For crampt by a contracted soul,

How shou'd they comprehend the whole?
I know of many a deep-learn'd brother,
Who weighs one science by another,
And makes 'mongst bards poetic schism,
Because he understands the prism;
Thinks in acuteness he surpasses,
From knowledge of the optic-glasses.
There are some critics in the nation,
Profoundly vers'd in gravitation;
Who like the bulky and the great,
And judge by quantity and weight.
Some who're extremely skill'd in building,
Judge by proportion, form, and gilding,
And praise with a sagacious look
The architecture of a book.

Soon as the hops arriv'd from Kent,
Forth to the quay the merchant went,
Went critically to explore
The merit of the hops on shore.
Close to a bag he took his standing,
And at a venture thrust his hand in ;
Then, with the face of a physician,
Their colour scann'd and their condition;
He trusts his touch, his smell, his eyes,
The goods at once approves and buys.
Catchup, so dextrous, droll, and dry,
It happen'd Catchup there was by,
Who like Iago', arch on all,
Is nothing, if not critical.

He with a sneer and with a shrug,
With eye of hawk, and face of pug,
Cry'd; "Fellow, I admire thy fun,
Thou most judiciously hast done,
Who from one handful buyst ten ton.
Does it not enter in thy crown,
Some may be mouldy, some be brown;
The vacancies with leaves supplied,

And some half pick'd and some half dry'd?"
The merchant, who Tom Catchup knew,

(A merchant and a scholar too)
Said, "What I've done is not absurd,
I know my chap and take his word.-
On thee, thou caviller at large,
I here retort thy random charge,
Who, in an hypercritic rage,
Judgest ten volumes by a page;
Whose wond'rous comprehensive view
Grasps more than Solomon e'er knew;
With every thing you claim alliance,
Art, trade, profession, calling, science;
You mete out all things by one rule,
And are an universal fool.
Though swoln with vanity and pride,
You're but one driv'ller multiplied,
A prig that proves himself by starts,
As many doits-as there are arts."

THE ENGLISH BULL DOG, DUTCH
MASTIFF, AND QUAIL.
FABLE II.

ARE we not all of race divine,
Alike of an immortal line?

1 O, gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing if not critical.

OTHELLO, Act, 2, scene 5.

Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division;
To malice, and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone,
Are all to idle discord bent,

These Kentish men-those men of Kent;
And parties and distinction make,
For parties and distinction's sake.
Souls sprung from an etherial flame,
However clad, are still the same;
Nor should we judge the heart or head,
By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious;
Is lively, honest, brave and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawney.
Give prejudices to the wind,

And let's be patriots of mankind.
Bigots, avaunt, sense can't endure ye,
But fabulists should try to cure ye.

A snub-nos'd dog to fat inclin'd
Of the true hogan mogau kind,
The favourite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name:
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the 'Change;
"And whom have we got here, I beg,"
Quoth he, and lifted up his leg;
"An English dog can't take an airing,
But foreign scoundrels must be staring.
I'd have your French dogs and your Spanish,
And all your Dutch and all your Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drowned;
No mercy on the race suspected,
Greyhounds from Italy excepted:
By them my dames ne'er prove big-bellied,
For they, poor toads, are Farrinellied.
Well, of all dogs it stands confess'd,
Your English bull dogs are the best;
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Cambden records it, and I'll stand to't.
'Tis true we have too much urbanity,
Somewhat o'ercharg'd with soft humanity;
The best things must find food for railing,
And every creature has its failing."

"And who are you?" reply'd Van Trump, (Curling his tail upon his rump)

Vaunting the regions of distraction,
The land of party and of faction.
In all fair Europe, who but we,

For national economy;

For wealth and peace, that have more charms,"
Than learned arts, or noisy arms?

