« EelmineJätka »
Is 't not enough the blockhead scarce can read,
But must he wisely look, and gravely plead?
As far a formalist from wisdom sits,
In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.
These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
Though Satire couch them with her keenest pen)
For ever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better grace:
As pedlars with some hero's head make bold,
Illustrious mark! where pins are to be sold.
What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd?
The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain;
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot,
Solemnity's a cover for a sot.
I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For 'tis the wise man's interest to be seen.
Hence, Chesterfield, that openness of heart,
And just disdain for that poor mimic art;
Hence (manly praise!) that manner nobly free,
Which all admire, and I commend, in thee.
With generous scorn how oft hast thou survey'd
Of court and town the noontide masquerade;
Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace,
And hide secure behind a naked face!
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd,
And men talk only to conceal the mind:
Where generous hearts the greatest hazard run,
And he who trusts a brother, is undone !
These all their care expend on outward show
For wealth and fame: for fame alone, the beau.
Of late at White's was young Florello seen!
How blank his look! how discompos'd his mien!
So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign!
Sunk were his spirits; for his coat was plain.
Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace;
His health was mended with a silver lace.
A curious artist, long inured to toils
Of gentler sort, with combs, and fragrant oils,
Whether by chance or by some god inspir'd,
So touch'd his curls, his mighty soul was fir'd.
The well-swo!n ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame;
His sumptuous watch-case, though conceal'd it lies,
Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.
He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)
Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.
Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye
On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,
With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!
But Fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
In active measures, brought from France, he wheels,
And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels.
So have I seen, on some bright summer's day,
A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,
Dance on the bank, as if inspir'd by fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.
Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surpris'd In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd.
No sublunary chance his vestments fear;
Valued, like leopards, as their spots appear.
A fam'd surtout he wears, which once was blue,
And his foot swims in a capacious shoe;
One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim?)
Level'd her barbarous needle at his fame:
But open force was vain; by night she went,
And, while he slept, surpris'd the darling rent:
Where yawn'd the frieze is now become a doubt,
"And glory, at one entrance, quite shut out."*
He scorns Florello, and Florello him;
This hates the filthy creature; that, the prim:
Thus, in each other, both these fools despise
Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes;
Their methods various, but alike their aim;
The sloven and the fopling are the same.
Ye Whigs and Tories! thus it fares with you,
When party-rage too warmly you pursue;
Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride,
And folly joins whom sentiments divide.
You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pass
Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass;
While both are one: and henceforth be it known,
Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone.
But who art thou?" methinks Florello cries; "Of all thy species art thou only wise?" Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch, As crossing straws retard a passing witch, Florello, thou my monitor shalt be; I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee. O THOU myself! abroad our counsels roam, And, like ill husbands, take no care at home. Thou too art wounded with the common dart, And Love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart; And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose? Know, fame and fortune both are made of prose. Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme, Thou unambitious fool, at this late time? While I a moment name, a moment's past; I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last: What then is to be done? Be wise with speed; A fool at forty is a fool indeed.
And what so foolish as the chase of fame ? How vain the prize! how impotent our aim! For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, But bubbles on the rapid stream of time, That rise, and fall, that swell, and are no more, Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?
TO THE RIGHT HON. MR. DODINGTON.
LONG, Dodington, in debt I long have sought
To ease the burthen of my grateful thought;
And now a poet's gratitude you see;
Grant him two favors, and he'll ask for three:
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain.
You love and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend
You read with all the malice of a friend;
Nor favor my attempts that way alone,
But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.
An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,
When wanted Britain bright examples more?
Her learning, and her genius too, decays;
And dark and cold are her declining days;
As if men now were of another cast,
They meanly live on alms of ages past.
Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,
Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;
Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;
Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,
And damn it with improvements of their own.
We bring some new materials, and what's old
New-cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;
Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;
And from sour critics vindicate the Muse.
