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He fpares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like dooms-day, all the faults of all mankind.

What tho' wit tickles tickling is unfafe,
If ftill 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a fting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as feldom as your fword,
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in fmooth oil the razor beft is whet,
So wit is by politenefs fharpeft fet;
Their want of edge from their offence is feen;
Both pain us leaft when exquifitely keen.
The fame men give, is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jefter, when the joke's unkind.
Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himfelf a wit,
To pay my compliment what place fo fit?
His most facetious letters came to hand,
Which my firft Satire fweetly reprimand.
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou-a fool, or knave?
For all but fuch with caution I forbore;
That thou waft either, I ne'er knew before.
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who:
No mask fo good but Marcus muft fhine through;
Falfe names are vain, thy lines their author tell,
Thy beft concealment had been writing well;
But thou a brave neglect of Fame haft fhewn,
Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded, and this maxim know :
The man who pardons, difappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, fome proudly Jull
Their peevish reafon, vain of being dull; [fouls,
When fome home-joke has ftung their folemn
In vengeance they determine-to be fools;
Thro' Ipleen, that little nature gave, make lefs,
Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness;
To lumps inanimate a fondnefs take,
And difinherit fons that are awake.
Thefe, when their utmoft venom they would fpit,
Most barbaronfly tell you" he's a wit."
Poor negroes thus, to fhew their burning fpite
To Cacodemons, fay they re devilish white.

Lampridius from the bottom of his breast
Sighs o'er one child, but triumphs in the reft.
How just his grief! one carries in his head
A lefs proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without fpecial grace,
To rife above a Juftice of the Peace.
The dunghill-breed of men a diamond fcorn,
And feel a paffion for a grain of corn;
Some frupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from
white,

Who with much pains exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his fhillings, pounds, and pence.
This booby father craves a booby fon,
And by Heaven's bleffing thinks himself undone.
Wants of all kinds are made to Fame a plea;
One learns to lifp, another not to fee;
Mifs D tottering catches at your hand :
Was ever thing to pretty born to stand?

Whilft thefe what nature gave difown thro' pride
Others affect what nature has denied;
What nature has denied fools will pursue,
As apes are ever walking upon two.

Craffus, a graceful fage, our awe and sport!
Supports grave forms, for forms the fage fupport;
He hems and cries, with an important air,
"If yonder clouds withdraw, it will be fair:"
Then quotes the Stagyrite to prove it true;
And adds, "The learn'd delight in fomething
"new."

Is 't not enough the blockhead fearce can read,
But muft he wifely lock, and gravely plead?
As far a formalift from wifdom fits,
In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.
Nay, of true wifdom there too much may be,
The gen'rous mind delights in being free;
Your men of parts an over-care despise;
Dull rogues have nought to do but to be wife.
Horace has faid-and that decides the cafe-
'Tis feet to trifle in a proper place.
Yet fubtle wights (fo blind are mortal men,
Tho' Satire couch them with her keencft pen)
For ever will hang out a folemn face,
To put off nonfente with a better grace;
As pedlars with fome hero's head make bold,
Illuftrious mark! where pins are to be fold.
What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd!
The body's wifdom to conceal the mind.
A man of fenfe can artifice difdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot-
Solemnity's a cover for a fot.

I find the fool, when I behold the fereen;
For 'tis the wife man's int'reft to be seen.
Hence, Scarborough, that openness of heart,
And just disdain for that poor mimic, art;
Hence (manly praife!) that manner nobly fiet,
Which all admire, and I commend, in thee.

With gen'rous fcorn how oft haft thou furvey'd
Of court and town the noon-tide inafquerade,
Where fwarms of knaves the vizor quite difgrace,
And hide fecure behind a naked face!
Where nature's end of language is declin'd,
And men talk only to conceal the mind;
Where gen'rous hearts the greateft hazard run,
And he who trufts a brother is undone!
My brother fwore it, therefore it is true;
O ftrange induction! and at court quite new.
As well thou might'ft aver, thou fimple twain,
"'Tis just, and therefore I my caufe thall gain."
With fuch odd maxims to thy flocks retreat,
Nor furnish mirth for minifters of state.

