« PreviousContinue »
Lucullus, when frugality could charm,
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.
If folly grow romantic, I must paint it. In vain the observer eyes the builder's toil,
Come then, the colours and the ground prepare ! But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile. Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air ;
In this one passion man can strength enjoy, Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it As fits give vigour, just when they destroy. Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, Rufa, whose eye, quick glancing o'er the Park, Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand. Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark, Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke, Here honest Nature ends as she begins.
As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock; Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task, And totter on in business to the last;
With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask :
So morning insects, that in muck begun,
How soft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail-one's advocate, the weak-one's friend. Shov'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely press'd To her Calista prov'd her conduct nice, By his own son, that passes hy unbless'd :
And good Simplicius asks of her advice. Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, Sudden, she storms ! she raves! You tip the wink, And envies every sparrow that he sees.
But spare your censure; Silia does not drink. A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
All eyes may see from what the change arose, The doctor call’d, declares all help too late : All eyes may seema pimple on her nose. “ Mercy !" cries Helluo, “mercy on my soul ! Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark, Is there no hope ?- Alas !—then bring the jowl.” Sighs for the shades" How charming is a park !"
The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, A park is purchas’d, but the fair he sees Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end, All bath'd in tears—" Oh odious, odious trees!" Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
Ladies, like variegated tulips, show, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. 'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;
“Odious! in woollen ! 'twould a saint provoke," Fine by defect, and delicately weak, (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke,) Their happy spots the nice admirer take. “ No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace, 'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarmid, Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm’d; One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead— Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes, And – Betty-give this cheek a little red.' Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise ;
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, An humble servant to all human-kind, (stir, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad; Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, . “ If—where I'm going—I could serve you, sir !" As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate. “I give and I devise” (old Euclio said,
Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, And sigh'd) “my lands and tenements to Ned." To make a wash, would hardly stew a child ; Your money, sir? -"My money, sir, what all ? Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer, Why, if I must”-(then wept) “ I give it Paul.' And paid a tradesman once to make him stare; The manor, sir ?—“The manor ! hold,” he cry'd. Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim, “ Not that I cannot part with that,” – and dy'd. And made a widow happy, for a whim.
And you ! brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Why then declare good-nature is her scorn, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death : When 'tis by that alone she can be borne ? Such in those moments as in all the past,
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name? “Oh, save my country, Heaven !" shall be your last. A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame:
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
| Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres; To a Ladr.
Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns;
And atheism and religion take their turns;
A very heathen in the carnal part,
See Sin in state, majestically drunk,
Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk ;
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, “ Most women have no characters at all."
A teeming mistress, but a barren bride, Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
What then ? let blood and body bear the fault, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair. Her head's untouch'd, that noble seat of thought;
How many pictures of one nymph we view, Such this day's doctrine — in another fit All how unlike each other, all how true!
She sins with poets through pure love of wit. Arcadia's countess, here, in ermin’d pride,
What has not fir'd her bosom or her brain ? Is there, Pastora by a fountain side.
Cæsar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlemagne. Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, As Helluo, late dictator of the feast, And there, a naked Leda with a swan.
The nose of Haut-gout, and the tip of Taste, Let then the fair-one beautifully cry,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analys'd your meat, In Magdalene's loose hair, and lifted eye,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat : Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,
So Philomede, lecturing all mankind With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine ; On the soft passion, and the taste retind,
Th’address, the delicacy - stoops at once, Some wandering touches, some reflected light, And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce. Some flying stroke alone can hit them right: Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray;
For how should equal colours do the knack ? To toast our wants and wishes, is her way;
Cameleons who can paint in white and black ? Nor asks of God, but of her stars, to give
“ Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot.' The mighty blessing," while we live, to live." Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot. Then all for death, that opiate of the soul ! “ With every pleasing, every prudent part, Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl.
Say, what can Chloe want?" She wants a heart. Say, what can cause such impotence of mind ? She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind?