Your work is long," the critics cry. "Tis true, And lengthens still, to take in fools like you: Shorten my labor, if its length you blame; For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game; As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue, Renounce their four legs, and start up on two. Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile, That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile, Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critic's rage, And with the fell destroyer feed my page. For what ambitious fools are more to blame, Than those who thunder in the critic's name? Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this, To see what wretches gain the praise they miss. Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak, Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,
Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!" Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach, Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach. One judges as the weather dictates; right The poem is at noon, and wrong at night: Another judges by a surer gauge, An author's principles, or parentage ; Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell, The poem doubtless must be written well. Another judges by the writer's look; Another judges, for he bought the book;
In those choice books their panegyrics read,
And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.
If man by feeding well commences great,
Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.
To glory some advance a lying claim,
Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame :
Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;
They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.
Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,
When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;
And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen,
Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen
Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone
To covet shame still greater than his own.
Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,
Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.
Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,
Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;
Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,
And takes a memorandum to forget.
Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots,
Men forge the patents that create them sots.
As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
So most grow infamous through love of praise.
But whence for praise can such an ardor rise,
When those, who bring that incense, we despise ?
For such the vanity of great and small,
Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.
Nor can e'en Satire blame them; for 'tis true,
They have most ample cause for what they do.
O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant
A nurse of fools, to stock the continent.
Though Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,
Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.
The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,
Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;
A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn,
Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.
When cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,
In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.
See Tityrus, with merriment possest,
Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest:
What need he stay? for, when the joke is o'er,
His teeth will be no whiter than before.
Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep; Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,
Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.
Thus all will judge, and with one single aim, To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame. The very best ambitiously advise, Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise. Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Proclaim the glory, and augment the state; Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die. Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown? Not all on books their criticism waste: The genius of a dish some justly taste, And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought. Impatient art rebukes the Sun's delay, And bids December yield the fruits of May; Their various cares in one great point combine, The business of their lives, that is-to dine. Half of their precious day they give the feast ; And to a kind digestion spare the rest. Apicius, here, the taster of the town, Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.
These worthies of the palate guard with care The sacred annals of their bills of fare;
That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?
Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;
Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire:
Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;
And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.
Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs
My lord has vapors, and my lady swears;
Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,
My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.
To show the strength, and infamy of pride,
By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.
What numbers are there, which at once pursue
Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!
Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;
Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,
To win applause; and takes it by surprise.
To err," says he, "in small things is my fate." You know your answer, "He's exact in great." "My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults." But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!" That he wants algebra, he must confess;
Ah! That's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries; But who in heat of blood was ever wise?
I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back, Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,
To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd, attack;
All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny;
Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."
Could this deceive in others, to be free,
It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;
Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,
So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.
Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;
And haunt the court, without a prospect there.
Are these expedients for renown? Confess
Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.
Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;
Our fortune there, nor thou nor I shall make.
Even men of merit, ere their point they gain,
In hardy service make a long campaign;
Most manfully besiege the patron's gate,
And, oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great
With painful art, and application warm,
And take, at last, some little place by storm;
Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,
And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-lane.
Already this thy fortune can afford;
Then starve without the favor of my lord.
"Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;
But often, even in doing right, they err:
From caprice, not from choice, their favors come;
They give, but think it toil to know to whom :
The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance :
"Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.
If merit sues, and greatness is so loth
To break its downy trance, I pity both.
I grant at court, Philander, at his need,
(Thanks to his lovely wife,) finds friends indeed.
Of every charm and virtue she's possest:
Philander! thou art exquisitely blest;
The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd,
The man is found, who may be justly proud:
But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!
Ambition feeds on trash, and lothes a feast;
For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,
In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.
Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy;
And love a market where the rates run high:
Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear;
Their vanity is tickled, not their ear:
Their tastes would lessen, if the prices fell,
And Shakspeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;
Away the disenchanted fair would throng,
And own, that English is their mother tongue.
To show how much our northern tastes refine,
Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine;
While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay;
For generous lords had rather give than pay.
Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!