You envy us our dancing bogs,
With all the music of the frogs;

Join'd to the Tretchscutz's bonny loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune.
For poets, and the Muses nine,
Beyond comparison we shine:
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With X X's, H H's and with Z Z's.
For fighting-now you think I'm joking;
We love it better far than smoking.
Ask but our troops, from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy.
'Tis true, as friends, and as allies,
We're ever ready to devise;

Our loves, or any kind assistance,
That may be granted at a distance;
But if you go to brag, good bye t' ye,
Nor dare to brave the High and Mighty."
"Wrong are you both," rejoins a quail,
Confin'd within its wiry jail :

"Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd And with the seasons, climates chang'd. Mankind is not so void of grace,

But good I've found in every place:
I've seen sincerity in France,
Amongst the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain;
Free'd was I by a turban'd Turk,
Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen;
Her robe with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn;
Her broken fife, and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung;
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust;
Her loyalty still blameless found,
And hospitality renown'd:

No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost.—
Ah! dire corruption, art thou spread,
Where never viper rear'd it's head?
And didst thy baleful influence sow,
Where hemlock nor the nightshade grow.
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia! who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe,
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
'Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to Heaven and Hartington.

FASHION AND NIGHT.

FABLE III.

Quam multa prava atque injusta fiunt moribus.

FASHION, a motley nymph of yore,
The Cyprian queen to Porteus bore:
Various herself in various climes,
She moulds the manners of the times;
And turns in every age or nation,
The chequer'd wheel of variegation;
True female that ne'er knew her will,
Still changing, tho' immortal stil!.
One day as the inconstant maid
Was careless on her sofa laid,
Sick of the Sun and tir'd with light,
She thus invok'd the gloomy Night:
"Come-these malignant rays destroy,
Thou screen of shame, and rise of joy.
Come from thy western ambuscade,
Queen of the rout and masquerade:
Nymph, without thee no cards advance,
Without thee halts the loit'ring dance;
Till thou approach, all, all's restraint,
Nor is it safe to game or paint;
The belles and beaux thy influence ask,
Put on the universal mask.

TERENT.

Let us invert, in thy disguise,
That odious nature, we despise."
She ceas'd-the sable mantled dame
With slow approach, and awful, came ;
And frowning with sarcastic sneer,
Reproach'd the female rioteer :
"That nature you abuse, my fair,
Was I created to repair,

And contrast with a friendly shade,
The pictures Heaven's rich pencil made;
And with my sleep alluring dose,

To give laborious art repose;

To make both noise and action cease,
The queen of secresy and peace.
But thou a rebel, vile, and vain,
Usurp'st my lawful old domain;
My sceptre thou affect'st to sway,
And all the various hours are day;
With clamours of unreal joy,
My sister, Silence, you destroy;
The blazing lamp's unnatural light
My eye balls weary and affright;
But if I am allow'd one shade,
Which no intrusive eyes invade,
There all the atrocious imps of Hell,
Theft, Murder, and Pollution dwell:
Think then how much, thou toy of chance,
Thy praise is likely worth t' inhance;
Blind thing that run'st without a guide,
Thou whirlpool in a rushing tide,
No more my fame with praise pollute,
But damn me into some repute."

WHERE'S THE POKER ?

FABLE IV..

THE poker lost, poor Susan storm'd,
And all the rites of rage perform'd;
As scolding, crying, swearing, sweating,
Abusing, fidgetting, and fretting.

Nothing but villainy, and thieving; Good Heavens! what a world we live in? If I don't find it in the morning, I'll surely give my master warning. He'd better far shut up his doors, Than keep such good for nothing whores ; For wheresoe'er their trade they drive, We vartuous bodies cannot thrive." Well may poor Susan grunt and groan; Misfortunes never come alone, But tread each other's heels in throngs, For the next day she lost the tongs: The salt box, cullender, and pot, Soon shar'd the same untimely lot. In vain she vails and wages spent On new ones for the new ones went. There'd been, (she swore) some dev'l or witch in, To rob or plunder all the kitchen. One night she to her chamber crept ; (Where for a month she had not slept; Her master being, to her seeming, A better playfellow than dreaming.) Curse on the author of these wrongs, In her own bed she found the tongs, (Hang Thomas for an idle joker !) In her own bed she found the poker;

ATAWDRY tea-pot, a-la-mode, Whereart her utmost skill bestow'd, wasmuch esteem'd for being old, And on its sides with red and gold

Strange beasts were drawn, in taste Chinese,
And frightful fish, and hump-back trees.
High in an elegant beaufet,

This pompous utensil was set,
And near it, on a marble slab,
Forsaken by some careless drab,
A veteran scrubbing-brush was plac'd,
And the rich furniture disgrac'd.
The tea-pot soon began to flout,
And thus its venom spouted out:
"Who from the scullery or yard,
Brought in this low, this vile blackguard,
And laid in insolent position,-
Among us people of condition?

