Set up each senseless wretch for Nature's boast,
On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral eloquence her colours spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirise with nothing-but their praise?

Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,
Nor bears that virtue, which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,
And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is fled;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,
Sits smiling at the goal, while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking stil!!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will,
Doubly distrest, what author shall we find,
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise.
What will not men attempt for sacred praise?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:
Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.
Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? The pimp is proud to see So many like himself in high degree: The whore is proud her beauties are the dread Of peevish virtue and the marriage-bed ; And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they steer, Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear; And when their sins they set sincerely down, They'll find that their religion has been one,

Others with wistful eyes on glory look, When they have got their picture towards a book: Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign, Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine. If at his title T

T

had dropp'd his quill, might have pass'd for a great genius still. But T- alas! (excuse him, if you can) Is now a scribbler, who was once a man. Imperious some a classic fame demand, For heaping up, with a laborious hand, A waggon load of meanings for one word, While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restored.

Some, for renown, on scraps of learning doat, And think they grow immortal as they quote. To patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd; Both strive to make our poverty our pride.

On glass how witty is a noble peer! Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Polite diseases make some idiots vain; Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Horace.

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see ; And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery; Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean, By spitting on your face, to make it clean.

Nor is 't enough all hearts are swoln with pride, Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can she not perform? The Love of Fame Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame: Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep: And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep. Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed, Though her lov'd lord has four half-months beendead, This passion with a pimple have I seen. Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen, By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!) Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot. It makes Globose a speaker in the house; He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.

It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.

Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin?
My growing subject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, 1 kindle as I run.

Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line;
Though for the first all Westminster should plead,

And for the last all Gresham intercede.

Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room : He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet, By heraldry, prov'd valiant or discreet : With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three descents less wise! If virtues at his noble hands you crave, You bid him raise his father's from the grave. Men should press foward in Fame's glorious chace? Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high birth triumph! What can be more great; Nothing-but merit in a low estate.

To virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lyes,

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge,
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.

Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone. Mean sons of earth, who on a South-sea tide Of full success, swam into wealth and pride. Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate, And beg to be descended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause!
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!
In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll out-do;
And Burlington, thy taste is not so true.

The pile is finish'd; every toil is past;
And full perfection is arriv'd at last ;
When to my lord to some small corner runs,
And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay,
Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain, what is many a lordly seat,
But a discharge in full for an estate ?

In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame:
Not Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known;
Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.
The bailiffs come (rude men prophanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, sirs," he cries; "P'll sooner rot in jail :
Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"
Such heads might make their very bustos laugh:
His daughter starves; but Cleopatra's safe".

Men, overloaded with a large estate,
May spill their treasure in a nice cenceit :
The rich may be polite; but, oh! 't is sad

To say you're curious, when we swear you're mad.
By your revenue measure your expense;
And to your funds and acres join your sense.
No man is bless'd by accident or guess ;
True wisdom is the price of happiness:
Yet few without long discipline are sage;
Aud our youth only lays up sighs for age.
But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire ;-it abounds in lords.
"What lords are those saluting with a grin ?"
One is just out, and one as lately in.
"How comes it then to pass we see preside
On both their brows an equal share of pride?"
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.
As in its home it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their hands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign; and turns their wands,
Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,
With pride inverted, of their honours lost.
But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,
The boast of merely being out, or in.

What numbers here, through odd ambition, strive
To seem the most transported things alive?
As if by joy, desert was understood:
And all the fortunate were wise and good.
Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,
And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.
Completely dress'd by Monteuil and grimace,
They take their birth-day suit and public face:
Their smiles are only part of what they wear.
Put off at night, with lady B- -'s hair.
What bodily fatigue is half so bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.
What numbers, here, would into fame advance,
Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance;
The tavern! park! assembly! mask! and play!
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!
Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.
Fools grin on fools, and, stoic-like, support.
Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.

Courts can give nothing to the wise and good,
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.
High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:
None think the great unhappy, but the great:
Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,
Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and show ;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there:
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest
The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest ;
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows ;
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
But some, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill,
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still :
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The squire is proud to see his coursers strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.
Say, dear Hippolytus, (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,
Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone;
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypsy you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have said,
And then ask pardon for the jest you made.

Here breathe, my Muse! and then thy task renew:
Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind ;
Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding-up?

Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame♣
Such and such only, might exhaust my theme:
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad,
For who can write so fast as men ryp mad?

