Women were made to give our eyes delight;
A female sloven is an odious sight.

Fair Isabella is so fond of fame, That her dear self is her eternal theme; Through hopes of contradiction, oft she'll say, "Methinks I look so wretchedly to-day!" When most the world applauds you, most beware; 'Tis often less a blessing than a snare.

Distrust mankind; with your own heart confer;
And dread even there to find a flatterer.
The breath of others raises our renown;
Our own as surely blows the pageant down.
Take up no more than you by worth can claim,
Lest soon you prove a bankrupt in your fame.
But own I must, in this perverted age,
Who most deserve, can't always most engage.
So far is worth from making glory sure,
It often hinders what it should procure.
Whom praise we most? The virtuous, brave,

wise ?

No; wretches, whom, in secret, we despise. And who so blind, as not to see the cause? No rivals rais'd by such discreet applause; And yet, of credit it lays in a store,

By which our spleen may wound true worth the more.
Ladies there are who think one crime is all:
Can women, then, no way but backward fall ?
So sweet is that one crime they don't pursue,
To pay its loss, they think all others few.
Who hold that crime so dear, must never claim
Of injur'd modesty the sacred name.

But Clio thus: "What! railing without end? "Mean task! how much more generous to commend!"

Yes, to commend as you are wont to do,
My kind instructor, and example too.
"Daphnis," says Clio, "has a charming eye:
What pity 'tis her shoulder is awry!
Aspasia's shape indeed-But then her air-
The man has parts who finds destruction there.
Almeria's wit has something that's divine;

And wit's enough-how few in all things shine!
Selina serves her friends, relieves the poor-
Who was it said Selina's near threescore?
At Lucia's match I from my soul rejoice;
The world congratulates so wise a choice;
His lordship's rent-roll is exceeding great-
But mortgages will sap the best estate.
In Shirley's form might cherubims appear;
But then she has a freckle on her ear."
Without a but, Hortensia she commends,
The first of women, and the best of friends;
Owns her in person, wit, fame, virtue, bright;
But how comes this to pass?-She died last night.
Thus nymphs commend, who yet at satire rail :
Indeed that's needless, if such praise prevail.
And whence such praise? Our virulence is thrown
On others' fame, through fondness for our own.
Of rank and riches proud, Cleora frowns;
For are not coronets a-kin to crowns?
Her greedy eye, and her sublime address,
The height of avarice and pride confess.
You seek perfections worthy of her rank;
Go, seek for her perfections at the Bank.
By wealth unquench'd, by reason uncontrol'd,
For ever burns her sacred thirst of gold.
As fond of five-pence, as the veriest cit;
And quite as much detested as a wit.

Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?
Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine?

But some, great souls! and touch'd with warmth
divine,

Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine,
All hoarded treasures they repute a load;

Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'd.
Grand reservoirs of public happiness,
Through secret streams diffusively they bless;
And, while their bounties glide, conceal'd from
view,

Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too.
But Satire is my task; and these destroy
Her gloomy province, and malignant joy.
Help me, ye misers! help me to complain,
And blast our common enemy, Germain:
But our invectives must despair success;
For, next to praise, she values nothing less.

What picture's yonder, loosen'd from its frame?
Or is 't Asturia, that affected dame?
The brightest forms, through affectation, fade
To strange new things, which Nature never made.
Frown not, ye fair! so much your sex we prize,
We hate those arts that take you from our eyes.
In Albucinda's native grace is seen

What you, who labour at perfection, mean.
Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease,
Retain your gentle selves, and you must please.
Here might I sing of Meminia's mincing mien,
And all the movements of the soft machine:
How two red lips affected Zephyrs blow,
To cool the bohea, and inflame the beau:
While one white finger and a thumb conspire
To lift the cup, and make the world admire.
Tea! how I tremble at thy fatal stream!
As Lethe, dreadful to the Love of Fame.
What devastations on thy banks are seen!
What shades of mighty names which once have been!
A hecatomb of characters supplies

Thy painted altars' daily sacrifice.

H, P, B——, aspers'd by thee, decay,
As grains of finest sugars melt away,
And recommend thee more to mortal taste;
Scandal's the sweetner of a female feast.

But this inhuman triumph shall decline, -
And thy revolting Naiads call for wine;
Spirits no longer shall serve under thee;
But reign in thy own cup, exploded tea !