The legislature join'd with Drury-lane!
When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run,
And serve their country-if the dance is done.
"Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"
Yes, doubtless! but first set your notions right.
Worth, of politeness is the needful ground;
Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.
Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel;
"Tis solid bodies only polish well.
Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days,
To turn a willing world from righteous ways!
Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve;
Well has he seen his servant should not starve.
Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd;
In various forms of worship seen him prais'd,
And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.
Inferior offerings to thy god of vice
Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;
Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids!
That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!
If maids the quite exhausted town denies,
An hundred head of cuckolds may suffice.
Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land,
To see the fifty churches at a stand.
And that thy minister may never fail,
But what thy hand has planted still prevail,
Of minor prophets a succession sure
The propagation of thy zeal secure.
See commons, peers, and ministers of state,
In solemn council met, and deep debate!
What godlike enterprise is taking birth?
What wonder opens on th' expecting Earth?
"Tis done! with loud applause the council rings!
Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings!
Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths
Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please:
Let others flatter to be flatter'd; thou,
Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.
How terrible it were to common-sense,
To write a satire, which gave none offence!
And, since from life I take the draughts you see,
If men dislike them, do they censure me?
The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend,
And godlike an attempt the world to mend ;
The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,
Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.
How hard for real worth to gain its price!
A man shall make his fortune in a trice,
If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense,
Feign'd modesty, and real impudence :
A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace,
A curse within, a smile upon his face:
A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,
Are prizes in the lottery of life;
Genius and virtue they will soon defeat,
And lodge you in the bosom of the great.
To merit, is but to provide a pain
For men's refusing what you ought to gain.
May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you.
Whom my presaging thoughts already view
By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd,
Still higher in your prince's favor plac'd;
And lending, here, those awful councils aid,
Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd!
Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR SPENCER COMPTON.
ROUND some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows,
And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs:
So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be,
(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee;
Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,
Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;
Deep to discern, and widely to survey,
And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh;
Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,
The crown's asserter, and the people's friend ·
Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,
To listen to the labors of the Muse;
Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,
And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.
Vex'd at a public fame, so justly won,
The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone;
Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,
Devotes his service to the state and crown:
All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves,
Though Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves:
But patriots differ; some may shed their blood,
He drinks his coffee, for the public good;
Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees
What storms, or sun-shine, Providence decrees;
Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate;
A quidnunc is an almanac of state.
Most charitably lends the town his face,
For ornament, in every public place;
As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,
And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:
When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,
And, join'd to two, he fails not-to make three:
Narcissus is the glory of his race;
For who does nothing with a better grace?
To deck my list, by Nature were design'd Such shining expletives of human-kind,
Who want, while through blank life they dream along,
Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.
To counterpoise this hero of the mode,
Some for renown are singular and odd:
What other men dislike, is sure to please,
You smile, and think this statesman void of use; Of all mankind, these dear antipodes ;
Why may not time his secret worth produce?
Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut ;
Since steeds of genius are expert at put;
Since half the Senate "Not content" can say,
Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.
What makes him model realms, and counsel
Through pride, not malice, they run counter still
And birth-days are their days of dressing ill.
Arbuthnot is a fool, and F-a sage,
S-ly will fright you, E▬▬ engage;
An incapacity for smaller things:
Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,
And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.
Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,
And boldly claims a province higher still:
To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,
At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot;
Deep in the secret, he looks through the whole,
And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;
To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,
Nor shock his tender reason with the Creed;
Howe'er, well-bred, in public he complies,
Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.
Peerage is poison, good estates are bad
For this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.
Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief,
And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?
While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous
But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse.
Such useful instruments the weather show,
Just as their mercury is high or low:
Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark;
A fever argues better than a Clarke :
Let but the logic in his pulse decay,
The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray;
While C mourns, with an unfeigned zeal,
Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well.
C, who makes merry with the Creed,
He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed:
But only thinks so: to give both their due,
Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.
