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These all their care expand on outward show
For wealth and fame; for fame alone the beau.
Of late at White's was young Florello scen :
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 artist 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 nighty soul was fir'd.
The well-swoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame :
His sumptnous watch-case, tho' 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 seeining chance he throws his eye
On mirrors flushing with his Tyrian dye,
With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!
But fate ordains the dearest friends must part.
In active measures brought from France he

And triumphs conscious of his learned heels.
So have I seen, on some bright summer's day,
A calf of genius, debonair 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?)
Levell'd her barbarous needle at his fame.
But open force was vain; by night she went,
And when he slept surpris'd the darling rent;
Where yawn'd the frize is now become a doubt,
And glory at one entrance quite shut out *.

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


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, Forello, thou my monitor shall be; I conjure thus some profit out of thee.

O thou, myself! abroad our counsels roam, And, like all husbands, take no care at home. Come from thyself, and a by-stander be; With others' eyes thy own deportment see; And while their ails thou dost with pity view, Conceive, hard task, that thou art niortal too, 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, Thoù unambitious fool, at this late time? This noon of life? The seasons mend their pace, And with a nimbler step the season's chace; | 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.

And what so foolish as the chace of Fame? How vain the prize: how impotent our aim ! For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, But bubbles on the rapid stream of time, That rise and fall, and swell, and are no more, Born and forgot, ten thousand in an hour! Should this verse live, O Lumley! may it be A monument of gratitude to thee: Whose early favor I must own with shame, So long my patron, and so late my theme.

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To the Right Honorable Mr. Dodington. Tanto major Fama sitis est, quam

Juv. SAT. 10.


LONG, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought
To ease the burthen of my grateful thought:
And now a poet's gratitude you see-
Grant him two favors, and he 'll ask for three;
For whose the present glory or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain,
You love, and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,
You read with all the malice of a friend;
Nor favor my attempts that way alone,
But more to raise my verse, conceal your own.
All ill-tim'd modesty! Turn ages o'er,
When wanted Britain bright examples more?
Her learning and her genius too decays,
And dark and cold are her declining days;
As if men now were of another cast,
They meanly live on alms of ages post.
Men still are men, and they who boldly dare,
Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;
Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Of such who run in debt for their disgrace:
Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,
Aud damn it with improvements of their


* Milton.

We bring some new materials, and what's old New-cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould,


"Your work is long," the critics cry: 'tis true,
And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:
Shorten my labor, if its length you blanc :
For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game :
As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,
Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.

Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;
They know a thousand lords behind their backs.
Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,
When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;
And Hervey's eyes, unmercifully keen,
Have murder'd fops by whom she ne'er was seen;
Niger adopts stray libels, wisely prone
To covet shame still greater than his own;
Bathyllus in the winter of threescore
Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.
Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,
Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;
Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,
And takes a memorandum to forget.
Thus vain, nor knowing what adorns or blots,
Men forge the patents that create them sots.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,
That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,
Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critics' rage,
And with the fell destroyer feed my page.
For what ambitious fools are more to blame
Than those who plunder in the critic's name?
Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,
To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,
Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,
Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!
Ye doctors sage, who thro' Parnassus teach,
Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.
But whence for praise can such an ardor rise,
When those who bring that incense we despise!
For such the vanity of great and small,
Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.

One judges as the weather dictates; right
The poem is at noon, and wrong at night :
Another judges by a surer gage,
An author's principles or parentage:
Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,
The poem, doubtless, must be written well :
Another judges by the writer's look:
Another judges for he bought the book: [keep,
Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to
Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.
Thus all will judge, and with one single aim;
To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.
The very best ambitiously advise,
Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.
None are at leisure others to reward:
They scarce will damn but out of self-regard.
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumph wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
Burn,hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.
Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown
Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?

Nor can ev'n Satire blame them, for 'tis true
They must have ample cause for what they do.
O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant
A nurse of fools to stock the Continent
Tho' Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,
Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow:
The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,
Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;
A Welch descent which well-paid heralds damn;
Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.
When cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen;
In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.
See! Tityrus with merriment possest,
Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest;
What need he stay? for, when the joke is o'er,
His teeth will be no whiter than before.
Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,
That you need purchase monkies for your mirth?

Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;
Of houses some, nay, houses that they hire;
Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife,
And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.

Sometimes thro' pride the sexes change their
My lord has vapors, and my lady swears: [airs;
Then (stranger still!) on turning of the wind,
My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.