Back to the helper in the stable,

Scour the close-stool, or wash-house table;
Or cleanse some horsing block, or plank,
Nor dare approach us folks of rank.
Turn-brother coffee-pot, your spout,
Observe the nasty stinking lout,
Who seems to scorn my indignation,
Nor pays due homage to my fashion;
Take, silver sugar dish, a view,

And, cousin cream pot, pray do you."
"Pox on you all," replies old Scrub,
"Of coxcombs ye confederate club.
Full of impertinence, and prate,
Ye hate all things that are sedate.
None but such ignorant infernals,
Judge, by appearance, and externals:
Train'd up in toil and useful knowledge,
I'm fellow of the kitchen college,
And with the mop, my old associate,
The family affairs negociate.-
Am foe to filth, and things obscene,
Dirty by making others clean.-
Not shining, yet I cause to shine,
My roughness makes my neighbours fine;
You're fair without, but foul within,
With shame impregnated, and sin;
To you each impious scandal's owing,
You set each gossip's clack a going.-
How Parson Tythe in secret sins,
And how Miss Dainty brought forth twins:
How dear delicious Polly Bloom,
Owes all her sweetness to perfume;
Though grave at church, and cards can bet,
At once a prude and a coquette.-
'Twas better for each British virgin,

When on roast beef, strong beer, and sturgeon,

Joyous to breakfast they sat round,
Nor were asham'd to eat a pound.
These were the manners, these the ways,
In good queen Bess's golden ays;
Each damsel ow'd her bloom and glee,
To wholesome elbow-grease, and me,
But now they centre all their joys
In empty rattle traps and noise.

Thus where the Fates send you, they send
Flagitious times, which ne'er will mend,
'Till some philosopher can find,

A scrubbing-brush to scour the mind."

THE DUELLIST.

FABLE VI.

WHAT'S honour, did your lordship say?
My lord, I humbly crave a day.—
'Tis difficult, and in my mind,
Like substance, cannot be defin'd.
It deals in numerous externals,
And is a legion of infernals;
Sometimes in riot and in play,
Tis breaking of the Sabbath day:
When 'tis consider'd as a passion,

I deem it lust and fornication.
We pay our debts in honour's cause,
Lost in the breaking of the laws :
'Tis for some selfish impious end,
To murder the sincerest friend;
But wou'd you alter all the clan,
Turn out an honourable man.
Why take a pistol from the shelf,
And fight a duel with yourself.—
"Twas on a time, the Lord knows when,
In Ely, or in Lincoln fen,

A frog and mouse had long disputes,
Held in the language of the brutes,
Who of a certain pool and pasture,
Shou'd be the sovereign and master.
"Sir," says the frog, and dama'd his blood,
"I hold that my pre ension's good;
Nor can a brute of reason doubt it,
For all that you can squeak about it."
The mouse, averse to be o'erpower'd,
Gave him the lie, and call'd him coward;
Too hard for any frog's digestion,
To have his froghood call'd in question!
A bargain instantly was made,
No mouse of honour could evade,
On the next morn, as soon as light,
With desperate bullrushes to fight;
The morning came-and man to man,
The grand monomachy began ;
Need I recount how each bravado,
Shone in montant and in passado;
To what a height their ire they carry'd,
How oft they thrusted and they parry'd;
But as these champions kept dispensing,
Finesses in the art of fencing,

A furious vulture took upon her,
Quick to decide this point of honour,
And, lawyer like, to make an end on't,
Devour'd both plaintiff and defendant.
Thus, often in our British nation,
(I speak by way of application)

FROM a fine lady to her maid,

A gown descended of brocade.

