures cries,
"Paris the barbarous world will civilize !"
Pray, Sir, point out among the paffing band
The prefent beauties who the town command.
See yonder dame; ftrict virtue chills her breaft,
"Mark in her eye demure the prude profest;
"That frozen bofom native fire must want,
Which boasts of conftancy to one gallant!
"This next the fpoils of fifty lovers wears,
"Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears;
The necklace Florio's generous flame bestow'd,
Clitander's fparkling gems her finger load;
"But now her charms grow cheap by conftant ufe, "She fins for scarfs, clock'd-stockings, knots, and shoes. "This next, with fober gait and ferious leer, "Wearies her knees with morn and evening prayer; "She fcorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages, "But with three abbots in one night engages. "This with the cardinal her nights employs, "Where holy finews confecrate her joys. "Why have I promis'd things beyond my power? "Five affignations wait me at this hour! "The Sprightly countefs firft my vifit claims, "To-morrow shall indulge inferior dames. "Pardon me, Sir, that thus I take my leave; "Gay Florimella flily twitch'd my fleeve."
Adieu, Monfieur !-The opera hour draws near.
Not fee the opera! all the world is there;
Where on the stage th' embroider'd youth of France
In bright array attract the female glance:
This languishes, this ftruts, to fhow his mien,
And not a gold-clock'd ftocking moves unfeen.
But hark! the full orcheftra ftrike the strings;
The hero ftruts, and the whole audience fings.
My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarfe and confus'd, like Babel's mingled found.
Hard chance had plac'd me near a noify throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd every note.
Pray, Sir, fays I, fufpend awhile your fong;
The opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous ftrong;
I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain,
While he with rooted forefts ftrows the plain.
Sudden he fhrugs furprize, and answers quick,
"Monfieur apparement n'aime pas la musique !”
Then turning round, he join'd th' ungrateful noise;
And the loud chorus thunder'd with his voice.
O footh me with some soft Italian air,
Let harmony compose my tortur'd ear!
When Anaftafia's voice commands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through every vein ;
Thought ftands fufpenfe, and filence pleas'd attends,
While in her notes the heavenly choir defcends.
But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So ftrongly with this prejudice poffeft,
He thinks French mufick and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some fcraping fiddler of their ball he quotes;
Talk of the fpirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives;
Yes, Sir, fays he, in colour and defign,
Rigaut and Raphael are extremely fine!
'Tis true his country's love transports his breast With warmer zeal than your old Greeks profeft. Ulyffes lov'd his Ithaca of yore,
Yet that fage traveller left his native shore.
What stronger virtue in the Frenchman shines!
He to dear Paris all his life confines.
I'm not fo fond. There are, I must confess,
Things which might make me love my country lefs.
I should not think my Britain had fuch charms,
If lost to learning, if enflav'd by arms.
France has her Richlieus and her Colberts known;
And then, I grant it, France in science shone :
We too, I own, without fuch aids'may chance
In ignorance and pride to rival France.
But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's ftrong fenfe, and Moliere's humourous fcene...
Let Cambray's name be fung above the reft,
Whose maxims, Pulteney, warm thy patriot breast;
In Mentor's precepts wifdom strong and clear
Dictates fublime, and distant nations hear.
Hear, all ye princes, who the world control,
What cares, what terrors, haunt the Tyrant's foul;
His conftant train are, Anger, Fear, Diftruft.
To be a king, is to be good and just;
His people he protects, their rights he faves,
And fcorns to rule a wretched race of flaves.
Happy, thrice happy, fhall the monarch.reign,
Where guardian laws defpotic power restrain!
There fhall the plough-fhare break the ftubborn land,
And bending harvest tire the peafant's hand :
There Liberty her fettled manfion boasts,
There Commerce plenty brings from foreign coafts.
O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend :
So fhall these bleffings to thy fons descend!
You'll think 'tis time fome other theme to chufe,
And not with beaux and fops fatigue the Mufe:
Should I let fatire loose on English ground,
There fools of various character abound;
But here my verfe is to one race confin'd,
All Frenchmen are of petit-maitre kind.
HAT 'tis encouragement makes science spread,
Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often faid.
When learning droops and fickens in the land,
What patron's found, to lend a faving hand?
True generous fpirits profperous vice deteft,
And love to cherish virtue when diftreft:
Rut, ere our mighty lords this fcheme pursue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.
Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's fides,
To find the feat where harmony refides?
Why touch we not fo foft the filver lute,
The chearful haut-boy, and the mellow flute !
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the found;
But there the patrons of her fons are found.
Why flourish'd verfe in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mæcenas lov'd the Mufe's ftrain.
But now that wight in poverty muft mourn
Who was (o cruel ftars!) a poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write rancorous libels to reform the ftate :
Or, if you chufe more fure and ready ways,
Spatter a minifter with fulfome praise :
*Afterwards Sir Paul, K. B.