Not all on books their criticism waste;
The genius of a dish some justly taste,
And eat their way to fame! with anxious thought
The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.
Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay,
And bids December yield the fruits of May.
Their various cares in one great point combine
The business of their lives, that is —— to dine;
Half of their precious day they give the feast,
And to a kind digestion spare the rest.
Apicius, here, the taster of the town,
Feeds twice a-week, to settle their renown.
These worthies of the palate guard with care
The sacred annals of their bills of fare;
In those chose books their panegyrics read,
And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed;
If man, by feeding well, commences great,
Much more the worm, to whom that man is

To show the strength and infamy of pride,
By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.
What numbers are there who at once pursue
Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!
Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;
Makes his approach in modesty's disguise
To win applause, and takes it by surprise:


To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate;"
You know your answer- he's exact in great.
"Mystyle," says he, “is rude, and full of faults;"
But, oh what sense! what energy of thoughts!
That he wants algebra he must confess,
But not a soul to give our arms success.

To glory some advance a lying claim, [meat."Ah! that's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries, Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame! "But who in heat of blood was ever wise?

Late times the verse may read, if these refuse,
And from sour critics vindicate the Muse.

"I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd "me back,


"To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd attack;
All say 'twas madness, nor dare I deny;
"Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."
Could this deceive in others, to be free,
It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee,
Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue
So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.
Thou in one suit wilt thy revenue wear,
And haunt the Court, without a prospect there.
Are these expedients for renown? confess
Thy little self, that I may scorn the less.

Be wise, Vincenna, and the Court forsake;
Our fortunes there nor thou nor I shall make.
Even men of merit, ere their point they gain,
In hardy service make a long campaign;
Most manfully besiege the patron's gate,
And, oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great
With painful art, and application warm,
And take at last some little place by storm;
Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,
And starve upon discreetly in Shire-lane.
Already this thy fortune can afford,
Then starve without the favor of my lord.
'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;
But often, even in doing right, they err:
From caprice, not from choice, their favors


When Britain calls, th’embroidered patriots run,
And serve their country-if the dance is done;
"Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"
Yes, doubtless, but first set your notions right.
Worth of politeness is the needful ground;
Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.
Triflers not even in trifles can excel;
'Tis solid bodies only polish well.

Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days,
To turn a willing world from righteous ways,
Well, Heideger, dost thou thy master serve;
Well has he seen his servant should not starve ;
Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd,
In various forms of worship seen him prais'd;
Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown;
And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown,
Inferior off'rings to thy god of vice
Are duly paid in fiddles, cards, and dice;
Thy sacrifice supreme an hundred maids!'
That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!
If maids the quite exhausted town denies,
An hundred head of cuckolds must suffice.
Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted
To see the fifty churches at a stand. [land,

And, that thy minister may never fail,
But what thy hand has planted still prevail,
Of minor prophets a succession sure,
The propagation of thy zeal secure.


See commons, peers, and ministers of state,
In solemn council met, and deep debate!
What godlike enterprise is taking birth?
What wonder opens on th' expecting earth?
'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings;
Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings!

Tho' bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths
like these,

Wilt none offend whom 'tis a praise to please;
Let others flatter to be flatter'd'; thou,
Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.
How terrible it were to common sense,
To write a Satire which gave none offence!
And, since from life I take the draughts you see,
If men dislike them, do they censure me?
Oh then, my Muse! and fools and knaves expose;
And, since thou canst not make a friend, make foes.
The fool and knave 'tis glorious to offend,
And godlike an attempt the world to mend ;
The world, where lucky throws to blockheads

They give, but think it toil to know to whom
The man that's nearest, yawning they advance;
Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.
If inerit sues and greatness is so loth
To break its downy trance, I pity both.

I grant, at Court, Philander at his need
(Thanks to his lovely wife!) finds friends indeed.
Of ev'ry charm and virtue she's possest.
Philander! thou art exquisitely blest,
The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd,
The man is found who may be justly proud.
But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!
Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast.
For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,
In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.

Some nymphs sell reputation, others buy,
And love a market where the rates run high.
Italian music's sweet because 'tis dear;
Their vanity is tickled, not their ear;
Their tastes would lessen, if the prices fell,
And Shakspeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;
Away the disenchanted fair would throng,
And own that English is their mother tongue.

To show how much our northern tastes refine,
Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine;
While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay;
For generous lords had rather give than pay.
Q lavish land for sound at such expence;
But then she saves it in her bills for sense.

Music I passionately love, 'tis plain,
Since for its sake such dramas I sustain.
An opera, like a pillory, may be said
To nail our ears down, but expose our head.
Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!
The legislature join'd with Drury-lane.

Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.
How hard for real worth to gain its price!
A man shall make his fortune in a trice,
If blest with pliant tho' but slender sense,
Feign'd modesty, and real impudence.
A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace,
A curse within, a smile upon his face,
A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,
Are prizes in the lottery of life;
Genius and virtue they will soon defeat,
And lodge you in the bosom of the great.
To merit, is but to provide a pain
From men's refusing what you ought to gain.
May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,
Whoin my presaging thoughts already view,


Just as their mercury is high or low.

