Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

And has not Colly still his lord and whore? Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells
His butchers Henly? his free-masons Moore? Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
Does not one table Bavius still admit?

E'en such small critics some regard may claim, Still to one bishop Phillips seem a wit?

Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name
Still Sappho.-A. Hold; for God's sake-you'll offend, Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
No names---be calm-learn prudence of a friend : Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
I too ould write, and I am twice as tall ;

The things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But foes like these—P. One flatterer's worse than all. But wonder how the devil they got there.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

Were others angry? I excused them too;
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

Well might they rage : I gave them but their due. A fool quite angry is quite innocent :

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; Alas ! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. But each man's secret standard in his mind, One dedicates in high heroic prose,

That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :

This, who can gratify ? for who can guess ? One from all Grub street will my fame defend, The bard whom piller'd pastorals renown, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown; This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And others roar aloud Subscribe, subscribe! And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year:

There are, who to my person pay their court: He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short. Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, And he, who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Such Ovid's nose, and, 'Sir! you have an eye-' Means not, but blunders round about a meaning ; Go on, obliging creatures, make me see

And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, All that disgraced my betters met in me.

It is not poetry, but prose run mad: Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,

All these my modest satire bade translate, * Just so immortal Maro held his head;'

And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. And when I die, be sure you let me know

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe. Great Homer died three thousand years ago. And swear not Addison himself was safe.

Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown, Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires Dipp'd me in ink-my parents' or my own? True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

Bless'd with each talent and each art to please, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came ; And born to write, converse, and live with ease; I left no calling for this idle trade,

Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, No duty broke, no father disobey'd :

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, To help me through this long disease, my life; And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And teach the being you preserved to bear. And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ;

But why then publish ? Granville the polite, Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, Alike reserved to blame or to commend,
And Congreve loved, and Swift endured, my lays; A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged,
E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head, And so obliging that he ne'er obliged;
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before) Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
With open arms received one poet more.

And sit attentive to his own applause;
Happy my studies, when by these approved ! While wils and Templars every sentence raise,
Happier their author, when by these beloved ! And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
From these the world will judge of men and books, Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ?
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ?

Soft were my numbers : who could take offence What though my name stood rubric on the walls,
While pure description held the place of sense ? Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, Or smoking forth, a hundred hawker's load,
"A painted mistress, or a purling stream.'

On wings of winds came flying all abroad? Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;

I sought no homage from the race that write: I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still :

I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight : Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;

Poems I heeded (now be-rhymed so long) I never answerd; I was not in debt;

No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song If want provoked, or madness made them print, I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Did some more sober critic come abroad ? Nor like a puppy, daggled through the town,
If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kiss'd the rod : To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cried,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. With handkerchief and orange at my side:
Commas and points they set exactly right,

But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds; Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
From slashing Bently down to piddling Tibbalda : Sat full-blowo Bufo, puff'd by every quill ;

Fed with soft dedication all day long,

Who reads but with a lust to misapply, Horace and he went hand and hand in song. Makes satire a lampoon, and fiction lie: His library (where busts of poets dead,

A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, And a true Pindar stood without a head)

But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. Received of wits an undistinguish'd race,

Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place;

silk,
Much they extoll’d his pictures, much his seat, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?
And Matter'd every day, and some days eat; Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ?
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,

Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ?
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd,

This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings : And others (harder still) he paid in kind.

Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Dryden alone (what wonder ?) came not nigh; Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : Dryden alone escaped this judging eye:

So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
But still the great have kindness in reserve: In mumbling of the game they care not bite.
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve. Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,

May some choice patron bless each grey-goose quill! As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
May every Bavius have his Bufo still !

Whether in florid impotence he speaks, So when a statesman wants a day's defence, And as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks ; Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense, Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, Or simple pride for flattery makes demands, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands. In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, Bless'd be the great! for those they take away, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies : And those they left me for they left me Gay: His wit all see-saw, between that and this, Left me to see neglected genius bloom,

Now high, now low, now master up, now miss. Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:

And he himself one vile antithesis. Of all thy blameless life the sole return

Amphibious thing ! that, acting either part, My verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! The trifling head, or the corrupted heart;

Oh, let me live my own, and die so too! Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, (To live and die is all I have to do :)

Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,

Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have express'd, And see what friends, and read what books I please : A cherub's face, and reptile all the rest : Above a patron, though I condescend

Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Sometimes to call a' minister my friend.

