AFFECTATION OF DELICACY

TH

7

RIDICULED.

HE languid lady next appears in state, Who was not born to carry her own weight; She lolls, reels, staggers, 'till fome foreign aid To her own ftature lifts the feeble maid. Then, if ordain'd to fo fevere a doom, She, by just stages, journeys round the room: But knowing her own weakness, the defpairs To scale the Alps-that is, afcend the stairs. My fan! let others fay who laugh at toil; Fan! hood! glove! fcarf! is her laconick style; And that is spoke with fuch a dying fall, That Betty rather fees than hears the call: The motion of her lips, and meaning eye Piece out th' Idea her faint words deny, O liften with attention moft profound! Her voice is but the fhadow of a found: And help! O help! her fpirits are so dead, One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er, She pants! fhe finks away! and is no more. Let the robuft, and the gigantic carve, Life is not worth fo much, fhe'd rather starve; But chew the muft herfelf; ah cruel fate! That Rofalinda can't by proxy eat.

THE

****

THE

MAN OF TASTE:

OCCASIONED BY AN

EPISTLE

O F MR POPE's

ON THAT SUBJECT.

WHOE'ER

HOE'ER he be that to a Taste afpires," Let him read this, and be what he defires, In men and manners vers'd, from life I write Not what was once but what is now polite. Thofe who of courtly France have made the tour, Can fcarce our English aukwardness endure ; But honeft men who never were abroad, Like England only, and its Taste applaud.

True Tafte to me is by this touchstone known, That's always best that's nearest to my own. To fhew that my pretenfions are not vain, My father was a play'r in Drury-lane. Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother fold, He a dramatic poet, fhe a fcold. His tragic mufe could counteffes affright, Her wit in boxes was my lord's delight,

N

No

No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock' unpoetic bands.
Laws my Pindaric parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.

My infant tears a fort of measure kept,
I fquall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept,
No youth did I in education wafte,
Happy in an hereditary Tafte.

Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barb'rous birch e'er brufh'd my brawny bum.
My guts ne'er fuffer'd from a college cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery book.
Grammar in vain the fons of Priscian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech.
Since thefe declin'd, thofe undeclin❜d they call,
I thank my stars, that I declin'd 'em all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence,
I truft to mother wit, and father fenfe.
Nature's my guide, all fciences I fcorn,
Pains I abhor, I was a poet born.

Yet is my gout for criticism such,

I've

got fome French, and know a little Dutch: Huge commentators grace my learned fhelves, Notes upon books out-do the books themselves. Critics indeed are valuable men,

But hyper-critics are as good again.

Tho' Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill, With notes by Bentley they'd be better ftill.

The

The boghoufe-mifcellany's well defign'd,
To cafe the body, and improve the mind.
Swift's whims and jokes for my refentment call,
For he difpleases me, that pleases all.
Verse without rhime I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in fenfe obfcure.
To him as nature, when he ceas'd to fee,
Milton's an univerfal blank to me.
Confirm'd and fettled by the nation's voice,
Rhime is the poet's pride, and people's choice.
Always upheld by national support,

Of market, univerfity, and court:

[reafon, Thomfon, write blank: but know that for that These lines fball live, when thine are out of feason. Rhime binds and beautifies the poet's lays, As London ladies owe their thape to ftays.

Had Cibber's felf the Carelefs Hufband wrote, He for the Laurel ne'er had had my vote: But for his epilogues and other plays, He thoroughly deferves the modern bays. It pleases me, that Pope unlaurell'd goes, While Cibber wears the bays for playhouse profe. So Britain's monarch once uncover'd fat, While Bradthaw bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat.

Long live old Curl! he ne'er to publish fears, The fpeeches, verfes, and lait wills of peers. How oft has he a public fpirit fhown, And pleas'd our ears regardlefs of his own! N 2

488944 A

But to give merit due, though Curl's the fame, Are not his brother-bookfellers the fame!

Can ftatutes keep the British prefs in awe, While that fells beft, that's most against the law?

Lives of dead play'rs my leisure hours beguile,
And feffions-papers tragedize my ftile.
'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life,
So oft a mother, and not once a wife :
She could with juft propriety behave,
Alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave.
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept?
By prebends bury'd, and by generals kept ?

T' improve in morals Mandeville I read,
And Tyndal's fcruples are my fettled creed.
I travell'd early, and I foon faw through
Religion all, e'er I was twenty-two.
Shame, pain, or poverty fhall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my eafe procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.

As Pafaran directs I'd end my life,

And kill myfelf, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that Bible which the Parfon quotes,
And men of spirit all fhall cut their throats.

But not to writings I confine my pen,
I have a tafte for buildings, mufic, men.

Young