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SAT I Re II. To the Right Honorable the Earl of Scarborough.
—Tanto major Fama sitis est, quam Virtutis. Juv. SAT. 10.
MY Moise, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end,
Tho' toil and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gosis make other poems fine,
Plain satire calls for sense in ev'ry line:
Then, to what swarms thv faults's dare expose :
All friends to vice and foily are thy foes;
When such the foe, a war eternal wage,
Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage,
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.
So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe
Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the sun, all colors dost contain,
Varying iike rays of light on drops of rain; ,
For exis soul finds reason to be proud,
To his d and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolitus demands the sylvan crown';
But Florio's fame, the product of a show'r,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flow'r?
Why teems the earth! why melt the vernalskies?
Why shines the sum? To make Paul Diacktrise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good.
What shape! what hue! was ever nymph so fair?
He doats, he dies, he too is rooted there.
Q solid bliss, which nothing can destroy
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.
In faine's full bloom lies Florio dowu at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,
0 C–! and be kind ere 'tis too late.
Nor are those enemies I mention'd all;
Beware, O Florist, th; ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame;
A quaker serv'd him, Adam was his maine.
To one lov'd tulip of the master went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent;
But came and miss'd it one ill-fated hour,
He ragd he roar’d—“What damon cropp'd
Serene, quoth Adam, ‘Lo!'twas crush'd by me:
“Fallen is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy
“Butall men want amusement,andwhatcrime
“In such a Paradise to fool their time?”
None, but why proud of this? To Fame they soar;
W. grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.
We smile at Florists we despise their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy;
But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?
What's he who sighs for wealth,orfame,orpow'r?
Another Florio doting on a flow'r
A short-liv'd flower, and which has often sprung
From solid arts, as Florio's out of dung.
With what, O Codrus ! is o fancy smit : The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit. The gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow, And Epictetus is a perfect beau. How fit for thee bound up in crimson too, Gilt, and like then devoted to the view Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard That science should be purchas'd by the yard; And Tonson, turm'd upholsterer, send home The gilded leather to fit up thy room. If not to some peculiar end assign'd, Study's the specious trifling of the mind; Or is at best a secondary aim, A chace for sport alone, and not for game: If so, sure they who the mere volume prize, But love the thicket where the quarry lies. On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, But found at length that it reduc’d his rent. His farms were flown; when lo! a sale comes on, A choice collection : What is to be done? He sells his last, for he the whole will buy; Sells ev'n his house, nay wants whereon to lie; So high the gen'rons ardor of the man For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. To make the purchase, he gives all his store, Except one darling diamond that he wore: For what a mistress gave, ’tis death to pawn, Yet when the terms were fix'd, and writings drawn, The sight so ravish'd him, he gave the clerk Love's sacred pledge, and sign d them with his Unlearned men of books assume the care, smark. As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. Not in his author's liveries alone Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown. Editions various, at high prices bought, Inform the world whatCodrus . thought; And to this cost another must succeed, To pay a sage who says that he can read, Who titles knows, and indexes has seen, But leaves to what lies between : Of pompous books who shuns the proudexpence, And humbly is contented with their sense. O Lumley, whose accomplishments make good The promise of a long illustrious blood; In arts and manners eminently grac'd, The strictest honor, and the finest tastel Accept this verse; if Satire can agree With so consummate an humanity. But know, my Lord, if you resent the wrong, That on your candor I obtrude my song; 'Tis Satire's just revenge on that fair name, Which all their malice eannot make her theme. By your example would Hilario mend, How would it grace the talents of my friend, Who, with the charins of his own genius Smit, Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit! But time his servent petulance may cool; For, though he is a wit, he is no fool. In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense; Nor make a frailty of an excellence. His brisk attack on blockheads we should prize,
Were not his jest as flippant with the wise,
He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like dooms-day, all the faults of all mankind.
Wito tho' wit tickles: tickling is unsafe,
If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Parts may be prais'd, good nature is ador'd :
Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword,
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great génius here.
As in smooth oi! the razor best is wet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set.
'f'heir want of edge from their offence is seen;
Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
The fame men give, is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.
Since Marcus doubtless thinks himself a wit,
To pay my compliment what place so fit?
His most facetious letters * came to hand,
Which my first Satire sweetly reprimand.
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou—a fool, or knave:
For all but such with caution I forbore :
That thou was either, I ne'er knew before;
T know thee now, both what thou art, and who:
No mask so good but Marcus must shine through;
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell,
Thy best concealment had been writing well;
But thou a brave neglect of Fame hast shown,
Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded, and this maxim know :
The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.
In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull
Their peevish reason, vain of being dull;ssouls,
When some home-joke has stung their solemn
In vengeance they determine — to be fools:
Thro' spleen, that little nature gave, make less,
}uire zealous in the ways of heaviness;
lumps inanimate a fondness take,
Aoi disinherit sons that are awake.
These, when their utmost venom they wouldspit,
Most barbarously tell you —“he’s a wit."
Poor negroes thus, to show your borning spite
To Cacoda mons, say they 're devilish white.