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. I was not born for courts or great affairs :

Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool, I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers ; Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool, Can sleep without a poem in my head,

Not proud, nor servile: be one poet's praise, Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.

That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways; Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light ? That flattery, e'en to kings, he held a shame, Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write ? And thought a lie in verse or prose the same; Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)

That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long,
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save ?

But stoop'd to truth, and moralized his song;
I found him close with Swift' — Indeed! no doubt,' That not for fame, but virtue's better end,
Cries prating Balbus, 'something will come out.' He stood the furious fue, the timid friend,
"Tis all in vain, deny it as I will;

The damning critic, half-approving wit, "No, such a genius never can lie still :'

The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be bit: And then for mine obligingly mistakes

Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, The first lampoon sir Will or Bubo makes.

The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; Poor, guiltless I! and can I choose bat smile, The distant threats of vengeance on his head, When every coxcomb knows me by my style ? The blow unfelt, the lear he never shed;

Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it How, The tale revived, the lie so ofc o'erthrown, That tends to make one worthy man my fue, The imputed trash, and dulness not his own; Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,

The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape, Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear:

The libell'd person, and the pictured shape;
But he who hurts a harmless ncighbour's peace, Abuse, on all he loved, or loved him, spread,
Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress,

A friend in exile, or a father dead;
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about, The whisper, that, to greatness still too near,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;

Perhaps yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear-
That fup, whose pride affects a patron's name, Welcome for thee, fair virtue ! all the past :
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame; For thee, fair virtue! welcome e'en the last !
Who can your merit selfishly approve,

A. Bot why insult the poor, affront the great ? And show the sense of it without the love; P. A kaave's a knave to me, in every state; Who has the vanity to call you friend,

Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend;

Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail : Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, A hireling scribblor, or a hireling peer, And, if he lie not, must at least betray;

Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire ;
Who to the dean and silver bell can swear,

If on a pillory, or near a throne,
And sees at Canons what was never there; He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own.

[ocr errors]

Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,

nation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or Sappho can tell you how this man was bit;

folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Botha This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess

these authors were acceptable to the princes and mi. Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress!

nisters under whom they lived. The satires of Dr.

Donne I versified at the desire of the earl of Oxford, So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door,

while he was lord treasurer, and of the duke of Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for Moore:

Shrewsbury, who had been secretary of state; neither Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?

of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's lie any reflection on those they served in. And, indeed, To please a mistress one aspersed his life;

there is not in the world a greater error, than that He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife :

which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with Let Budgell charge low Grub street on his quill,

good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for And write whate'er he pleased, except his will;

a libeller; whereas 1o a true satirist nothing is so

odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse

truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite. His father, mother, body, soul, and muse.

Uni æquus virtuti atque ejus amicis. Yet why? that father held it for a rule, It was a sin to call our neighbour fool : That harmless mother thought no wife a whore : Whoever expects a paraphrase of Horace, or a Hear this and spare his family, James Moore ! faithful copy of his genius, or manner of writing, in Unspotted names, and memorable long,

these imitations, will be much disappointed. Our If there be force in virtue or in song.

author uses the Roman poet for little more than his Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, canvass: and if the old design or colouring chance While yet in Britain honour had applause) to suit bis purpose, it is weli; if not, he employs his Each parent sprung—A. What fortune, pray ? own, without scruple or ceremony. Hence it is, he

P. Their own,

is so frequently serious where Horace is in jest, and And better got than Bestia's from the throne. at ease where Horace is disturbed. In a word, he Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,

regulates his movements no further on his original, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife:

than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting Stranger to civil and religious rage,

their common plan of reformation of manners. The good man walk'd innoxious through his age : Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace: Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie.

with whom, as a poet, he held little in common, beUnlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, sides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, No language but the language of the heart.

and a certain curious felicity of expression, which By nature honest, by experience wise;

consists in using the simplest language with dignity, Healthy by temperance and by exercise ;

and the most ornamented with ease.

