§ 201. The Picture. CUNNINGHAM.
A
PORTRAIT, at my lord's command
Completed by a curious hand-
For dabblers in the nice weitú
His lordship fet the piece to view,
Bidding their connoiffeurfhips tell
Whether this work was finish'd well;
Why-fays the loudeft, on my word,
'Tis not a likeness, good my lord;
Nor, to be plain, for fpeak I muft,
Can I pronounce one feature juft.
Another effort straight was made,
Another portraiture effay'd;
The judges were again befought
Each to deliver what he thought.
Worfe than the firft, the critics baw!;
Oh what a mouth! how monitrous fina!!!
Look at the cheeks-how lank and thin!
See, what a most prepofterous chin!
After remonftrance made in vain,
I'll, fays the painter, once again
(If my good lord vouchfafes to fit)
Try for a more fuccefsful hit:
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to pleafe you all.
To-morrow comes-a picture 's plac'd
Before thofe fpurious fons of taste-
In their opinions all agree,
This is the vileft of all three.
"Know-to confute your envious pride
(His lordship from the canvafs cried),
"Know-that it is my real face,
"Where you could no refemblance trace:
"I've tried you by a lucky trick,
"And prov'd your genius to the quick:
"Void of all judgment, goodnefs, fenfe,.
"Out-ye pretending varlets,-hence!"

The connoiffeurs depart in hafte,
Defpis'd, neglected, and difgrac'd.

§ 202.

The Modern Fine Gentleman.
in the Year 1746.
SOAME JENYNS.

Quale portentum neque militaris
Daunia in latis alit eiculetis,

Nec Jubae tellus generat, leonum

Arida nutrix.

Half atheist, papist, gamester, bubble, rook,
Half fidler, coachman, dancer, groom, and cook.
Next, because bufinets is now all the vogue,
And who'd be quite polite must be a rogue,
In parliament he purchases a feat,

To make th' accomplish'd gentleman complete.
There fife in felf-fufficient impudence,
Without experience, honefty, or fenfe,
Unknowing in her intreft, trade, or laws,
He vainly undertakes his country's caufe:
Forth from his lips, prepar'd at all to rail,
Torrents of nonfenfe burft, like bottled ale,
Tho' fhallow, muddy; brisk, tho' mighty dull,
Fierce without ftrength; o'erflowing, tho' not full.
Now quite a Frenchman in his garb and air,
His neck yok'd down with bag and folitaire,
The liberties of Britain he fupports,
And forms at place-men, minifters, and courts;
Now in cropt greafy hair, and leather breeches,
He loudly bellows out his patriot fpeeches;
Kings, lords, and commons ventures to abuse,
Yet dares to fhew thofe ears he ought to lofe.
From hence to White's our virtuous Cato flies,
There fits with countenance erect and wife,
And talks of games of whift, and pig-tail pies;
Plays all the night, nor doubts each law to break
Himfelf unknowingly has help'd to make;
Trembling and anxious, ftakes his utmost groat,
Peeps o'er his cards, and looks as if he thought;
Next morn difowns the loffes of the night,
Because the fool would fain be thought a bite.

Devoted thus to politics and cards,
Nor mirth, nor wine, nor women he regards;
So far is ev'ry virtue from his heart,
That not a gen'rous vice can claim a part;
Nay, left one human paffion e'er should move
His foul to friendship, tenderness, or love,
To Figg and Broughton † he commits his breaft,
To fteel it to the fashionable teft.

Thus poor in wealth, he labours to no end,
Wretched alone, in crowds without a friend;
Infenfible to all that's good or kind,
Written Deaf to all merit, to all beauty blind;
For love too bufy, and for wit too grave,
A harden'd, fober, proud, luxurious knave;
By little actions ftriving to be great,
And proud to be, and to be thought a cheat.
And yet in this fo bad is his fuccefs,
That, as his fame improves, his rents grow lefs;

UST broke from school, pert, impudent, and On parchment wings his acres take their flight, JUST

raw,

Expert in Latin, more expert in taw,
His honour pofts o'er Italy and France,
Measures St. Peter's dome, and learns to dance.
Thence, having quick through various countries
flown,

Glean'd all their follies and expos'd his own,
He back returns, a thing fo ftrange all o'er,
As never ages paft produc'd before;
A monster of fuch complicated worth,

As no one fingle clime cou'd e'er bring forth;

And his unpeopled groves admit the light;
With his eftate his int'reft too is done,
His honeft borough feeks a warmer fun :
His independent voters ceafe to roar;
For him, now cath and liquor flows no more,
And Britain foon muft want the great defence
Of all his honefty and eloquence,

But that the gen'rous youth, more anxious
grown

For public liberty than for his own,
Marries fome jointur'd antiquated crone ;

Parody on thefe lines of Sir John Denham :
Tho' deep yet clear, tho' gentle yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.