Some mafter spirits far beyond the throng
Refin'd in ill, more rightly bent on wrong.
With exquifite difcernment play their game,
More nice of conduct, and more fair of fame.
The neatly injur'd thinks his thanks are due,
Robb'd of his right, and good opinion too!
Faife honour, pride's firft-born, this clan controls,
Who wifely part with nothing but their fouls.
Albertus hugs himself in ravish'd thought,
To find a peerage is to cheaply bought.

Letters fent to the Author, figned Marcus.

The

Thefe all their care expend on outward show
For wealth and fame; for fame alone, the beau.
Of late at White's was young Florello feen:
How blank his look, how difcompos'd his mien!
So hard it proves in grief fincere to feign!
Sunk were his fpirits. for his coat was plain.
Next day his breaft regain'd its wo ted peace,
His health was mended with a filver lace.
A curious artist, long inur'd to toils
Of gentler fort, with combs and fragant oils,
Whether by chance or by fome god infpir'd,
So touch'd his curls, his mighty foul was fir'd.
The well-fwoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either fhoulder has its fhare of fame :
His fumptuous watch-cafe, tho' conceal'd it lies,
Like a good confcience, folid joy fupplies.
He only thinks himself (fo far from vain)
Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.
Whene'er by feeming chance he throws his eye
On mirrors fluthing with his Tyrian dye,
With how fublime a tranfport leaps his heart!
But fate ordains that dearest friends muft part.
In active measures brought from France
wheels,

he

And triumphs confcious of his learned heels.
So have I feen, on fome bright fummer's day,
A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,
Dance on the bank, as if infpir'd by fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.

Morofe is funk with fhame whene'er furpris'd
In linen clean, or peruke undifguis'd.
No fublunary chance his veftments fear,
Valued, like leopards, as their fpots appear.
A fam'd furtout he wears which once was blue,
And his foot fwins in a capacious fhoe.
One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim?)
Level'd her barbarous needle at his fame.
But open force was vain; by night the went,
And while he flept furpris'd the darling rent;
Where yawn'd the frize is now become a doubt,
And glory at one entrance quite shut out *.

He fcorns Florelio, and Florello him;
This hates the filthy creature, that the prim.
Thus in each other both thefe fools defpife
Their own dear felves, with undifcerning eyes;
Their methods various, but alike their aim:
The floven and the fopling are the fame.

Ye Whigs and Tories! thus it fares with you,
When party-rage too warmly you pursue;
Then both club nonfenfe and impetuous pride,
And folly joins whom fentiments divide.
You vent your fpleen, as monkeys when they
pafs

Scratch at the mimic-monkey in the glass,
While both are one; and henceforth be it known,
Fools of both fides shall stand for fools alone.
"But who art thou" methinks Florello cries:
"Of all thy fpecies art thou only wife?"
Since fmalleft things can give our fins a twitch,
As croffing ftraws retard a paffing witch,
Florello, thou my monitor fhalt be;
I'll conjure thus fome profit out of thee.

O thou, myself! abroad our counfels roam,
And, like ill hufbands, take no care at home.
Come from thy felf, and a by-ftander be;
With others' eyes thy own deportment fee;
And while their ails thou doft with pity view,
Conceive, hard tafk, that thou art mortal too.
Thou too art wounded with the common dart,
And love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart:
And what wife means to gain it haft thou chofe?
Know, Fame and Fortune both are made of profe.
Is thy ambition fweating for a rhyme,
Thou unambitious fool, at this late time?
This noon of life? The feafons mend their pace,
And with a nimbler ftep the feasons chafe;
While I a moment name, a moment's paft;
I'm nearer death in this verfe than the last;
What then is to be done? Be wife with speed';
A fool at forty is a fool indeed.

And what fo 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 ftream of time,
That rife and fall, and fwell, and are no more,
Born and forgot, ten thoufand in an hour?
Should this verfe live, O Lumley! may it be
A monument of gratitude to thee;
Whofe early favour I muft own with fhame,
So long my patron, and fo late my theme.

SATIRE 141.

To the Right Honourable Mr. Dodington.

Virtutis.

-Tanto major Famae fitis ea, q am
JUV. SAT. 10.