MANDRAKE.

FÁBLE VII.

THE Sun had rais'd above the mead
His glorious horizontal head;
Sad Philomela left her thorn;
The lively linnets hymn'd the morn,
And Nature, like a waking bride,
Her blushes spreads on every side;
The cock as usual crow'd up Tray,
Who nightly with his master lay;
The faithful spaniel gave the word,
Trelooby at the signal stirr'd,

And with his gun, from wood to wood,
The man of prey his course pursu'd;
The dew and herbage all around,
Like pearls and emeralds on the ground;
Th' uncultur'd flowers that rudely rise,
Where smiling freedom art defies;
The lark, in transport, tow'ring high,
The crimson curtains of the sky,
Affected not Trelooby's mind-
For what is beauty to the blind?
Th' amorous voice of sylvan love,
Form'd charming concerts in the grove;
Sweet zephyr sigh'd on Flora's breast,
And drew the blackbird from his nest ;
Whistling he leapt from leaf to leaf;
But what is music to the deaf?

At length while poring on the ground,
With monumental look profound,
A curious vegetable caught
His-something similar to thought:
Wond'ring, he ponder'd, stooping low,
(Trelooby always lov'd a show)
And on the mandrake's vernal station,
Star'd with prodigions observation.
Th' affronted mandrake with a frown.
Address'd in rage the wealthy clown.

"Proud member of the rambling race, That vegetate from place to place, Pursue the leveret at large,

Nor near thy blunderbuss discharge.
Disdainful though thou look'st on me,
What art thou, or what can'st thou be?
Nature, that mark'd thee as a fool,
Gave no materials for the school.
In what consists thy work and frame?
The preservation of the game.---

That wou'd give dignity to stuff.
By accident or by design,

Or from some cause, I can't divine;
A linen rag, (sad source of wrangling!)
On a contiguous peg was dangling,
Vilely besmear'd-for late his master,
It serv'd in quality of plaister.

The gown, contemptuous beholder,

Gave a French shrug from either shoulder,

And rustling with emotions furious,
Bespoke the rag in terms injurious.
"Unfit for tinder, lint, or fodder,

Thou thing of filth, (and what is odder)
Discarded from thy owner's back,
Dar'st thou proceed, and gold attack?
Instant away or in this place,
Begar me give you coup de grace."

To this reply'd the honest rag,

Who lik'd a jest, and was a wag;

"Though thy glib tongue without a halt run, Thou shabby second-hand subaltern,

At once so ancient and so easy,

At once so gorgeous and so greasy;

I value not thy gasconading,
Nor all thy alamode parading;
But to abstain from words imperious,
And to be sober, grave, and serious.
Though, says friend Horace, 'tis no treason,
At once to giggle, and to reason,
When me you lesson, friend, you dream,
For know I am not what I seem;
Soon by the mill's refining motion,
The sweetest daughter of the ocean,
Fair Medway, shall with snowy hue,
My virgin purity renew,

And give me reinform'd existence,
A good retention and subsistence.
Then shall the sons of genius join,
To make my second life divine.
O MURRAY, let me then dispense,
Some portion of thy eloquence;
For Greek and Roman rhetoric shine,
United and improved in thine.
The spirit stirring sage 'alarms,
And Ciceronian sweetness charms.
Th' Athenian Akenside may deign
To stamp me deathless with his pen,

1 Demosthenes.

While flows approv'd by all the Nine
Th' immortal soul of every line.
Collins, perhaps, his aid may lend,
Melpomene's selected friend.
Perhaps our great Augustan Gray
May grace me with a Doric lay;
With sweet, with manly words of woe,
That nervously pathetic flow.
What, Mason, may I owe to you?
Learning's first pride, and Nature's too;
On thee she cast her sweetest smile,
And gave thee Art's correcting file;
That file, which with assiduous pain,
The viper Envy bites in vain.—
Such glories my mean lot betide,

Hear, tawdry fool, and check thy pride.-
Thou, after scouring, dying, turning,
(If haply thou escape a burning)
From gown to petticoat descending,
And in a beggar's mantle ending,
Shalt in a dunghill or a stye,

'Midst filth and vermin rot and die.

