Poor authors worshipping a calf;
Deep tragedies that make us laugh,
A ftrict diffenter faying grace,
A lect'rer preaching for a place;
Folks, things prophetick to difpenfe,
Making the past the future tense,
The popish dubbing of a priest,
Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd,
Green-apron'd Pythoniffa's rage,
Great Æfculapius on his ftage,
A mifer starving to be rich,
The prior of Newgate's dying fpeech,
A jointur'd widow's ritual state,
Two Jews difputing tête à tête,
New almanacks compos'd by feers,
Experiments on felons ears;
Disdainful prudes, who ceafelefs ply
The fuperb muscle of the eye;
A coquet's April-weather face,
A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace,
And fops in military show,
Are fov'reign for the cafe in view.
If Spleen-fogs rife at clofe of day,
I clear my ev'ning with a play,
Or to fome concert take my way.
The company, the shine of lights,
The scenes of humour, mufick's flights,
Adjust and set the foul to rights.
Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays,
To others' griefs attention raise :
Here, while the tragick fictions glow,
We borrow joy by pitying woe;
There gaily comick scenes delight,
And hold true mirrors to our fight.
Virtue in charming dress array'd,
Calling the paffions to her aid,
When moral scenes juft actions join,
Takes fhape, and fhews her face divine.
Mufick has charms, we all may find,
Ingratiate deeply with the mind.
When art does found's high pow'r advance,
To mufick's pipe the paffions dance;
Motions unwill'd its pow's have fhewn,
Tarantulated by a tune.
Many have held the foul to be
Nearly ally'd to harmony.
Her have I known indulging grief,
And fhunning company's relief,
Unveil her face, and looking round,
Own, by neglecting forrow's wound,
The confanguinity of found.
In rainy days keep double guard,
Or Spleen will furely be too hard ;
Which, like those fish by failors met,
Fly higheft, while their wings are wet.
In fuch dull weather, fo unfit
To enterprize a work of wit,
When clouds one yard of azure sky,
That's fit for fimile, deny,
I drefs my face with ftudious looks,
And shorten tedious hours with books.
But if dull fogs invade the head,
That mem'ry minds not what is read,
I fit in window dry as ark,
And on the drowning world remark:
Or to fome coffee-houfe I ftray
For news, the manna of a day,
And from the hipp'd difcourfes gather,
That politicks go by the weather:
Then feek good-humour'd tavern chums,
And play at cards, but for fmall fums;
Or with the merry fellows quaff,
And laugh aloud with them that laugh;
Or drink a joco-serious cup
With fouls who've took their freedom up,
And let my mind, beguil'd by talk,
In Epicurus' garden walk,
Who thought it heav'n to be ferene,
Pain hell; and purgatory spleen.
Sometimes I drefs, with women fit,
And chat away the gloomy fit;
Quit the stiff garb of serious sense,
And wear a gay impertinence,
Nor think, nor speak with any pains,
But lay on fancy's neck the reins;
Talk of unufual fwell of waist
In maid of honour loosely lac'd,
And beauty borr'wing Spanish red,
And loving pair with fep'rate bed,
And jewels pawn'd for lofs of game,
And then redeem'd by loss of fame ;
Of Kitty (aunt left in the lurch
By grave pretence to go to church)
Perceiv'd in hack with lover fine,
Like Will and Mary on the coin:
And thus in modish manner we,
In aid of fugar, fweeten tea.
Permit, ye fair, your idol form
Which e'en the coldest heart can warm, ·
May with its beauties grace my line,
While I bow down before its fhrine,
And your throng'd altars with my lays
Perfume, and get by giving praise.
With speech fo fweet, so sweet a mien
You excommunicate the Spleen,
Which, fiend-like, flies the magick ring
You form with found, when pleas'd to fing;
Whate'er you fay, howe'er you move,
We look, we liften, we approve.}
Your touch, which gives to feeling blifs,
Our nerves officious throng to kifs;
By Celia's pat, on their report,
The grave-air'd foul, inclin'd to fport,
Renounces wisdom's fullen pomp,
And loves the floral game, to romp.
But who can view the pointed rays,
That from black eyes fcintillant blaze?
Love on his throne of glory feems
Encompass'd with Satellite beams.
But when blue eyes, more fcftly bright,
Diffuse benignly humid light,
We gaze, and fee the fmiling loves,
And Cytherea's gentle doves,
And raptur'd fix in fuch a facé,
Love's mercy-feat, and throne of grace.
Shine but on age, you melt its fnow;
Again fires long-extinguish'd glow,
And, charm'd by witchery of eyes,
Blood long congealed liquifies:
True miracle, and fairly done
By heads which are ador'd while on.
But oh, what pity 'tis to find
Such beauties both of form and mind,
By modern breeding much debas'd,
In half the female world at leaft!
Hence I with care fuch lott'ries fhun,
Where, a prize mifs'd, I'm quite undone;
And han't, by vent'ring on a wife,
Yet run the greatest risk in life.
|