Citronia's nose declares thy ruin nigh,
And who dares give Citronia's nose the lie?
The ladies long at men of drink exclaim'd,
And what impair'd both health and virtue, blam'd;
At length, to rescue man, the generous lass
Stole from her consort the pernicious glass;
As glorious as the British queen renown'd,
Who suck'd the poison from her husband's wound.
Nor to the glass alone are nymphs inclin'd,
But every bolder vice of bold mankind.

O Juvenal for thy severer rage!

To lash the ranker follies of our age.

Are there, among the females of our iste, Such faults, at which it is a fault to smile? There are.

Vice, once by modest nature chain'd And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd; Without thin decency held up to view, Naked she stalks o'er Law and Gospel too. Our matrons lead such exemplary lives, Men sigh inwain for none but for their wives; Who marry to be free, to range the more, And wed one man, to wanton with a score. Abroad too kind, at home 't is steadfast hate, And one eternal tempest of debate. What foul eruptions, from a look most meek! What thunders bursting, from a dimpled cheek! Their passions bear it with a lofty hand! But then, their reason is at due command. Is there whom you detest, and seek his life? Trust no soul with the secret-but his wife. Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn, And ask, what kindred is a spouse to them? What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see! And misses, ancient in iniquity!

What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming!

What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming!
Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence;
Such griping avarice, such profuse expense;
Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes;
Such licens'd ill, such masquerading times;
Such venal faith, such misapplied applause;
Such flatter' guilt, and such inverted laws!
Such dissolution through the whole I find,
"T is not a world, but chaos of mankind.
Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dress'd belle
Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of Hell;
And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all
Who listen less to Collins than St. Paul.
Atheists have been but rare; since Nature's birth,
Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on Earth.
Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs
This daring character, in timorous things?
Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,
A match for nothing-but the Deity.
But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must own
In this pursuit they court not fame alone;
But join to that a more substantial view,
"From thinking free, to be free agents too."
They strive with their own hearts, and keep them
down,

In complaisance to all the fools in town.
O how they tremble at the name of prude!
And die with shame at thought of being good!
For what will Artimis, the rich and gay,
What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs, say?
They Heaven defy, to Earth's vile dregs a slave;
Through cowardice, most execrably brave.
With our own judgments durst we to comply,
In virtue should we live, in glory die.

Rise then, my Muse, in honest fury rise ;
They dread a satire, who defy the skies.

Atheists are few most nymphs a Godhead own;
And nothing but his attributes dethrone.
From atheists far, they steadfastly believe
God is, and is Almighty-to forgive.
His other excellence they'll not dispute;
But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.
Shall pleasures of a short duration chain
A lady's soul in everlasting pam?

Will the great Author us poor worms destroy,
For now and then a sip of transient joy?
No, he's for ever in a smiling mood;

He's like themselves; or how could he be good?
And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.
Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose,

The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead,
A deity, that's perfectly well-bred.

"Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men;
Nor thought he more, than thought great. Origen,
Though once upon a time he misbehav'd;
Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be sav'd.
Let priests do something for their one in ten;
It is their trade; so far they're honest men.
Let them cant on, since they have got the knack,
And dress their notions, like themselves, in black;
Fright us with terrours of a world unknown,
From joys of this, to keep them all their own.
Of Earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee;
But then they leave our untith'd virtue free.
Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show:
Did ever mortal write like Rouchefoucault ?”
Thus pleads the Devil's fair apologist,
And, pleading, safely enters on his list.

Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain;
Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane.
For what's true beauty, but fair virtue's face?
Virtue made visible in outward grace?
She, then, that's haunted with an impious mind,
The more she charms, the more she shocks mankind.
But charms decline: the fair long vigils keep :
They sleep no more! Quadrille has murder'd sleep.
"Poor K-p!" cries Livia; "I have not been there
These two nights; the poor creature will despair.
I hate a crowd-but to do good, you know—

| And people of condition should bestow."
Convinc'd, o'ercome, to K-p's grave matrons ruir;
Now set a daughter, and now stake a son;
Let health, fame, temper, beauty, fortune, fly;
And beggar half their race-through charity.
Immortal were we, or else mortal quite,

I less should blame this criminal delight:
But since the gay assembly's gayest room
Is but an upper story to some tomb,
Methinks, we need not our short being shun,
And, thought to fly, contend to be undone.
We need not buy our ruin with our crime,
And give eternity to murder time.