MADAM AND THE MAGPIE. FABLE IX.

YE thunders roll, ye oceans roar,
And wake the rough resounding shore;
Ye guns in smoke and flames engage,
And shake the ramparts with your rage;
Boreas distend your chops and blow
Ring, ring, ye bonny bells of Bow;
Ye drums and rattles, rend the ears,
Like twenty thousand Southwark fairs;
Bellow, ye bulls, and bawl, ye bats,
Encore, encore, ye amorous cats;
In vain, poor things, ye squeak and squall,
Soft Sylvia shall out-tongue you all :
But here she comes there's no relief,
She comes, and blessed are the deaf.
"A magpie! why, you're mad, my dear,
To bring a chattering magpie here.
A prating play thing, fit for boys—
You know I can't endure a noise.-
You brought this precious present sure,
My headach and my cough to cure.
Pray hand himh in and let him stain
Each curtain, and each counterpane;
Yes, he shall roost upon my toilet,
Or on my pillow-he can't spoil it:
He'll only make me catch my death.-
O Heavens! for a little breath!-
Thank God, I never knew resentment,
But am all patience and contentment,
Or else, you paltry knave, I shou'd
(As any other woman wou'd)

Wring off his neck, and down your gullet
Cram it, by way of chick or pullet.-
Well, I must lock up all my rings,
My jewels, and my curious things:
My Chinese toys must go to pot;

My dear, my pinchbecks-and what not ?
For all your magpies are, like lawyers,
At once thieves, brawlers, and destroyers.—
You for a wife have search'd the globe,
You've got a very female Job,

Pattern of love, and peace, and unity,
Or how cou'd you expect impunity?
O Lord! this nasty thing will bite,
And scratch and clapper, claw and fight.
O monstrous wretch, thus to devise,
To tear out your poor Sylvia's eyes.
You're a fine Popish plot pursuing,
By presents to affect my ruin;
And thus for good are ill retorting
TO ME,
who brought you such a fortune;
TO ME, you low-liv'd clown, to ME,
Who came of such a family;
ME, who for age to age possess'd
A lion rampant on my crest;

ME, who have fill'd your empty coffers,
ME, who'd so many better offers ;
And is my merit thus regarded,
Cuckold, my virtue thus rewarded.
O'tis past sufferance-Mary-Mary,
I faint the citron, or the clary."

The poor man, who had bought the creature,
Out of pure conjugal good-nature,
Stood at this violent attack,

Like statues made by Roubilliac,
Though form'd beyond all skill antique,
They can't their marble silence break;
They only breathe, and think, and start,
Astonish'd at their maker's art.
Quoth Mag," Fair Grizzle, I must grant,
Your spouse a magpye cannot want:
For troth (to give the Dev'l his due)
He keeps a rookery in you.
Don't fear I'll tarry long, sweet lady,
Where there is din enough already,
We never should agree together,
Although we're so much of a feather;
You're fond of peace, no man can doubt it,
Who make such wond'rous noise about it;
And your tongue of immortal mould
Proclaims in thunder you're no scold.
Yes, yes, you're sovereign of the tongue,
And like the king can do no wrong;
Justly your spouse restrains his voice,
Nor vainly answers words with noise;
This storm, which no soul can endure,
Requires a very different cure;
For such sour verjuice dispositions,
Your crabsticks are the best physicians."

THE BLOCKHEAD AND BEEHIVE.
FABLE X.

THE fragrance of the new-mown hay
Paid incense to the god of day;
Who issuing from his eastern gate,
Resplendent rode in all his state:
Rous'd by the light from soft repose,
Big with the Muse, a bard arose,
And the fresh garden's still retreat
He measured with poetic feet.
The cooling, high, o'er-arching shade,
By the embracing branches made,
The smooth shorn sod, whose verdant gloss,
Was check'd with intermingled moss,
Cowslips, like topazes that shine,
Close by the silver serpentine,
Rude rustics which assert the bow'rs,
Amidst the educated flow'rs.