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 F-t-n's self more Parian charms has known, Nor is good Pb-ke more in love with stone. The bailiffs come, (rude men, profanely bold!) And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
“No, Sirs,” he cries; "I'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 conceit :
The rich may be polite; but oh! 'tis 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,
And 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 thro' 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 wands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign, and turn 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
To boast of merely being out or in.
What numbers here, thro' 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:
*A famous taylor.
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! the saunter of the Town! Call it diversion, and the pill goes down. Fools grin on fools, and, Stoick-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 no 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 bless'd;
On ev'ry thorn delightful wisdom grows,
In ev'ry rill a sweet instruction flows:
But some, untaught, o’erhear the whisp'ring 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 Hippolitus! (whose drink is ale, Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,
Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon his back)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on a tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? let Ringwood's fame alone;
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own,
Nor envies when a gipsy 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-athiests 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 Scr-pe 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 run mad?
MY Muse! proceed, and reach thy destin❜d end,
Tho' toil and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gods make other poems fine,
Plain satire calls for sense in ev'ry 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 illnature to repress thy rage;
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