The love of gaming is the worst of ills;
With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills;
Inveighs at Heaven, neglects the ties of blood;
Destroys the power and will of doing good;
Kills health, pawns honour, plunges in disgrace,
And, what is still more dreadful-spoils your face.
See yonder set of thieves that live on spoil,
The scandal and the ruin of our isle!
And see (strange sight!) amid that ruffian band,
A form divine high wave her snowy hand;

1 Shakespeare.

The Grecian chief, th' enthusiast of his pride, With Rage and Terrour stalking by his side, Raves round the globe; he soars into a god! Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod. The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns, And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains. What slaughter'd hosts! what cities in a blaze! What wasted countries! and what crimson seas ! With orphans' tears his impious bowl o'erflows, And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose.

And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise The boisterous boy, and blast his guilty bays? Why want we then encomiums on the storm, Or famine, or volcano? They perform Their mighty deeds; they, hero-like, can slay, And spread their ample deserts in a day. O great alliance! O divine renown! With dearth, and pestilence, to share the crown. When men extol a wild destroyer's name, Earth's Builder and Preserver they blaspheme. One to destroy, is murder by the law; And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; To murder thousands, takes a specious name, War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.

When, after battle, the field have seen Spread o'er with ghastly shapes. which once were

men;

A nation crush'd, a nation of the brave!

A realm of death! and on this side the grave!
Are there, said I, who from this sad survey,
This human chaos, carry smiles away?
How did my heart with indignation rise!
How honest nature swell'd into my eyes!
How was I shock'd to think the hero's trade
Of such materials, fame and triumph, made!

How guilty these! Yet not less guilty they,
Who reach false glory by a smoother way;
Who wrap destruction up in gentle words,
And bows, and smiles, more fatal than their swords;
Who stifle nature, and subsist on art;
Who coin the face, and petrify the heart;
All real kindness for the show discard,
As marble polish'd, and as marble hard;
Who do for gold what Christians do through grace,
"With open arms their enemies embrace;"
Who give a nod when broken hearts repine;
"The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine:"
Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd,
And, in their height of kindness, are unkind.
Such courtiers were, and such again may be,
Walpole, when men forget to copy thee.

Here cease, my Muse! the catalogue is writ; Nor one more candidate for fame admit, Though disappointed thousands justly blame Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim: Be this their comfort, fools, omitted here, May furnish laughter for another year. Then let Crispino, who was ne'er refus'd The justice yet of being well abus'd, With patience wait; and be content to reign The pink of puppies in some future strain.

Some future strain, in which the Muse shall

How Versus is less qualified to steal
With sword and pistol, than with wax and seak
How lawyers' fees to such excess are run,
That clients are redress'd till they're undone.
How one man's anguish is another's sport;
And e'en denials cost us dear at court.

How man eternally false judgments makes,
And all his joys and sorrows are mistakes.

This swarm of themes that settles on my pen, Which I, like summer flies, shake off again, Let others sing; to whom my weak essay But sounds a prelude, and points out their prey: That duty done, I hasten to complete My own design; for Tonson's at the gate.

The Love of Fame in its effect survey'd, The Muse has sung: be now the cause display'd : Since so diffusive, and so wide its sway, What is this power, whom all mankind obey?

Shot from above, by Heaven's indulgence, came
This generous ardour, this unconquer'd flame,
To warm, to raise, to deify, mankind,
Still burning brightest in the noblest mind.
By large-soul'd men, for thirst of fame renown'd,
Wise laws were fram'd, and sacred arts were found;
Desire of praise first broke the patriot's rest;
And made a bulwark of the warrior's breast;
It bids Argyll in fields and senate shine :
What more can prove its origin divine?

But oh! this passion planted in the soul,
On eagle's wings to mount her to the pole,
The flaming minister of virtue meant,
Set up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent,
Ambition, hence, exerts a doubtful force,
Of blots, and beauties, an alternate source;
Hence Gildon rails, that raven of the pit,
Who thrives upon the carcases of wit;
And in art-loving Scarborough is seen
How kind a pattern Pollia might have been.
Pursuit of fame with pedants fills our schools,
And into coxcombs burnishes our fools;
Pursuit of fame makes solid learning bright,
And Newton lifts above a mortal height;
That key of Nature, by whose wit she clears
Her long, long secrets of five thousand years.

Would you then fully comprehend the whole, Why, and in what degrees, pride sways the soul ! (For, though in all, not equally she reigns) Awake to knowledge, and attend my strains.

