The POET and the DUN. 1741.
Thefe are Meflengers
That feelingly perfuade me what I am.
Comes
Omes a dun in the morning and raps at my door-
"I made bold to call--'tis a twelvemonth and more-
I'm forry, believe me, to trouble you thus, Sir,—
But JOB wou'd be paid, Sir, had Joв been a mercer."
My friend have but patience-- "Ay thefe are your ways."
I have got but one fhilling to ferve me two days→→→
But Sir-prithee take it, and tell your attorney,
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my paffion,
And calmly confider-confider? vexation!
What whore that must paint, and must put on false locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox!
What beggar's wife's nephew,now ftarv'd,& nowbeaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten !
What porter, what turnfpit, can deem his cafe hard!
Or what dun boast of patience that thinks of a bard!
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poorer,
Turn fhoe-boy, or courtie., or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and refpect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun fome poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of courfe will grow better;
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.
"Dear Sir! I receiv'd your obliging epistle,
Your fame is fecure-bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you fent me;
And I muft fpeak your praifes, no foul fhall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cry'd out ev'ry line.
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide fucha genius was-far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir RICHARD, for much a lefs genius, was knighted.
Adieu, my good friend, and for high life prepare ye;
I cou'd fay much more, but you're modest, I spare ye."
Quite fir'd with the flatt'ry, I call for my paper,
And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper:
I fcribble 'till morn, when with wrath no small store,
Comes old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
"Ah! friend, 'tis but idle to make fuch a pother,
Fate, fate has ordain'd us, to plague one another."
Written at an Inn at HENLEY.
O thee, fair freedom! I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in manfions higher Than the low cott, or humble inn.
'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign;
And ev'ry health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champaigne ;
Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!
I fly from falfehood's fpecious grin!
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And chufe my lodgings at an inn.
Here, waiter! take my fordid ore,
Which lacqueys elfe might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in store;
It buys me freedom, at an inn.
Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May figh to think he still has found
The warmeft welcome, at an inn.
HAT village but has sometime seen
The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and fhagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclip'd a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
fee;
Receiv'd the curious form you
Who with her plastic tongue alone,
Produc'd a vifage-like her own.-
And thus they hint, in mystic fashion,
The pow'rful force of education *-
Perhaps yon crowd of fwains is viewing
E'en now, the strange exploits of Bruin;
Who plays his antics, roars aloud;
The wonder of a gaping crowd!
So have I known an aukward lad,
Whose birth has made a parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home;
Who gives him many a well-try'd rule,
With ways and means-to play the fool.
In sense the same, in ftature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and fwears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares
Of a fond matron's education.
His tenants of fuperior sense
Carouze, and laugh, at his expence ;
And deem the paftime I'm relating,
To be as pleasant, as bear-baiting,
The CHARMS of PRECEDence.
IR, will you please to walk before ?" No, pray Sir--you are next the door.-"Upon mine honour, I'll not ftir-" Sir, I'm at home, confider, Sir"Excufe me, Sir, I'll not go first”— Well, if I must be rude, I mustBut yet I wish I cou'd evade it'Tis ftrangely clownish, be perfuaded-Go forward, cits! go forward fquires ! Nor fcruple each, what each admires. Life squares not, friends, with your proceeding; It flies, while you display your breeding; Such breeding as one's granam preaches, Or fome old dancing-master teaches. O for fome rude tumultuous fellow, Half crazy, or, at least, half-mellow, To come behind you unawares, And fairly push you both down stairs! But death's at hand-let me advise ye, Go forward, friends! or he'll furprise ye.
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