Senfe is requir'd the depth of things to reach,
And money gives authority to fpeech.
• A man of bus'nefs won't 'till evening dine,
Abstains from women, company, and wine:
From Fig's new theatre he'll miss a night,
Though cocks, and bulls, and Irish women fight:
Nor fultry fun, nor ftorms of foaking rain,
The man of bus'nefs from the house detain :
Nor speaks he for no reafon but to say,
I am a member, and I fpoke to-day.
I speak fometimes, you'll hear his lordship cry,
Because some speak that have lefs fenfe than I.
f The man that has both land and money too,
May wonders in a trading borough do:
They'll praise his ven'fon, and commend his port,
Turn their two former members into sport,
And, if he likes it, fatirize the court.
Nec rude quid profit video ingenium: alterius fic
Altera pofcit opem res, & conjurat amice.
Qui ftudet optatam curfu contingere metam,
Multa tulit fecitque puer; fudavit & alfit,
Abftinuit venere & vino.
Nunc fatis eft dixiffe, Ego mira poëmata pango :
Occupet extremum fcabies, mihi turpe relinqui eft,
Et, quod non didici, fane nefcire fateri.
Affentatores jubet ad lucrum ire Poëta,
Dives agris, dives pofitis in fœnore nummis.
Si vero eft unctum qui recte ponere poffit,
Et fpondere levi pro paupere, & eripere atris
Litibus implicitum, mirabor, fi fciet inter-
But at a feaft 'tis difficult to know
From real friends an undiscover'd foe;
The man that swears he will the poll secure,
And pawns his foul that your election's fure,
Suspect that man: beware, all is not right,
He's ten to one a corporation-bite.
Alderman Pond, a downright honeft man,
Would fay, I cannot help you, or I can :
To spend your money, fir, is all a jeft;
Matters are fettled, fet your heart at reft :
We've made a compromife, and, fir, you know,
That fends one member high, and t'other low.
But if his good advice you would not take,
He'd fcorn your fupper, and your punch forfake,
Leave you of mighty intereft to brag,
And poll two voices like fir Robert Fag.
nofcere mendacem verumque beatus amicum.
Tu feu donaris, feu quid donare voles cui,
Nolito ad verfus tibi factos ducere plenum
Lætitiæ clamabit enim, Pulchre, bene, recte!
fi carmina condes,
Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes.
■ Quintilio fi quid recitares, corrige, sodes,
Hoc, aiebat, & hoc: melius te poffe negares,
Bis terque expertum fruftra, delere jubebat.
Si defendere delictum, quam vertere, malles,
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam infumebat inanem,
Quin fine rivali teque & tua folus amares.
Parliamenteering is a fort of itch,
That will too oft unwary knights bewitch.
Two good eftates fir Harry Clodpole spent;
Sate thrice, but fpoke not once, in parliament;
Two good eftates are gone-Who'll take his word?
Oh! fhould his uncle die, he'd fpend a third;
He'd buy a house his happiness to crown,
Within a mile of fome good borough-town;
Tag, rag, and bobtail to fir Harry's run,
Men that have votes, and women that have none;
Sons, daughters, grandfons, with his honour dine;
He keeps a public-house without a fign.
Coblers and smiths extol th' enfuing choice,
And drunken taylors boast their right of voice.
Dearly the free-born neighbourhood is bought,
They never leave him while he's worth a groat:
So leeches flick, nor quit the bleeding wound,
'Till off they drop with skinfuls to the ground.
h Ut mala quem fcabies aut morbus regius urguet,
dicam, Siculique Poëtæ
Nec femel hoc fecit, nec fi retractus erit, jam
Fiet homo, & ponet famofæ mortis amorem.
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus.
Quem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo,
Non miffura cutem, nifi plena cruoris, hirudo.
Of Mr. POPE's on that Subject.
Hoe'er he be that to a Tafte afpires,
Let him read this, and be what he defires.
In men and manners vers'd from life I write,
Not what was once, but what is now polite.
Those who of courtly France have made the tour,
Can fcarce our English aukwardness endure.
But honeft men who never were abroad,
Like England only, and its Taste applaud.
Strife ftill fubfifts, which yields the better goût;
Books or the world, the many or the few.
True Taste to me is by this touchstone known,
That's always best that's nearest to my own.
To fhew that my pretenfions are not vain,
My father was a play'r in Drury-lane.
Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother fold,
He a dramatic poet, fhe a fcold.
His tragic Mufe could counteffes affright,
His wit in boxes was my lord's delight.
No mercenary prieft e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetic bands.
Laws my Pindaric parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.
My infant tears a fort of measure kept,
I fquall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept.
No youth did I in education waste,
Happy in an hereditary Tafte.
Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum.
My guts ne'er fuffer'd from a college cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.
Grammar in vain the sons of Priscian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech:
Since these declin'd, those undeclin'd they call,
I thank my stars, that I declin'd them all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence,
I trust to mother wit and father fenfe,
Nature's my guide, all fciences I fcorn,
Pains I abhor, I was a poet born.
Yet is my goût for criticifm fuch,
I've got fome French, and know a little Dutch.
Huge commentators grace my learned shelves,
Notes upon books out-do the books themselves.
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