Lampridius from the bottom of his breast
Sighs o'er ete child, but triumphs in the rest.
How just is grief! one carries in his head
A less proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without special grace,
To rise above a Justice of the Peace.
The dunghill-breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from
Who with unch pains exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his skillings, pounds, and pence.
This booby father craves a booby son,
And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Wants of all kinds are made to Fame a plea ;
One learns to lisp, as other not to see;
Miss I) tottering catches at your hand :
Was cver thing so pretty born to stand
Whilst these what nature gave disown thro’ pride
Others affect what nature has denied;
What nature has denied fools will pursue,
As apes are ever walking upon two.
Crassus, a graceful cage, our awc and sport
Supports grave forms, for forms the sage support;
He ions—and cries, with an important air,
“If wonder clouds withdraw, it will be fair."
Then quotes the Stagyrite to prove it true;
And o “The learn'd delight in something
** new.” -
Is 't not enough the blockhead scarce can road,
But must he wisely look and gravely plead :
As far a formalist from wisdom sits,
In judging eyes, as libertimes from wits.
Nay, of true wisdom there too much may be,
The gen’rous mind delights in being free;
Your me, of parts an over-care despise;
Dull rogues have nought to do but to be wise.
Horace has said – and that decides the case—
'Tis sweet to trifle in a proper place.
Yet subtle wights (so bind are mortal men,
Tho' Satire conch them with her keenest pen),
For ever will hang out a solemn face.
To put off nonsense with a better grace;
As pedlars with some hero's head make bold,
Illustrious mark where pins are to be sold.
What's the bent brow, or neckinthought reclin'd?
The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot —
Solemnity's a cover for a sot,
I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For 'tis the wise man's int’rest to be seen.
Hence, Scarborough, that openness of heart,
And just disdain for that poor mimic art;
Hence (manly praise 1) that manner nobly free,
Which all admire, and I commend in thee.
With gen’rous scorn hov, of hast thousurvey'd,
Of court and town the noon-tide masquerade,
Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace,
And hide secure behind a naked face
Where nature's end of language is declin'd,
And then talk only to conceal the mind;
Where gen'rons hearts the greatest hazard run,
And he who trusts a brother is undone
My brother swore it, therefore it is true;
O strange induction, and at court quite new.
As well thou might'st aver, thou simple swain,
“'Tis just, and therefore I my cause shall gain."
With such odd maxims to thy flocks retreat,
Nor furnish mirth for ministèrs of state.
Some master spirit far beyond the throng
Refin'd in ill, more rightly bent on wrong,
With exquisite discernment play their game,
More nice of conduct, and more fair of fame.
The neatly injur'd thinks his thanks are due,
Robb'd of his right, and good opinion too:
False honor, pride's first-born, this clan controls,
Who wisely part with nothing but their souls.
Albertus hugs himself in ravish'd thought,
To find a peerage is so cheaply bought.
* Letters sent to the Author, signed Marcus.
These all their care expand on outward show For wealth and fame; for fine alone the beau. Qi late at White's was young Florello seen : How blank his look, how discompos'd his micn! So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign : Sunk were his spirits, for his coat was plain. Next day his breast regain’d its wonted peace, His health was mended with a silver lace, A curious artist long introl to toils Qigentier sort, with combs and fragrant oils, Whether by chance, or by sonse god inspir’d, So touch'd his curls, his inigiity soul was fir’d. The well-swoon ties an equal homage claim, And either shoulder has its share of fame : His sumptuous watch-case, tho' conceal’d it lies, Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies. He only thinks himself (so far from vain) Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine. Whene'er by seeining chance he throws his eye On mirrors flushing with his Tyrian dye, With how sublime a transport leaps his heart! But fate ordains the deavest friends must part. In active measures brought from France he wheels, And triumphs conscious of his learned heels. So have I'... on some bright summer's day, A calf of genius, debonair and gay, Dance on the bank, as if inspir’d by fame, Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream. Morose is sunk with shame whene'er surpris'd In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd. No sublunary chance his vestments fear, Valued, like leopards, as their spots appear. A fam'd surtout he wears which once was blue, And his foot swims in a capacious shoe. One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim :) Levell'd her barbarous needie at his fame. But open force was vain; by night she went, And when he slept o darling rent; Where yawn'd the frize is now become a doubt, And glory at one entrance quite shut out *. He scorns Florello, and Fiorello him ; This hates the filthy creature, that the print. Thus in each other both these fools despise Their own dear sclves, with undiscerning eyes; Their methods various, but alike their aim ; The sloven and the fopling are the same. Ye Whigs and Tories, fins it fares with you, When party-rage too warmly you pursue; Then both club nonsense and impetuous pride, And folly joins whom sentiments divide; You vent your spleen, as monkeys when they ass Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass, While both are one; and henceforth beit known, Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone. “But who art thou!" methinks Florello cries: “Of all thy species art thou only wise?” Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch, As crossing straws retard a passing witch, Forello, thou my monitor Shall be ; ! I conjure thus some profit out of thee.
