Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence,
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;
Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no slave;
So impudent, I own myself no knave;
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me;
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.
O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
To all but heav'n-directed hands denied,
The muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:
Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate, slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,
All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last gazette or the last address.
When black ambition stains a public cause,
A monarch's sword when mad vain glory draws,
Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar,
Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.
Not so when diadem'd with rays divine,
Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's shrine,
Her priestess muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of eternity.
There other trophies deck the truly brave
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars than and ** wear,
And may descend to Mordington from Stair; (Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine, Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine) Let envy howl, while heav'n's whole chorus sings, And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings; Let flattery sickening, see the incense rise, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies: Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line, And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine. Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands trembling on the edge of law. Here, last of Britons! let your names be read: Are none, none living? let me praise the dead; And for that cause which made your fathers shine, Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man.
IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.
WOMEN ben full of ragerie,
Yet swinken nat sans secresie.
Thilke moral shall ye understond,
From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond;
Which to the fennes hath him betake,
To filche 'the grey ducke fro the lake.
Right then there passen by the way
His aunt, and eke her daughters tway.
Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,
Not to be spy'd of ladies gent.
"But ho! our nephew," crieth one;
"Ho!" quoth another, "Cozen John ;"
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out-
This sely clerke full low doth lout:
They asken that, and talken this,
"Lo, here is coz, and here is miss."
But as he glozeth with speeches soote,
The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote:
Fore-piece and buttons all-to-brest
Forth thrust a white neck and red crest.
"Te-hee," cry'd ladies; clerke nought spake :
Miss star'd, and grey ducke crieth “ quaake.”
"O moder, moder!" quoth the daughter,
"Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter?
Bette is to pine on coals and chalke,
Then trust on mon whose yerde can talke."
IN every town where Thamis rolls his tyde,
A narrow pass there is, with houses low,
Where ever and anon the stream is eyed,
And many a boat soft sliding to and fro :
There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall:
How can ye, mothers, vex your children so ?
Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,
And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter eall.
And on the broken pavement, here and there,
Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;
A brandy and tobacco shop is neare,
And hens, and dogs, and hogs, are feeding by ;
And here à sailor's jacket hangs to dry.
At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen,
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;
Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between ; Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.
The snappish cur (the passengers annoy)
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimpering girl, and hoarser screaming boy,
Join to the yelping treble shrilling ories;
The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise, And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound; To her full pipes the grunting hog replies:
The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round, And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base are drown'd.
Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,
Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,
Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice:
There learn'd the speech fromtongues that never cease.
Slander beside her like a magpie chatters,
With Envy (spitting cat,) dread foe to peace;
Like a curs'd cur, Malice before her clatters,
And,vexing every wight,tears clothes and all to tatters.
Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand;
Her mouth was black as bull-dogs at the stall:
She scratched, bit, and spar'd ne lace ne band,
And bitch and rogue her answer was to all;
Nay, even the parts of shame by name would call':
Yea, when she passed by or lane or nook,
Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,
And by his hand obscene the porter took,
Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look,
Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich,
Grots, statues, urns, and Jo-n's dog and bitch;
Ne village is without, on either side,
All up the silver Thames, or all adown;
Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are eyed Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride.
On a Lady singing to her Lute.
FAIR charmer! cease; nor make your voice's prize
A heart resign'd the conquest of your eyes: Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail, Which winds and lightning both at once assail. We were too bless'd with these enchanting lays, Which must be heavenly when an angel plays: But killing charms your lover's death contrive, Lest heavenly music should be heard alivé.
Orpheus could charm the trees; but thus a tree, Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he. A poet made the silent wood pursue;
This vocal wood had drawn the poet too.
On a Fan of the Author's Design, in which was painted the story of Cephalus and Procris, with the motto 'aura veni!
COME, gentle air! the' Eolian shepherd said,
While Procris panted in the secret shade;
Come, gentle air! the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
Lo! the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play;
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,
Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:
Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
At random wounds, nor knows the wounds she gives; She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris while her lover dies.
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