LONG, Dodington, in debt, I long have fought
To eafe the burden of my grateful thought;
And now a poet's gratitude you fee-
Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for threes
For whose the prefent glory or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthlefs ftrain.
You love, and feel the poet's facred flame,
And know the bafis of a folid fame;
Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,
You read with all the malice of a friend;
Nor favour my attempts that way alone,
But, more to raife my verfe, conceal your own.

An ill-tim'd modefty! 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 caft,
They meanly live on alms of ages paft.
Men ftill are men, and they who boldly dare
Shall triumph o'er the fons of cold defpair;
Or, if they fail, they juftly still take place

Of fuch who run in debt for their difgrace:
Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,
And damn it with improvements of their own.
We bring fome new materials, and what's old
New-caft with care, and in no borrow'd m

Milton.

Late times the verse may read, if these refuse,
And from four critics vindicate the mufe.

"Your work is long," the critics cry: 'tis true;
And lengthens ftill, to take in fools like you:
Shorten my labour, if its length you blame;
For, grow but wife, you rob me of my game;
As hunted hags, who, while the dogs purfue,
Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.
Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile
That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,
Will I enjoy (dread feaft!) the critics' rage,
And with the fell deftroyer feed my page.
For what ambitious fools are more to blame
Than those who thunder in the critic's name?
Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,
To fee what wretches gain the praife they mifs.
Balbutius, muffled in his fable cloak,
Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
As ravens folemn, and as boding, cries,
Ten thoufand worlds for the three unities!
Ye doctors fage, who thro' Parnaffus teach,
Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.
One judges as the weather dictates; right
The poem is at noon, and wrong at night:
Another judges by a furer

gage,

An author's principles or parentage:
Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,
The poem, doubtlefs, must be written well:
Another judges by the writer's look:
Another judges, for he bought the book:
Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep:
Some judge because it is too foon to fleep.
Thus all will judge, and with one fingle aim;
To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.
The very beft ambitiously advife,

Half to ferve you, and half to pafs for wife.
None are at leifure others to reward:

They fcarce will damn but out of self-regard.

Critics on verfe, as fquibs on triumphs wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the flate;
Hot, envious, noify, proud, the fcribbling fry
Burn, hifs, and bounce, wafte paper, ftink, and die.
Rail on. my friends! what more my verfe can crown
Than Compton's fmile, and your obliging frown
Not all on books their criticism waste;
The genius of a dish fome justly tafte,
And eat their way to fame! with anxious thought
The falmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.
Impatient art rebukes the fun's delay,
And bids December yield the fruits of May.
Their various cares in one great point combine
The bufinefs of their lives, that is- --to dine;
Half of their precious day they give the feaft,
And to a kind digeftion fpare the reft.
Apicius, here, the tafter of the town,
Feeds twice a-week, to fettle their renown.
Thefe worthies of the palate guard with care
The facred annals of their bills of fare;
In those choice books their panegyrics read,
And fcorn the creatures that for hunger feed;
If man, by feeding well, commences great,
Much more the worm, to whom that man is mcat.
To glory iome advance a lying claim,
Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame!

Their front fupplies what their ambition lacks;
They know a thoufand 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 the ne'er was feen;
Niger adopts ftray libels, wifely prone
To covet fhame ftill greater than his own;
Bathyllus in the winter of threefcore
Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.
Abfence of mind Brabantio tuins to fame,
Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;
Has words and thoughts in nice disorder fet,
And takes a memorandum to forget.
Thus vain, nor knowing what adorns or blots,
Men forge the patents that create them fots.

As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
So moft grow infamous thro' love of praife.
But whence for praife can fuch an ardour rife,
When thofe who bring that incenfe we despise?
For fuch the vanity of great and small,
Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.

Nor can even Satire blame them, for 'tis true
They moft have ample caufe for what they do.
O fruitful Britain! doubtlefs thou waft meant
A nurfe of fools to ftock the Continent.
Tho' Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,
Rank folly underneath the fcythe will grow:
The plenteous harvest calls me forward ftill,
Till I furpafs in length my lawyer's bill;
A Welch defcent, which well-paid heralds damn;
Or, longer ftill, a Dutchman's epigram.
When cloy'd, in fury I threw down my pen;
In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.
See! Tityrus with merriment pofleft,
Is burft with laughter ere he hears the jeft;
What need be flay? for, when the joke is o'er,
His teeth will be no whiter than before.
Is there of thefe, ye fair! fo great a dearth,
That you need pui chafe monkeys for your mirth?

Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;
Of houfes fome, nay, houses that they hire;
Some (perfe&t wisdom!) of a beauteous wife,
And boaft, like Cordeliers, a fcourge for life.

Sometimes thro' pride the fexeschange their airs;
My lord has vapours, and my lady wears:
Then (ftranger ftili!), on turning of the wind,
My lord wears breeches, and my lady 's kind.

To fhew the ftrength and infamy of pride,
By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.
What numbers are there who at once pursue
Praife, and the glory to contemn it, too!
Vincenna knows felf-praife betrays to shame,
And therefore lays a itratagem for fame;
Makes his approach in modefty's difguite
To win applaufe, and takes it by furprife:
"To err," fays he, “ in small things, is my fate;"
You know your anfwer-he's exact in great.
"My ftyle," fays he, "is rude, and full of faults;"
But, oh what fenfe! what energy of thoughts!
That he wants algebra he must confefs,
But not a foul to give our arms fuccefs.
"Ah! that's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries
But who in heat of blood was ever wife ›

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

To make that hopelefs, ill-advis'd attack; "All fay 'twas madness, nor dare I deny; "Sure never fool fo well deferv'd to die." Could this deceive in others, to be free, It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee, Whofe conduct is a comment to thy tongue So clear, the dulleft cannot take thee wrong. Thou in one fuit wilt thy revenue wear, And haunt the Court, without a profpect there. Are thefe expedients for renown? confefs Thy little felf, that I may fcorn thee less.

Be wife, Vincenna, and the Court forfake; Our fortunes there nor thou nor I fhall make. Even men of merit, ere their point they gain, In hardy fervice make a long campaign; Moft manfully beficge the patron's gate, And, oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great With painful art, and application warm, And take at laft fome little place by storm; Enough to keep two fhoes on Sunday clean, And ftarve upon difcreetly in Shire-lane. Already this thy fortune can afford, Then ftarve without the favour of my lord. 'Tis true, great fortunes fome great men confer; But often, even in doing right, they err: From caprice, not from choice, their favours

come;

They give, but think it toil to know to whom:
The man that's neareft, yawning they advance:
Tis inhumanity to blefs by chance.
If merit fues, and greatness is fo 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 the 's pofleft.
Philander! thou art exquifitely bleft,
The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd,
The man is found who may be justly proud.
But, fee! how fickly is ambition's tafte!
Ambition feeds on trath, and loaths a feast.
For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,
In fecret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.
Some nymphs fell reputation, others buy,
And love a market where the rates run high.
Italian mufic's fweet, becaufe 'tis dear;
Their vanity is tickled, not their ear;
Their taftes would leffen, if the prices fell,
And Shakspeare's wretched ftuff do quite as well;
Away the difenchanted fair would throng,
And own that English is their mother-tongue.
To thew how much our northern taftes refine,
Imported nymphs our peerelles outfhine;
While tradefmen ftarve, thefe Philomels are gay;
For generous lords had rather give than pay.
O lavish land! for found at fuch expence?
But then the faves it in her bills for fenfe.
Mufic I paffionately love, 'tis plain,
Since for its fake fuch dramas I fuftain.
An opera, like a pillory, may be faid
To nail our ears down, but expose our head.
Behold the mafquerade's fantastic scene !
The legislature join'd with Drury-lane!

When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run,
And serve their country—if the dance is done.
"Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"
Yes, doubtlefs, 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 folid bodies only polish well

Great, chofen prophet! for thefe latter days,
To turn a willing world from righteous ways,
Well, Heideger, doft thou thy mafter ferve;
Well has he feen his fervant thould not starve;
Thou to his name haft fplendid temples rais'd,
In various forms of worship feen him prais'd;
Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, fhewn;
And fung fweet anthems in a tongue unknown.
Inferior off'rings to thy god of vice

Are duly paid in fiddles, cards, and dice;
Thy facrifice fupreme an hundred maids!
That folemn rite of midnight masquerades!
If maids the quite exhaufted town denies,
An hundred head of cuckolds muft fuffice.
Thou fmil'ft, well-pleas'd with the converted land,
To fee the fifty churches at a stand.