By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd, | Such useful instruments the weather show,
Still higher in your prince's favor plac'd;
And lending here those awful council's aid,
Which you abroad with such success obey'd ;
Bear this from one who holds your friendship dear;
What most we wish, with case we fancy near.

Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark ;
A fever argues better than a Clarke;
Let but the logic in his pulse decay,
The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray;
While C mourns with an unfeigned zeal
Th'apostate youth who reason'd once so well.
C who makes so merry with the Creed,
He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;
But only thinks so: to give both their due,
Satan and he believe and tremble too.


To the Right Honorable Sir Spencer Compton
Tanto major Fame sitis est, quam
Juv. SAT. 10.
ROUND Some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine

And breathes her sweets on thesupportingboughs:
So sweet the verse, th'ambitious verse, should be
(On pardon mine!) that hopes support from thee;
Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,
Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;
Deep to discern, and widely to survey,
And kingdoms' fates without ambition weigh;
Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,
The crown's asserter, and the people's friend.
Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,
To listen to the labors of the Muse:

Of some for glory such the boundless rage, That they 're the blackest scandal of their age.

Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;
Nay, a free-mason with some terror names:
Omits no duty, nor can envy say

He mis-'d these many years the church or play;
He makes no noise in parliament 'tis true;
But pays his debt and visit when 'tis due:
His character and gloves are ever clean;
And then, he can eutbow the bowing dean!
A smile eternal on his lips 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' assenibly 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 human kind,
Who want, while thro blank life they dreamalong,
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 birth-days are their days of dressing ill.
Arbuthnot is a fool, and F-
Sly will fright you, E-
By nature streamis run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and S-x is the worst of friends.

a sage,

Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire;
And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

Vex'd at a public fame so justly won,
The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone.
Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,
Devotes his service to the state and crown;
Allschemes he knows, and knowing all improves;
Tho' Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves.
But patriots differ: some may shed their blood,
He drinks his coffee, for the public good;
Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees
What storms or sunshine Providence decrees;
Knows for each day the weather of our fate:
A quidnunc is an almanack of state.

You smile, and think this statesman void of use,
Why may not time his secret worth produce?
Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut,
Since steeds of genius are expert at put,
Since half the senate "not content" can say,
Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.
What makes him model realms and counsel
An incapacity for smaller things. [kings?
Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,
And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.

They take their rest by day, and wake by night,
And blush if you surprise them in the right;
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,
A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.

Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,
And boldly claims a province higher still.
To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got
At once a Bible and a shoulder-knot;
Deep in the secret he looks thro' the whole
And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;
To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,
Nor shock his tender reason with the Creed.
Howe'er, well-bred, in public he complies,
Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

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'wrongthemode, comply; more sense is shown
In wearing others' follies than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.

Pecrage is poison, good estates are bad
For this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.
Have not attainders brought uphop'd relief, But what in oddness can be more sublime
And falling stocks quite cur'd at unbelief? [force; Than S, the foremost toyinan of his time?
While the Sun shines Blunt talks with wond'rous | His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse. 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 shows on holidays a sacred pin
That touch'd the ruff that touch'd queen Bese's
"Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,
"Since the great plague that swept as many inore,
Was ever year unblest as this?" he 'll cry;
It has hot brought us one new butterfly!
In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,
Unhappy --y! how came you to please?



Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game; But, in effect, his chace 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 pendant dangling at his ear, For ever 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 tempter of his face? Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve, When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it 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 cou'd 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

Scarce meaner they who terms like these impose.
But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
The men of ink, or antient 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.


Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight, "Pelham's magnificent -- but I can write; "And what's to my great soul like glory dear?" Till some god whispers in his tingling ear, That fame's unwholesome, taken without mat; And life is best sustain'd by what is eat: 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 every 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; And barren Labeo, 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 talents rare Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear; Eor some tho' few, there are large-minded men, Who watch unseen the labors of the pen, Who know the Muse's worth; and therefore court,

Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support,
Who serve unask'd the least pretence to wit;
My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
Will Harcourt pardon, if I dare commend
Harcourt, with zeal a patron and a friend?
Argyle true wit is studious to restore;
And Dorset smiles if Phoebus smil'd before.
Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,
And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.

But, ah! not inspiration can obtain The Fame which poets languish for in vain. How mad their aim who thirst for glory strive,. To grasp what no man can possess alive! Fame's a reversion in which men take place (O late reversion!) at their own decease. This truth sagacious Linot knows so well, He starves his authors, that their works may sell. That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry ; That wealth is fame, another clan reply, Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags: And swell in just proportion to their bags. Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old,. Think glory nothing but the beams of gold; The first young lord which in the Mall you


Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street,
From rescued candles ends who rais'd a sun,
And starves to join a penny to a plum.
A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknown
To former times, a scandal all our own!

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land. For love, young, noble, rich Castalio dies; Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes. Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down; No rival can prevail but---half-a-crown.

* A Danish dog.

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