For the rest, His life, though long, to sickness pass'd unknown, his harmony and strength of numbers, his force and His death was instant, and without a groan. splendour of colouring, his gravity and sublimity of Ogrant me thus to live, and thus to die!

sentiment, would have rather led him to another moWho sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. del. Nor was his temper less unlike that of Horace, O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine !

than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Be no unpleasing melancholy mine;

Mr. Pope would treat with the grave severity of PerMe, let the tender office long engage,

sius; and what Mr. Pope would strike with the causTo rock the cradle of reposing age,

tic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content himWith lenient arts extend a mother's breath,

self in turning into ridicule. Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death ; If it be asked then, why he took any body at all to Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, imitate, he has informed us in his advertisement. To And keep awhile one parent from the sky !

which we may add, that this sort of imitations, which On cares like these if length of days attend, are of the nature of parodies, adds reflected grace and May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend ! splendour on original wit. Besides, he deemed it Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,

more modest to give the name of imitations to his saAnd just as rich as when he served a queen! tire, than, like Despreaux, to give the name of satires

A. Whether that blessing be denied or given, to imitations. Thus far was right; the rest belongs to Heaven.

OF

BOOK II.-SATIRE I. SATIRES AND EPISTLES

TO MR. FORTESCUE.

P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told) HORACE, IMITATED.

There are to whom my satire seems too bold;

Scarce to wise Peler complaisant enough,
ADVERTISEMENT.

And something said of Chartres much too rough.

The lines are weak, another's pleased to say: The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.

clamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe, than any I could have made in my own person: and I come to counsel learned in the law : the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a You 'll give me, like a friend, both sage and free, divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indig. Advice, and (as you use) without a fee.

F. I'd write no more.

Peace is my dear delight-Dot Fleury's more: P. Not write ? but then I think,

But touch me, and no minister so sore. And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.

Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time I nod in company, I wake at night,

Slides into verse, and hitehes in a rhyme,
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.

Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. And the sad burthen of some merry song.
Why, if the night seems tedious—take a wife : Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage ;
Or rather truly, if your point be rest,

Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page. Lettuce and cowslip wine; probatum est.

From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise

P-x'd by her love, or libell’d by her hate. Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels; Or, if you needs must write, write Cæsar's praise, Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; You 'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays. "Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; P. What, like sir Richard ! rumbling, rough, and And no man wonders he's not stung by pug. fierce

So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, With arms, and George and Brunswick crowd the They 'll never poison you, they 'll only cheat. verse;

Then, learned sir! (to cut the matter short)
Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court;
With gun, drpm, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder? Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray
Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force, Attends to gild the evening of my day,
Paint angels trembling round his fallen horse? Or Death's black wing already be display'd,

F. Then all your muse's softer art display; To wrap me in the universal shade ;
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay;

Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Lall with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,

Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write ; And sweetly flow through all the royal line. In durance, exile, Bedlamn, or the Mint,

P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear; Like Lee or Budgell, I will rhyme and print. They scarce can bear their laureat twice a year : F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long; And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays;

In flower of age you perish for a song!
It is to history he trusts for praise.

Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife,
F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, Will club their testers, now, to take your life!
Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille,

P. What! arm'd for Virtue when I point the pen, Abuse the city's best good men in metre,

Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men; And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car; E'en those you touch not, hate you.

Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star;
P. What should ail 'em ? Can there be wanting, to defend her cause,
F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam : Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws ?
The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Could pension'd Boileau lash in honest strain
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

Flatterers and bigots e'en in Louis' reign?
P. Each mortal has his pleasure : none deny Could laureat Dryden pimp and friar engage,
Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie;

Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage ?
Ridotta sips and dances, till she see

And I not strip the gilding off a knave, The doubling lustres dance as fast as she :

Unplaced, unpension'd, no man's heir or slave ? F- loves the senate, Hockleyhole his brother, I will, or perish in the generous cause : Like in all else, as one egg to another.

Hear this, and tremble! you who 'scape the laws. I love to pour out all myself, as plain

Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave
As downright Shippen, or as old Montagne : Shall walk the world in credit to his grave:
In them, as certain to be loved as seen,

To Virtue only and her friends a friend,
The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; The world beside may murmur or commend.
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, Know, all the distant din that world can keep,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear. Rolls o'er, my grotto, and but soothes my sleep.
In this impartial glass, my muse intends

There, my retreat the best companions grace, Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place. Publish the present age; but where my text There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl Is vice too high, reserve it for the next :

The feast of reason and the flow of soul : My foes shall wish my life a longer date,

And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines, And every friend the less lament my fate.

Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines; My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Verseman or Proseman, term me which you will, Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain. Papist or Protestant, or both between,

Envy must own, I live among the great Like good Erasmus in an honest mean,

No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state: In moderation placing all my glory,

With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats; While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats;

Satire 's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To help who want, to forward who excel; To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;

This, all who know me, know, who love me, tell; I only wear it in a land of Hectors,

And who unknown defame me, let them be Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors. Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me. Save but our army! and let Jove incrust

This is my plea, on this I rest my causeSwords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust! What saith my counsel, learned in the laws ?

