He makes no noise in Parliament, 'tis true,
But
pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due:
His character and gloves are ever clean,
And then he can out-bow the bowing Dean :
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,
Which equally the wise and worthless shares.
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belief,

Most charitably lends the Town his face,
For ornament in ev'ry public place:
As sure as cards he to th' assembly comes,
And is the furniture of drawing rooms:

When Ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,
And, join'd to two, he fails not to make three.
Narcissus is the glory of his race,

For who does nothing with a better grace?
To deck my list by Nature were design'd
Such shining expletives of humankind.

Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along,
Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.

To counterpoise this hero of the mode,

Some for renown are singular and odd;
What other men dislike is sure to please,
Of all mankind, these dear antipodes :

Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still,
And birthdays are their days of dressing ill.

S-ly will fright you, E———— engage:

By Nature streams run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and S- -x is the worst of friends.
They take their rest by day, and wake by night,
And blush if you surprise them in the right;
If they by change blurt out, ere well aware,
A swan is white, or Q- -y is fair.

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out ;
His passion for absurdity's so strong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong.

Tho' wrong the mode, comply: more sense is shewn
In wearing others' follies than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime
That S- the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances,
And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,
Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!

How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat which Joseph never wore!

He shews, on holidays, a sacred pin

That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's chin.

"Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, "Since that great plague that swept as many more, "Was ever year unbless'd as this?" he'll cry, "It has not brought us one new butterfly!" In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Unhappy I-y! how came you to please? Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game, But in effect his chase is much the same: Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great, Staunch to the foot of title and estate : Where'er their lordships go, they never find Or Lico or their shadows lag behind; He sets them sure where'er their lordships run, Close at their elbows, as a morning-dun ; As if their grandeur by contagion wrought, And fame was, like a fever, to be caught: But after seven years dance from place to place The Dane* is more familiar with his Grace.

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer, Or living pendent dangling at his ear,

For over whisp'ring secrets which were blown For months before, by trumpets thro' the Town! Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,

Still to reflect the temper of his face ?

Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,

When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave?

* A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyle.

Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
To loll or thump it for his better ease?
Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke,

When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?
Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not find
His lordship's jest, or, if his nose broke wind?
For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,
That can cry chimney-sweep, or drive a plough?
With terms like these how mean the tribe that close?
Scarce meaner they who terms like these impose.
But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;
The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold
Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold;
All men they flatter, but themselves the most,
With deathless fame their everlasting boast :
For fame no cully makes so much her jest,
As her old constant spark, the bard profest.
"B-le shines in council, Mt in the fight,
“P—l—m's magnificent, but I can write,
"And what to my great soul like glory dear?"
Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
That fame's unwholesome taken without meat,
And life is best sustain❜d by what is ate :
Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,
And wishes all his wants were in his wit.

Ah! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,
That his triumphant name adorns a post?
Or that his shining page (provoking Fate)
Defends sirloins, which sons of Dulness eat?
What foe to verse without compassion hears,
What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,
When the poor Muse, for less than half a-crown,
A prostitute on ev'ry bulk in Town,

With other whores undone, tho' not in print,
Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint?

Ye Bards! why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?
Ye Bards! why will you starve to be admir'd?
Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,
Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?
Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,
Like hair, will sprout altho' the poet's dead.

All other trades demand, verse-makers beg.
A dedication is a wooden leg,

A barren label, the true mumper's fashion,
Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.
Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;
Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend.
"Is't then a crime to write ?"-If talent rare
Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:
For some, tho' few, there are, large-minded men,
Who watch unseen the labours of the pen :

VOL. IV.