Of some for glory such the boundless rage,
That they 're the blackest scandal of their age.
Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;
Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names;
Omits no duty; nor can envy say,
He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play :
He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true;
But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;
His character and gloves are ever clean,
And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,
Which equally the wise and worthless shares.
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belief,
By nature streams run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends;
They take their rest by day, and wake by night,
And blush, if you surprise them in the right;
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,
A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.
Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out.
His passion for absurdity's so strong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong;
Though wrong the mode, comply; more sense is
In wearing others' follies, than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavor to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime
Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances,
And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,
Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat, which Joseph never wore!
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,
That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin
'Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, Since that great plague that swept as many more, Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry, "It has not brought us one new butterfly!" In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Unhappy I-y! how came you to please?
Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;
But, in effect, his chase is much the same :
Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great,
Staunch to the foot of title and estate :
Where'er their lordships go, they never find
Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind;
He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,
Close at their elbows, as the morning-dun;
As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:
But after seven years' dance, from place to place,
The Dane is more familiar with his grace.
Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;
Or living pendant dangling at his ear,
For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
For months before, by trumpets, through the town?
*A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyll.
Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,
Still to reflect the temper of his face?
Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,
When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave?
Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
To loll, or thump it, for his better ease?
Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke,
When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?
Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not
His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,
For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,
That can cry, "Chimney sweep," or drive a plow?
With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!
Scarce meaner they, who terms like these impose.
But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;
The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold
Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold:
All men they flatter, but themselves the most,
With deathless fame, their everlasting boast:
For Fame no cully makes so much her jest,
As her old constant spark, the bard profest.
"Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,
Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,
And what to my great soul like glory dear?"
Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
That fame's unwholesome taken without meat,
And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:
Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,
And wishes all his wants were in his wit.
Ah! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,
That his triumphant name adorns a post?
Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)
Defends sirloins, which sons of dullness eat?
What foe to verse without compassion hears,
What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,
When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown,
A prostitute on every bulk in town,
With other whores undone, though not in print,
Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint ?
Ye bards! why will you sing, though uninspir'd?
Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?
Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,
Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press ?
Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,
Like hair, will sprout, although the poet's dead.
All other trades demand, verse-makers beg :
A dedication is a wooden-leg;
A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,
Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.
Though such myself, vile bards I discommend;
Nay more, though gentle Damon is my friend.
"Is't then a crime to write ?"-If talent rare
Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:
For some, though few, there are, large-minded
Who watch unseen the labors of the pen;
Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court,
Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support;
Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;
My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
Argyll true wit is studious to restore;
And Dorset smiles, if Phoebus smil'd before;
Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,
And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.
But ah! not inspiration can obtain
That fame, which poets languish for in vain.
How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive
To grasp, what no man can possess alive!
Fame's a reversion, in which men take place
(O late reversion!) at their own decease.
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,
He starves his authors, that their works may sell.
That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;
That wealth is fame, another clan reply;
Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags;
And swell in just proportion to their bags.
Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old,
Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;
The first young lord, which in the Mall you meet,
Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street,
From rescued candles'-ends who rais'd a sum,
And starves to join a penny to a plum.
A beardless miser! "Tis a guilt unknown
To former times, a scandal all our own.
Of ardent lovers, the true modern band
Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.
For love, young, noble, rich Castalio dies;
Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.
Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;
No rival can prevail-but half-a-crown.
He glories to late times to be convey'd, Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made: Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd, When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain: Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain.
"Who'd be a slave?" the gallant Colonel cries While love of glory sparkles from his eyes. To deathless fame he loudly pleads his rightJust is his title-for he will not fight: All soldiers valor, all divines have grace, As maids of honor beauty-by their place: But, when indulging on the last campaign, His lofty terms climb, o'er the hills of slain; He gives the foe he slew, at each vain word, A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword. Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid: Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy; Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy. "Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree; But if you pay yourself, the world is free. Were there no tongue to speak them but his own Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known. Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak; The Roman would not blush at the mistake.