SATIRE HI.

My Muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end ;
Though toils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gods make other poems fine;
Plain Satire calls for sense in every line:
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When such the foe, a war eternal wage;
'Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage:
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.

So weak are human-kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd.
Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe

Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.

Thou, like the Sun, all colours dost contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every soul finds reason to be proud,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolytus demands the sylvan crown;
But Florio's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!

Why teems the Earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the Sun? To make Paul Diack rise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good;
What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph so fair?
He dotes! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.

In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,
OC! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd, all;
Beware, O florist, thy ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame;
A Quaker serv'd him, Adam was his name;
To one lov'd tulip oft the master went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ;
But came, and miss'd it one ill-fated hour:
He rag'd! he roar'd! "What demon cropt my
flower?"

Serene, quoth Adam, "Lo! 'twas crush'd by me; Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee."

But all men want amusement; and what crime In such a Paradise to fool their time?

None: but why proud of this? To fame they soar: We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.

We smile at florists, we despise their joy, And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy :, But are those wiser whom we most admire, Survey with envy, and pursue with fire? What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or power? Another Florio doting on a flower!

A short-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung From sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?
The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.

How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 't is hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard;
And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to some peculiar end design'd,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind;
Or is at best a secondary aim,

A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
If so, sure they who the mere volume prize
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.
On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection! what is to be done?
He sells his last; for he the whole will buy;
Sells e'en his house; nay, wants whereon to lie:
So high the generous ardour of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.

VOL. XIII.

This refers to the first satire. The name of a tulip.

When terms were drawn, and brought him by the

clerk,

Lorenzo sign'd the bargain—with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,

As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
Not in his authors' liveries alone

Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:
Editions various, at high prices bought,
Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this cost another must succeed
To pay a sage, who says that he can read;
Who titles knows, and indexes has seen;
But leaves to Chesterfield what lies between;
Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,
And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Stanhope, whose accomplishments make good The promise of a long-illustrious blood,

In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
The strictest honour and the finest taste!
Accept this verse; if Satire can agree
With so consummate an humanity.

By your example would Hilario mend ;
How would it grace the talents of my friend,
Who, with the charms of his own genius smit,
Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit!
But time his fervent petulance may cool;
For though he is a wit, he is no fool.
In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like doom's-day, all the faults of all mankind.

What though wit tickles? tickling is unsafe,
If still 't is painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword;
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set:
Their want of edge from their offence is seen;
Roth pain us least when exquisitely keen.
The fame men give is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.

Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit,
To pay my compliment, what place so fit?
His most facetious letters 3 came to hand,
Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand:
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou, a fool, or knave?
For all but such with caution I forbore;
That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before :
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No mask so good, but Marcus must shine through:
False names are vain, thy lines their author

tell;

Thy best concealment had been writing well:
But thou a brave neglect of fame hast shown,
Of other's fame, great genius! and thy own
Write on unheeded; and this maxim know,
The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull
Their peevish reason; vain of being dull;
When some home joke has stung their solemn souls,
In vengeance they determine-to be fools;
Through spleen, that little Nature gave, make less,
Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness;

Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus,

C &

To lumps inanimate a fondness take;
And disinherit sons that are awake.
These, when their utmost venom they would spit,
Most barbarously tell you-"He's a wit."
Poor negroes, thus, to show their burning spite
To cacodemons, say, they're devilish white.

Lampridius, from the bottom of his breast,
Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest.
How just his grief! one carries in his head
A less proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without special grace,
To rise above a justice of the peace.
The dunghill-breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white,
Who with much pains, exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his shillings, pounds, and pence.
The booby father craves a booby son;
And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea;
One learns to lisp; another not to see:
Miss D, tottering, catches at your hand:
Was ever thing so pretty born to stand?

Whilst these, what Nature gave, disown through pride,

Others affect what Nature has denied ;
What Nature has denied, fools will pursue :
As apes are ever walking upon two.

Crassus, a grateful sage, our awe and sport!
Supports grave forms; for forms the sage support.
He hems; and cries, with an important air,
"If yonder clouds withdraw, it will be fair:"
Then quotes the Stagyrite, to prove it true;
And adds, "The learn'd delight in something new."
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 skreen;
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 com nend, 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 heau. 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 artíst, long inur'd 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-swoln 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 4." 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 THOυ 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.

• Milton.