But never, never reach'd one generous thought, Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please; Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease;
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate, And when she sees her friend in deep despair, No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate.
Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, Forbid it, Heaven, a favour or a debt Because she's honest, and the best of friends. She e'er should cance! -- but she may forget. Or her, whose life the church and scandal share, Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear; For ever in a passion, or a prayer.
But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear. Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her grace)
Of all her dears she never slander'd one, Cries, “Ah! how charming, if there's no such But cares not if a thousand are undone. place!”
Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead ? Or who in sweet vicissitude appears
She bids her footman put it in her head. Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears,
Chloe is prudent -- Would you too be wise ? The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. To kill those foes to fair-ones, time and thought. One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen, Woman and fool are two hard things to hit;
Which Heaven has varnish'd out, and made a queen : For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. The same for ever! and describ'd by all
But what are these to great Atossa's mind ? With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball. Scarce once herself, by turns all woman-kind! Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, Who, with herself, or others, from her birth And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill. Finds all her life one warfare upon Earth : 'Tis well — but, artists! who can paint or write, Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools, To draw the naked is your true delight. Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules.
That robe of quality so struts and swells, No thought advances, but her eddy brain
None see what parts of Nature it conceals : Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Th’exactest traits of body or of mind, Full sixty years the world has been her trade, We owe to models of an humble kind. The wisest fool much time has ever made.
If Queensberry to strip there's no compelling, From loveless youth to unrespected age
'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen. No passion gratify’d, except her rage,
From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing So much the fury still outran the wit,
To draw the man who loves his God, or king : The pleasure mist her, and the scandal hit. Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail) Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from From honest Mah’met, or plain parson Hale. Hell,
But grant, in public, men sometimes are shown, But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
A woman's seen in private life alone : Her every turn with violence pursued,
Our bolder talents in full life display'd ; Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude: Your virtues open fairest in the shade. To that each passion turns, or soon or late ; Bred to disguise, in public ’tis you hide ; Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate : There, none distinguish 'twixt your shame or pride. Superiors ? Jeath! and equals ? what a curse ! Weakness or delicacy; all so nice, But an inferior not dependant ? worse.
That each may seem a virtue, or a vice. Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
In men, we various ruling passions find; (oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live : In women, two almost divide the kind : But die, and she'll adore you — Then the bust Those, only fix’d, they first or last obey, And temple rise — then fall again to dust. The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. Last night, her lord was all that's good and great; That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught Aknave this morning, and his will a cheat. Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault ? Strange! by the means defeated of the ends, Experience, this; by man's oppression curst, By spirit robb’d of power, by warmth of friends, They seek the second not to lose the first. By wealth of followers! without one distress Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; Sick of herself, through very selfishness !
But every woman is at heart a rake:
Men, some to quiet, some to public strife;
eens! Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor.
Power all their end. Pictures, like these, dear madam, to design, In youth they con Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line ;
As leaves them se
For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;
To ALLEN, LORD BATHURST.
ON THE USE OF BICHES.
the extremes, avarice or profusion. The point At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,
discussed, whether the invention of money has It grows their age's prudence to pretend;
been more commodious or pernicious to mankind. Asham'd to own they gave delight before,
That riches, either to the avaricious or the pro Reduc'd to feign it, when they give no more. digal, cannot afford happiness, scarcely neces As hags hold sabbaths, less for joy than spite,
saries. That avarice is an absolute frenzy, So these their merry, miserable night;
without an end or purpose. Conjectures about Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide, the motives of avaricious men. That the conAnd liaunt the places where their honour dy'd. duct of men, with respect to riches, can only be See how the world its veterans rewards!
accounted for by the order of Providence, which A youth of frolics, an old-age of cards :
works the general good out of extremes, and Fair to no purpose, artful to no end;
brings all to its great end by perpetual revolutions. Young without lovers, old without a friend; How a miser acts upon principles which appear A fop their passion, but their prize a sot ;
to him reasonable. How a prodigal does the Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot!
