Imágenes de página

To compass this, his building is a Town,
His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down:
Who but must laugh, the Master when he sees,
A puny insect, shiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground;
Two Cupids squirt before; a Lake behind
Improves the keenness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On ev'ry side you look, behold the Wall!
No pleasing Intricacies intervene,

No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff'ring eye inverted Nature sees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;

And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Un-watered see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen:

[ocr errors][merged small]

But soft, by regular approach,-not yet,

First thro' the length of yon hot Terrace sweat;


And when up ten steep slopes you 've dragg'd your thighs,

Just at his Study-door he 'll bless your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it stor❜d?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated Backs he turns you round:
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, some are Vellum, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton 't is in vain to look,


These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the Chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n.
On painted Ceilings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a Genial room?
No, 't is a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A solemn Sacrifice, perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each Act the trembling salvers ring,

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,

And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,

Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil Pride from Morn to Eve;

I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,

And swear no Day was ever past so ill.

Yet hence the Poor are cloth'd, the Hungry fed;

Health to himself, and to his Infants bread


The Lab'rer bears: What his hard Heart denies,

His charitable Vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden Ear

Embrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre,

Deep Harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the Soil? Who plants like BATHURST, or who builds like BOYLE. "T is Use alone that sanctifies Expense,

And Splendour borrows all her rays from Sense.

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The Dog-star rages! nay 't is past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the Church is free;
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;

Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp❜rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,




Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,

And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What Drop or Nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,


This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' 'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drury-lane,


Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it,
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.'
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: 'You know his Grace,

I want a Patron; ask him for a Place.'
"Pitholeon libell'd me,"-"but here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,
He'll write a Journal, or he 'll turn Divine.'
Bless me! a packet.—' 'T is a stranger sues,

A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse.'
If I dislike it, 'Furies, death and rage!'
If I approve, 'Commend it to the Stage.


There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends,
The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends,

Fir'd that the house reject him, ''Sdeath I 'll print it,
And shame the fools-Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot!'
"Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:"
'Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch.'
All my demurs but double his Attacks;
At last he whispers, 'Do; and we go snacks.'
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.
'T is sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,
(Midas, a sacred person and a king)

His very Minister who spy'd them first,

(Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,

When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in



A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things.
I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick;



'T is nothing— P. Nothing? If they bite and kick?
Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he 's an Ass:


The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature 's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,


« AnteriorContinuar »