Ye doctors! hear the doctrine I disclose,
As true, as if 't were writ in dullest prose;
As if a letter'd dunce had said, ""T is right,"
And imprimatur usher'd it to light.

Ambition, in the truly noble mind,
With Sister-virtue is for ever join'd;
As in fam'd Lucrece, who, with equal dread,
From guilt and shame, by her last conduct, fied:
Her virtue long rebell'd in firm disdain,
And the sword pointed at her heart in vain ;
But, when the slave was threaten'd to be laid
Dead by her side, her Love of Fame obey'd.
In meaner minds Ambition works alone;
But with such art puts Virtue's aspect on,
That not more like in feature and in mien,
The God and mortal in the comic scene1.
False Julius, Ambush'd in this fair disguise,
Soon made the Roman liberties his prize.

No mask in basest minds Ambition wears, But in full light pricks up her ass's ears:

Amphitryon.

All I have sung are instances of this,

And prove my theme unfolded not amiss.
Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife;
Be wise, and quit the false sublime of life.
The true ambition there alone resides,
Where justice vindicates, and wisdom guides;
Where inward dignity joins outward state;
Our purpose good, as our achievement great;
Where public blessings public praise attend;
Where glory is our motive, not our end.
Wouldst thou be fam'd? Have those high deeds
in view

Brave men would act, though scandal should ensue. Behold a prince! whom no swoln thoughts inflame;

No pride of thrones, no fever after fame:
But when the welfare of mankind inspires,
And death in view to dear-bought glory fires,
Proud conquests then, then regal pomps delight;
Then crowns, then triumphs, sparkle in his sight;
Tumult and noise are dear, which with them bring
His people's blessings to their ardent king:
But, when those great heroic motives cease,
His swelling soul subsides to native peace;
From tedious grandeur's faded charms withdraws,
A sudden foe to splendour and applause;
Greatly deferring his arrears of fame,
Till men and angels jointly shout his name.
O pride celestial! which can pride disdain;
O blest ambition! which can ne'er be vain.

From one fam'd Alpine hill, which props the sky,
In whose deep womb unfathom❜d waters lie,
Here burst the Rhone and sounding Po; there shine,
In infant rills, the Danube and the Rhine;
From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies,
Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests rise.

In Brunswick such a source the Muse adores, Which public blessings through half Europe pours. When his heart burns with such a godlike aim, Angels and George are rivals for the fame; George, who in foes can soft affections raise, And charm envenom'd satire into praise.

Nor human rage alone his power perceives,
But the mad winds, and the tumultuous waves.
E'en storms (Death's fiercest ministers!) forbear,
And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare.
Thus, Nature's self, supporting man's decree,
Styles Britain's sovereign, sovereign of the sea.
While sea and air, great Brunswick! shook our
state,

And sported with a king's and kingdom's fate,
Depriv'd of what she lov'd, and press'd by fear
Of ever losing what she held most dear,
How did Britannia, like Achilles, weep,
And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep!
Hang o'er the floods, and, in devotion warm,
Strive, for thee, with the surge, and fight the

storm!

What felt thy Walpole, pilot of the realm! Our Palinurus slept not at the helm ; His eye ne'er clos'd; long since inur'd to wake, And out-watch every star for Brunswick's sake: By thwarting passions tost, by cares opprest, He found the tempest pictur'd in his breast: But, now, what joys that gloom of heart dispel, No powers of language-but his own, can tell; His own, which Nature and the Graces form, At will, to raise, or hush the civil storm.

VOL. XIII.

2 The king in danger by sea

OCEAN;

AN ODE:

OCCASIONED BY

HIS MAJESTY'S ROYAL ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE SEA SERVICE.

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED

AN ODE TO THE KING;

AND

A DISCOURSE ON ODE.

I THINK myself obliged to recommend to you a consideration of the greatest importance; and I should look upon it as a great happiness, if, at the beginning of my reign, I could see the foundation laid of so great and necessary a work, as the increase and encouragement of our seamen in general; that they may be invited, rather than compelled by force and violence, to enter into the service of their country, as oft as occasion shall require it: a consideration worthy the representatives of a people great and flourishing in trade and navigation. This leads me to mention to you the case of Greenwich Hospital, that care may be taken, by some effectual that charitable provision for the support addition to that fund, to render comfortable and and maintenance of our seamen, worn out, and become decrepit by age and infirmities, in the service of their country. [Speech, Jan. 27, 1727-8.]