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D)... de Med Howard, whom his baiskes sizes 150
Manave bad mach ado to 'scape the staze,
And little Sid, for simile renown'd,
kept too long.
For never hermit under grave presence,
Rochester I despise for want of wit,
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times 190 Had fam'd for dulness in malicious rhymes.
Mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the snare, Tho' learn'd in all those arts that cheat the fair; For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks; 195 Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes. To see him catch his Tartar for his prize; Th' impatient Town waited the wish'd-for change, And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge ; Till Petworth-plot made us with sorrow see, 200 As his estate, his person too, was free: Him vo soft thoughts, no gratitudę could move; To gold he fled from beauty and from love; Yet failing there, he keeps his freedom still, Forc'd to live happily against his will.
205 'Tis not his fault if too much wealth and pow'r Break not his boasted quiet ev'ry hour.
And little Sid, for simile renown'd, Pleasure has always sought but never found: Tho' all his thoughts on wine and women fall, 210 His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all. The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong ; His meat and mistresses are kept too long. But sure we all mistake this pious man, Who mortifies his person all he can i : 215 What we uncharitably take for sin, Are only rules of this odd Capuchin :
For never hermit under grave pretence,
cups this night-bird chirping sits, "Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Rochester I despise for want of wit, Tho' thought to have a tail and cloven feet ; For while he mischief means to all mankind, 230 Himself alone the ill effects does find; And so, like witches, justly suffers shame, Whose harmless malice is so much the same. False are his words, affected is his wit; So often he does aim, so seldom hit; To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks, But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks : Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb, Manners themselves are mischievous in him: A proof that Chance alone makes ev'ry creature ; 240 A very Killigrew, without good nature ; For what a Bessus has he always liv'd, And his own kickings notably contriv'd ? For, there's the folly that's still mix'd with fear, Cowards more blows than any hero bear.
Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say,
penance still : Falsely he falls into some dang'rous noose, 250 And then as meanly labours to get loose. A life so infamous is better quitting, Spent in base injury and low submitting. I'd lik'd to have left out his poetry, Forgot hy all almost as well as me.
255 Sometimes he has some humour, never wit, And if it rarely, very rarely, hit, 'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid, To find it out's the cinder-woman's trade, Who for the wretched remnants of a fire, 260 Must toil all day in ashes and in mire. So lewdly dull his idle works appear, The wretched texts deserve no comments here, Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone, For a whole page of dulness must atone. 265
How vain a thing is Man, and how unwise! E'en he who would himself the most despise ! 1, who so wise and humble seem'd to be. Now my own vanity and pride can't see. While the world's nonsense is so sharply shown, 270 We pull down others, but to raise our own; That we may angels seem we paint them elves, And are but satires to set up ourselves.