The due medium, and true use of riches. Ah! friend! to dazzle let the vain design ; The Man of Ross. The fate of the profuse and To raise the thought, and touch the heart, be thine ! the covetous, in two examples; both miserable in That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring, life and in death. The story of Sir Balaam. Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing : So when the Sun's broad beam has tir'd the sight, P. Who shall decide when doctors disagree, All mild ascends the Moon's more sober light, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? Serene in virgin modesty she shines,
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given, And unobserv'd the glaring orb declines.
That man was made the standing jest of Heaven; Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day :
For some to heap, and some to throw away. She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear
But I, who think more highly of our kind, Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear ; (And, surely, Heaven and I are of a mind,) She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound, Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ; Deep hid the shining mischief under ground: Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, But when, by man's audacious labour won, Yet has her humour most, when she obeys; Flam'd forth this rival too, its sire, the Sun, Let fops or Fortune fly which way they will, Then careful Heaven supply'd two sorts of men, Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille;
To squander these, and those to hide again. Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all, Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past, And mistress of herself, though china fall. We find our tenets just the same at last.
And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, Both fairly owning, riches, in effect, Woman's at best a contradiction still.
No grace of Heaven, or token of th' elect; Heaven when it strives to polish all it can
Given to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil,
P. But how unequal it bestows, observe ;
Useful, I grant, it serves what life requires,
But dreadful too, the dark assassin hires. Be this a woman's fame! with this unblest,
B. Trade it may help, society extend : Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest. P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend This Phæbus promis'd (I forget the year)
B. It raises armies in a nation's aid : When those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere; P. But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd Ascendant Phæbus watch'd that hour with care, In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave, Averted half your parents' simple prayer ; If secret gold sap on from knave to knave. And gave you beauty, but deny'd the pelf Once we confess, beneath the patriot's cloak, That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself.
From the crack'd bag the dropping Guinca spoke. The generous god, who wit and gold refines, And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew, And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,
“ Old Cato is as great a rogue as you." Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it, Blest Paper-credit! last and best supply! To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet. That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly!
Gold, imp'd by thee, can compass hardest things, But the good bishop, with a meeker air,
Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf,
Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: A leaf, like Sibyl's, scatter to and fro
Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides Our fates and fortunes, as the wind shall blow : The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides. Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen, B. Who suffer thus, mere charity should own, And silent sells a king, or buys a queen.
Must act on motives powerful, though unknown. Oh! that such bulky bribes as all might see, P. Some war, some plague, or famine, they foresee, Suill, as of old, encumber'd villany!
Some revelation hid from you and me. Could France or Rome divert our brave designs, Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found ; With all their brandies, or with all their wines ? He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound. What could they more than knights and 'squires What made directors cheat in South-Sea year? confound,
To live on venison when it sold so dear. Or water all the quorum ten miles round? Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys? A statesman's slumbers how this speech would Phryne foresees a general excise. spoil!
Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum ? Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil; Alas! they fear a man will cost a plum. Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door ; Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, A hundred oxen at your levee roar.
And therefore hopes this nation may be sold : Poor Avarice one torment more would find ; Glorious ambition ! Peter, swell thy store, Nor could Profusion squander all in kind.
And be what Rome's great Didius was before Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet : The crown of Poland, venal twice an age, And Worldly crying coals from street to street, To just three millions stinted modest Gage. Vhom, with a wig so wild, and mien so maz'd, But nobler scenes Maria's dreams unfold, Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman craz’d. Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold. Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and Congenial souls ; whose life one avarice joins, hogs,
And one fate buries in th' Asturian mines. Could he himself have sent it to the dogs ?
Much-injur'd Blunt! why bears he Britain's hate ? His grace will game: to White's a bull be led, A wizard told him in these words our fate : With spurning heels and with a butting head. “ At length Corruption, like a general flood, To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games, (So long by watchful ministers withstood,) Fair coursers, vases, and alluring dames.
