[There is some dispute for whom this character was intended. Dr Warton thought James Moore Smith was designed, but Mr Bowles inclines, with more apparent reason, to suppose that Philips was attacked under the title of Macer.]
WHEN Simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a poet's fortune in the town;
'Twas all th' ambition his great soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these, he ventur'd on the town,
And in a borrow'd play out-did poor Crown.
There he stopt short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little;
Like stunted hidebound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid: Awkward and supple each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a-day; Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree, And strangely lik'd for her simplicity:
He requested, by public advertisements, the aid of the inge. nious, to make up a Miscellany, in 1713.-H.
In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan.
Now nothing's left; but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.
SYLVIA, my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd,
Aw'd without sense, and without beauty charm'd:
But some odd graces and some flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad:
Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes,
More pert than witty, more a wit than wise:
Good-nature, she declar'd it, was her scorn,
Tho' 'twas by that alone she could be borne:
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:
Now coy, and studious in no point to fall,
Now all agog for Dy at a ball:
Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.
Men, some to bus'ness, some to pleasure take;
But ev'ry woman's in her soul a rake.
Frail, fev'rish sex; their fit now chills, now burns:
Atheism and superstition rule by turns;
And a mere heathen in the carnal part,
Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.*
* I have been informed, on good authority, that this character was designed for the then Duchess of Hamilton.-Dr WARTON. Swift describes this lady as handsome, airy and violent-tempered, with abundance of wit and spirit. See Vol. III. p. 118.
OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN
WITS, IN THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.
In vain you boast poetic names of yore,
And cite those Sapphoes we admire no more:
Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit;
But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ.
Of all examples by the world confest,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne,
Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
To write their praise you but in vain essay;
Ev'n while you write, you take that praise away:
Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.
A BISHOP by his neighbours hated
Has cause to wish himself translated;
But why should Hough desire translation,
Lov'd and esteemed by all the nation?
Yet, if it be the old man's case,
I'll lay my life I know the place:
'Tis where God sent some that adore him,
And whither Enoch went before him.
SENT ON HER BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 15TH.
O, BE thou blest with all that Heaven can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend!
Not with those toys the female race admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire;
*Not as the World its petty slaves rewards,
A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end;
Young without lovers, old without a friend;
A fop their passion, but their prize a sot;
Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot!
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face:
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy;
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come!
*The six following lines are thus varied in Pope's Works: With added years of life bring nothing new, But like a sieve let every blessing thro'; Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain, some sad reflection more: Is that a Birth-day? 'tis alas! too clear, "Tis but the funeral of the former year.
I SAID to my heart between sleeping and waking, Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation,
By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation?
Thus accus'd, the wild thing gave this sober reply: See the heart without motion, tho' Celia pass by! Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she borrows, Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows.
When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so refin'd,
I am forc'd to applaud with the rest of mankind;
Whatever she says, is with spirit and fire;
Ev'ry word I attend; but I only admire.
Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim,
Ever gazing on Heaven, tho' man is her aim:
'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes:
Those stars of this world are too good for the skies.
But Cloe so lively, so easy, so fair,
Her wit so genteel, without art, without care; When she comes in my way, the motion, the pain, The leapings, the achings, return all again.
* The Earl of Peterborow.-H.
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