[ocr errors]

F. Your plea is good ; but still I say, beware! Between excess and famine lies a mean;
Laws are explain'd by men-so have a care. Plain, but not sordid; though not splendid, clean.
It stands on record, that in Richard's times

Avidien, or his wife, (no matter which,
A man was hang'd for very honest rhymes ; For him you 'll call a dog, and her a bitch,)
Consult the statute, quart. I think, it is,

Sell their presented partridges and fruits,
Edwardi sext, or prim. et quint. Eliz.

And humbly live on rabbits and on roots :
See libels, satires-here you have it-read. One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine;

P. Libels and satires ! lawless things indeed! And is at once their vinegar and wine.
But grave epistles, bringing vice to light,

But on some lucky day (as when they found Such as a king might read, a bishop write,

A lost bank bill, or heard their son was drown'd,) Such as sir Robert would approve

At such a feast, old vinegar to spare,

F. Indeed! Is what two souls so generous cannot bear : The case is alter'd-you may then proceed; Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart, In such a case the plaintiff will be hissid,

But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart. My lords the judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd. He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,

And neither leans on this side nor on that;
Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay,
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;

Nor lets, like Nævius, every error pass,
BOOK II.-SATIRE II.

The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass.

Now hear what blessings temperance can bring: TO MR. BETHEL

(Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing :) What, and how great, the virtue and the art First health: the stomach (cramm'd from every dish, Ô T2 To live on little with a cheerful heart!

A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish, (A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine ;)

Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine. And all the man is one intestine war,) Den Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride

Remembers oft the schoolboy's simple fare, - Turns you from sound philosophy aside :

The temperate sleeps, and spirits light as air. Té Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll, How pale each worshipful and reverend guest

And the brain dances to the mantling bowl. Rise from a clergy or a city feast !

Hear Bethel's sermon, one not versed in schools, What life in all that ample body ? say,
JE But strong in sense, and wise without the rules. What heavenly particle inspires the clay?

'Go work, hunt, exercise,' he thus began, The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines • Then scorn a homely din if you can.

To seem but mortal e'en in sound divines. Your wine lock'd up, your butler strollid abroad, On morning wings how active springs the mind, the Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw'd,)

That leaves the load of yesterday behind !
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, How easy every labour it pursues !
The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.' How coming to the poet every Muse!

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Not but we may exceed, some holy time,
Will choose a pheasant still before a hen : Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme ; -
Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,

III health some just indulgence may engage; Except you eat the feathers green and gold. And more the sickness of long life, old age : Of carps and mallets why prefer the great

For fainting age what cordial drop remains, Setel (Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat,) If our intemperate youth the vessel drains ? Yet for small turbots such esteem profess?

Our fathers praised rank venison. You suppose, Because God made these large, the other less. Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose. Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endued, Not so: a buck was then a week's repast, Cries, 'Send me, gods! a whole hog barbecued !' And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last : O blast it, south-winds! till a stench exhale More pleased to keep it till their friends could come, Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail.

Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home. By what criterion do you eat, d'ye think,

Why had not I in those good times my birth, If this is prized for sweetness, that for stink? Ere coxcomb-pies or coxcombs were on earth ? When the tired glutton labours through a treat, Unyorthy he the voice of fame to hear, He finds no relish in the sweetest meat;

That sweetest music to an honest ear, He calls for something bitter, something sour, (For 'faith, lord Fanny ! you are in the wrong, And the rich feast concludes extremely poor : The world's good word is better than a song;) Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives, still we see; Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-pie Thas much is left of old simplicity!

Are no rewards for want and infamy! The robin-red-breast till of late had rest,

When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf, And children sacred held a martin's nest,

Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself; Till beccaficos sold so devilish dear,

To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, To one that was, or would have been, a peer. Think how posterity will treat thy name; Let me extol a cat on oysters fed,

And buy a rope, that future times may tell I'll have a party at the Bedford head;

Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well. Or e'en to crack live crawfish recommend,

* Right,' cries his lordship, ‘for a rogue in need I'd never doubt at court to make a friend.

To have a taste, is insolence indeed :
'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother In-me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state
About one vice, and fall into the other:

My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great.'
R

[ocr errors]
« ZurückWeiter »