Shall deluge all; and Avarice, creeping on, Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,
Spread like a low-horn mist, and blot the sun; Bear home six whores, and make his lady weep? Statesman and patriot ply alike the stocks, Or soft Adonis, so perfum'd and fine,
Peeress and butler share alike the box; Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine ? And judges job, and bishops bite the town, Ob filthy check on all industrious skill,
And mighty dukes pack cards for half a crown. To spoil the nation's last great trade, quadrille ! See Britain sunk in Lucre's sordid charms, Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall, And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's What say you? B. Say? Why take it, gold and
'Twas no court-badge, great scrivener, fir'd thy brain, P. What riches give us, let us then inquire ? Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain : Meat, fire, and clothes. B. What more? P. Meat, | No, 'twas thy righteous end, asham'd to see clothes, and fire.
Senates degenerate, patriots disagree,
“ All this is madness,” cries a sober sage:
Than even that passion, if it has no aim ;
For though such motives folly you may call, With all th' embroidery, plaster'd at thy tail ? The folly's greater to have none at all. They might (were Harpax not too wise to spend) Hear then the truth: “'Tis Heaven each passion Give Harpax self the blessing of a friend ;
sends, Or find some doctor that would save the life And different men directs to different ends. pf wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's wife; Extremes in Nature equal good produce, But thousands die, without or this or that,
Extremes in man concur to general use. Die, and endow a college, or a cat.
Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow? To some, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate, That Power who bids the ocean ebb and flow, L' enrich a bastard, or a son they late.
Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain, Perhaps you think the poor might have their part; Through reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain, Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his Builds life on death, on change duration founds, heart:
And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds, The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule
Riches, like insects, when conceal’d they lie, That every man in want is knave or fool :
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. “ God cannot love" (says Blunt, with tearless eyes) Who sees pale Mammop pine amidst his store, " The wretch he starves" — and piously denics : Sees but a backward steward for the poor ;
This year, a reservoir, to keep and spare ; Whose table, Wit, or modest Merit share,
Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth, Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth :
And angels guard him in the golden mean! What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot) There, English Bounty yet a while may stand, His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot ? And Honour linger ere it leaves the land. His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd, But all our praises why should lords engross? With soups unbought and sallads bless'd his board ? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Max of Ross : If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds. Than Bramins, saints, and sages did before : And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. To cram the rich, was prodigal expense,
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry And who would take the poor from Providence ?
brow? Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old Hall, From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
Not to the skies in useless columns tost, No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound, Or in proud falls magnificently lost ; No noontide bell invites the country round: But clear and artless pouring through the plain Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. And turn th' unwilling steeds another way: Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? Curs d the sav'd candle, and unopening door ; Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate, “ The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies Afrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! Not so his son : he mark'd this oversight, The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, (For what to shun, will no great knowledge need; Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate; But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest, Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
The young who labour, and the old who rest. More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise.
Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves, What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives Fill the capacious 'squire, and deep divine ! Is there a variance ? enter but his door, Yet no mean motives this profusion draws,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, T enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Will never mark the marble with his name :
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Enough, that Virtue tillid the space between;
Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. With splendour, charity ; with plenty, health ; When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend Oh teach us, Bathurst ! yet unspoil'd by wealth! The wretch, who living sav'd a candle's end; That secret rare, between th' extremes to move Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands, Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love. Belies his features, nay extends his hands; B. To worth or want well-weigh’d, be bounty That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own, given,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven; Bebold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race) And see, what comfort it affords our end. Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffusd; The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, As poison heals, in just proportion us'd :
On once a fock-bed, but repair'd with straw, In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, But well dispers’d, is incense to the skies.
The George and Garter dangling from that bed P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats ? Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that Great Villers lies — alas, how chang'd from him, cheats.
That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon?
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and Love ;