+ One, a celebrated prize-fighter; the other, a no left famous boxer.

And

And boldly, when his country is at stake,
Braves the deep yawning gulph, like Curtius, for
its fake.

}

Quickly again diftrefs'd for want of coin,
He digs no longer in th' exhaufted mine,
But feeks preferinent, as the last resort,
Cringes each morn at levees, bows at court,"
And, from the hand he hates, implores fupport.
The minifter, well pleas'd at fmall expence
To filence fo much rude impertinence,
With fqueeze and whifper yields to his demands,
And on the venal lift enroll'd he ftands;
A ribband and a penfion buy the flave :
This bribes the fool about him; that the knave.
And now arriv'd at his meridian glory,
He finks apace, defpis'd by Whig and Tory;
Of independence now he talks no more,
Nor shakes the fenate with his patriot roar ;
But filent votes, and, with court-trappings hung,
Eyes his own glitt'ring star, and holds his tongue.
In craft political a bankrupt made,
He fticks to gaming, as the furer trade;
Turns downright fharper, lives by fucking blood,
And grows, in fhort, the very thing he wou'd:
Hunts out young heirs who have their fortunes
spent,

And lends them ready cash at cent. per cent.
Lays wagers on his own and others' lives,
Fights uncles, fathers, grandmothers, and wives,
Till Death at length, indignant to be made
The daily fubject of his fport and trade,
Veils with his fable hand the wretch's eyes,
And, groaning for the betts he lofes by 't, he dies.

§203.
An Epiftle, written in the Country, to the
Right Honourable the Lord Lovelace, then in
Town. September 1735.

IN days, my Lord, when mother Time,

Some hold their parfon the best preacher,
The tinker fome a better teacher;
Thefe, to the Church they fight for strangers,
Have faith in nothing but her dangers;
While thofe, a more believing people,
Can fwallow all things-but a steeple.
But I, my Lord, who, as you know,
Care little how these matters go,
And equally deteft the strife
And ufual joys of country life,
Have by good fortune little share
Of its diverfions, or its care;
For feidom I with 'fquires unite,
Who hunt all day and drink all night,
Nor reckon wonderful inviting,
A quarter-feffions, or cock-fighting:
But then no farm I occupy
With sheep to rot, and cows to die;
Nor rage I much, or much defpair,
Tho' in my hedge I find a fnare;
Nor view I, with due admiration,
All the high honours here in fashion;
The great commiflions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em ;
Militia fcarlet edg'd with gold,
Or the white staff high-fheriffs hold;
The reprefentative's careffing,
The judge's bow, the bifhop's bleffing;
Nor can I for my foul delight

In the dull feaft of neighb'ring knight,
Who, if you fend three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With fuperfluity of breeding

Firft makes you fick, and then with feeding:
Or if, with ceremony cloy'd,

You would next time fuch plagues avoid,
And vifit without previous notice,
JENYNS." John, John, a coach!-I can't think who 'tis,"
My lady cries, who fpies your coach
Ere you the avenue approach:
"Lord, how unlucky!-washing-day!
"And all the men are in the hay !"
Entrance to gain is fomething hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barr'd;
The yard's with lines of linen crofs'd,
The hall-door's lock'd, the key is loft:
Thefe difficulties all o'ercome,

Tho' now grown old, was in her prime,
When Saturn firft began to rule,
And Jove was hardly come from school,
How happy was a country life!

How free from wickednefs and ftrife!
Then each man liv'd upon his farm,
And thought and did no mortal harm;
On moffy banks fair virgins flept,
As harmless as the flocks they kept;
Then love was all they had to do,

We reach at length the drawing-room;
Then there's fuch trampling over-head,

And nymphs were chaste, and swains were true. Madam you'd fwear was brought-to-bed;

But now, whatever poets write,

'Tis fure the cafe is alter'd quite :
Virtue no more in rural plains,
Or innocence, or peace reinains;
But vice is in the cottage found,
And country girls are oft unfound;
Fierce party rage each village fires,
With wars of juftices and 'fquires;
Attorney's, for a barley ftraw,
Whole ages hamper folks in law,
And ev'ry neighbour's in a flame
About their rates, or tythes, or game:
Some quarrel for their hares and pigeons,
And foine for diff'rence in religions:

Mifs in a hurry bursts her lock,

To get clean fleeves to hide her smock ;
The fervants run, the pewter clatters,

My lady dreffes, calls and chatters;
The cook-maid raves for want of butter,

Pigs fqueak, fowls fcream, and green geese flutter.
Now after three hours tedious waiting,
On all our neighbours' faults debating,
And having nine times view'd the garden,
In which there's nothing worth a farthing,
In comes my lady, and the pudden :
"You will excufe, fir,-on a fudden"-
Then, that we may have four and four,
The bacon, fowls, and cauliflow'r

Their ancient unity divide,
The top one graces, one cach fide;
And by and by, the fecond courfe
Comes lagging like a diflanc'd horfe;
A falver then to church and king,
The butler fweats, the glaffes ring:
The cloth remov'd, the toafts go round,
Bawdy and politics abound;

And, as the knight more tipfy waxes,
We damn all minifters and taxes.
At last the ruddy fun quite funk,
The coachman tolerably drunk,
Whirling o'er hillock, ruts, and fioncs,
Enough to dislocate one's bones,

We home return, a wondrous token

Of Heaven's kind care, with limbs unbroken.
Afflict us not, ye gods, tho' finners,
With many days like this, or dinners!

But if civilitics thus teafe me,
Nor business nor diverfions pleafe me;
You'll afk, my Lord, how time I spend?
I answer, With a book or friend:
The circulating hours dividing
'Twixt reading, walking, eating, riding:
But books are ftill my higheft joy,
Thefe earlieft pleafe, and teft cloy.
Sometimes o'er diftant climes I ftray,
By guides experienc'd taught the way;
The wonders of each region view,
From frozen Lapland to Peru;

Bound o'er rough feas, and mountains bare,
Yet ne'er forfake my elbow chair.
Sometimes fome fam'd hiftorian's pen
Recalls paft ages back agen;
Where all I fee, thro' ev'ry page,
Is but how men, with fenfelefs
lage,
Each other rob, destroy, and burn,
To ferve a prieft's, a statefman's turn :
Tho' loaded with a diff'rent aim,
Yet always affes much the fame.
Sometimes I view with much delight,
Divines their holy game-cocks fight;
Here faith and works, at variance fet,
Strive hard who fhall the vict'ry get;
Prefbytery and epifcopacy,

They fight fo long, it would amaze ye;
Here free-will holds a fierce difpute
With reprobation abfolute;

There fenfe kicks tranfubftantiation,
And reafon pecks at revelation.
With learned Newton now I fly
O'er all the rolling orbs on high,
Vifit new worlds, and for a minute

This old one fcorn, and all that's in it:
And now with lab'ring Boyle I trace
Nature thro' ev'ry winding maze;
The latent qualitics admire
Of vapours, water, air, and fire;
With pleafing admiration fee
Matter's furprising fubtilty;
As how the fmalleft lamp difplays,
Tor miles around, its fcatter'd rays;

Or how (the cafe ftill more t' explain)
A fart, that weighs not half a grain,
The atmosphere will oft perfuine
Of a whole fpacious drawing-room.
Sometimes I pafs a whole long day
In happy indolence away,
In fondly meditating o'er

Paft pleasures, and in hoping more;
Or wander thro' the fields and woods,
And gardens bath'd in circling floods;
There blooming flowers with apture view,
And sparkling gems of morning dew,
Whence in my mind ideas rife
Of Celia's cheeks, and Chloe's eyes.

'Tis thus, my Lord, I free from ftrife
Spend an inglorious country life:
Thefe are the joys 1 ftill purfue,
When abfent from the town and you;
Thus pats long fummer funs away,
Bufily idle, calmly gay:

Nor great, nor mean, nor rich, nor poor,
Not having much, nor withing more;
Except that you, when weary grown
Of all the follies of the town,
And feeing in all public places
The fame vain fops and painted faces,
Wou'd fometimes kindly condefcend
To vifit a dull country friend:
Here you
I be ever fure to meet
A hearty welcome, tho' no treat;
One who has nothing else to do,
But to divert himfelf and you:

A houfe, where quict guards the door,
No rural wits fmoke, drink, and roar;
Choice books, fafe horfes, wholefome liquor,'
Billiards, backgammon, and the vicar.

$104. Horace. Book 1. Ods 10. Cowper,
RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So fhalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's pow'r :
Not always tempt the diftant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treach'rous thore.
He that holds faft the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbitt'ring all his ftare.

The tallest pines feel moft the pow'r
Of wintry blaft: the loftieft tow'r

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that fpare the mountain's fide
His cloud-capt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform'd philofopher
Rejoices with a whole fome fear,

And hopes in fpite of pain:
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the fweet fpring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.

See Boyle's Experiments.