O thou, myself: abroad our counsels roam, And, like all husbands, take no care at home. Come from thyself, and a by-stander be : With others' eyes thy own deportment see; And while their ails thou dost with pity view, Conceive, hard task, that thou art mortal too, Thou too art wounded with the common dart, And love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart: And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose? Know, Fame and Fortune both are made of prose. is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme, Thou unambitious fool, at this late time * This noon of life? The seasons mend their pace, And with a nimbler step the season's chace; While I a moment name, a moment's past; I'm nearer death in this verse than the last; What then is to be done? Bo wise with speed ; A fool at forty is a fool indeed. . And what so foolish as the chace of Fame? How vain the prize: how impotent our aim For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, But bubbles on the rapid stream of time, That rise and fall, and swell, and are no more, Born and forgot, ten thousand in an hour ! Should this verse live, O Lumley may it be A monument of gratitude to thee: | Whose early favor I must own with shame, So long my patron, and so late my theme.
S A T L R E III. To the Right Honorable Mr. Dodington.
Tanto major Famae sitis est, quam Virtutis— Juv. SAT. 10.
Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought
To case the burthen of my grateful thought:
And now a poet's gratitude you see—
Grant him two favors, 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 favor my attempts that way alone,
But more to raise my verse, conceal your own.
All ill-tim'd modesty Turn ages o'er,
When wanted Britain bright examples more ?
Her learning and her genius tco 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
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, is 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 labor, 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 critics' rage,
And with the fell destroyer feed my page.
For what ambitious fools are more to blame
Than those who plunder in the critic's name?
Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,
To see what wretches gain the praise i. miss.
Baibutius, mushed 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 sell,
The poem, doubtless, must be written well:
Another judges by the writer's look:
Another judges for he bought the book: [keep,
Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to
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.
None are at leisure others to reward :
They scarce will damn but out of self-regard.
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumph wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment |. state;
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
Iłurn,hiss,and bounce, waste paper, stink,and die.
Railon, my friends! what more my versecan crown
Than Compton's smile, andyourobliging frown?
Not all on books their criticism waste;
The genius of a dish some justly taste,
And cat their way to fame! with anxious thought
The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.
Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay,
And bids lecember 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,
Fecds 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 chose 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
To glory some advance a lying claim, [meat.
Thieves of renown, and piiserers of fame!
Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;
They know a ... lords behind their backs.
Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,
When turn'd away, with a familiar leer ;
And Hervey'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 evn;
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 memorandun to forget.
Thus vain, nor knowing what adorns or blots,
Men forge the patents ifiat create them sois.
As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.
But whence for praise can such an ardor 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 Saure blame them, for 'tis true
They must have ample cause for what they do.
O fruitful Pritain : doubtless thou wast meant
A nurse of fools to stock the Continent
Tho' Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,
Rank folly underneath the scythe will * :
The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,
Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;
A Welch 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 monkies 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
My lord has vapors, and my lady swears; [airs,
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 who at once pursue
Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too :
Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
And therefore lays a stratagem for same ;
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.
“Mystyle,” 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 in one suit wilt thy revenue wear,
And haunt the Court, without a prospect there.
Are these expedients for renown confess
Thy little self, that I may scorn the loss.
wise, Vincenna, and the Court forsake;
Our fortunes there nor thou nor I shall make.
Even men of merit, ere their point they gain,
In hardy service make a long campaign ;
Most manfully besiege the 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 Shire-lane.
Already this thy fortune can afford,
Then starve without the favor of my lord.
Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;
But often, even in doing right, they erro:
From caprice, not from choice, their favors
They give, but think it toil to know to whom :
The man that's nearest, yawning they advance;
Tis inhumanity to bless 3. chance.
If inerit 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 ev'ry charm and virtue she's possest.
Philander! thou art exquisitely blest,
The public envyl. Now then,"lis 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 unusic's sweet because 'tis dear;
Their vanity is tickled, not their ear;
Their tastes would lessen, if the prices sell,
And Shakspeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;
Awav the ... 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.
Olavish land for sound at such expence;
But then she saves it in her bills for sense.
Music I passionately love, ’tis plain,
Since for its sake such dramas I sustain.
An opera, like a pillory, may be said
To mail our ears down, but expose our head.
Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene:
The legislature join'd with Drury-lane.
When Britain calls, th’embroidered patriots run, And serve their country—if the dance is done; “Are we not then allow'd to be polite f" 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 even 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, Heideger, 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 ltoman, 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 an hundred maids!" That solemn rite of midnight masquerades! If maids the quite exhausted town denies, An hundred head of cuckolds must suffice. Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted To see the fifty churches at a stand. [land, And, that § 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 2 What wonder opens on th' expecting earth 2 'Tis done! with ". 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 offences And, since from life I take the draughts you see, . If men dislike them, do they censure me? Oh then, inv Muse! and .. and knaves expose; And,since thoucanst not make a friend, make foes. 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 ło, of the great. To merit, is but to provide a pain From men's refusing what you ought to gain. May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you, Whoin my presagiug thoughts already vicw,