And, that thy minifter may never fail,
But what thy hand has planted ftill prevail,
Of minor prophets a fucceffion fure
The propagation of thy zeal fecure.

See commons, peers, and minifters of state
In folemn council met, and deep debate !
What godlike enterprife is taking birth?
What wonder opens on th' expecting earth?
'Tis done! with loud applaufe the council rings!
Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddlestrings!

Tho' bold thefe truths, thou, Mufe, with truths

like thefe,
Wilt none offend whom 'tis a praife to please;
Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou,
Like juft tribunals, bend an awful brow.
How terrible it were to common fenfe,
To write a Satire which gave none offence!
And, fince from life I take the draughts you fee,
If men diflike them, do they cenfure me?
On then, my mufe! and fools and knaves expofe;
And, fince 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
fall,

Knaves know the game, and honeft men pay all.
How hard for real worth to gain its price!
A man shall make his fortune in a trice,
if bleft with pliant tho' but flender sense,
Feign'd modefty, and real impudence.
A fupple knee, fmooth tongue, an eafy grace,
A curfe within, a fmile upon his face,
A beauteous fifter, or convenient wife,
Are prizes in the lottery of life;
Genius and virtue they will foon defeat,
And lodge you in the bosom of the great.
To merit, is but to provide a pain
From men's refufing what you ought to gain.

May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,
Whom my prefaging thoughts already view,

By

By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd,
Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd;
And lending here thofe awful councils aid,
Which you abroad with fuch fuccefs obey'd;
Bear this from one who holds your friendship dear;
What most we with, with cafe we fancy near.

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To the Right Honourable Sir Spencer Compton.

Virtutis,

Tanto major Famae fitis eft, quam
JUV.SAT.10.

ROUND fome fair tree th' ambitious woodbine
grows,

And breathes her fweets on the fupporting boughs:
So fweet the verfe, th' ambitious verfe, fhould be
(Oh pardon mine !) that hopes fupport from thee;
Thee, Compton, born o'er fenates to prefide,
Their dignity to raife, their councils guide;
Deep to difcern, and widely to furvey,
And kingdoms' fates without ambition weigh;
Of diftant virtues nice extremes to blend,
The crown's afferter, and the people's friend.
Nor doft thou fcorn, amid fublimer views,
To listen to the labours of the Mufe:
Thy fmiles protect her, while thy talents fire;
And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

Vex'd at a public fame fo juftly won,
The jealous Chremes is with fplcen undone,
Chremes, for airy penfions of renown,
Devotes his fervice to the ftate and crown;
All schemes he knows, and knowing all improves;
Tho' Britain's thanklefs, ftill this patriot loves.
But patriots differ: fome may shed their blood,
He drinks his coffee, for the public good;
Confults the facred fream, and there forefees
What ftorms or funthine Providence decrees;
Knows for each day the weather of our fate:
A quidnunc is an almanac of ftate.

You fimile, and think this statefman void of use.
Why may not time his fecret worth produce?
Since apes can roaft the choice Cattanian nut,
Since fteeds of genius are expert at put,
Since half the fenate "not content" can fay,
Geefe nations fave, and puppies plots betray.
What makes him model realms and counfel
An incapacity for smaller things. [kings
Poor Chremes can't conduct his own eftate,
And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.
Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,
And boldly claims a province higher ftill.
To raife a name, th' ambitious boy has got
At once a bible and a fhoulder-knot;
Deep in the fecret he looks thro' the whole,
And pities the dull rogue that faves his foul;
To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,
Nor flock his tender reafon with the Creed.
Howe'er, well-bred, in public he complies,
Obliging friends alone with blafphemies.

Peerage is poifon, good estates are bad
For this difeale; poor rogues run feldom mad.
Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief,
And falling frocks quite cur'd an unbelief [force;
While the fun fhines Blunt talks with wondrous
Bat thunder mars finall beer, and weak difcourfe.

Such useful inftruments the weather fhew,
Juft as their mercury is high or low.

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

Of fome for glory fuch the boundless rage,
That they 're the blackeit fandal of their age.
Narciffus the Tartarian club ditclaims;
Nay, a free-mason with some terror names:
Omits no duty, nor can envy fay
He mifs'd thefe many years the church or play
He makes no noife in parliament, 'tis true;
But pays his debt and visit when 'tis due :
His character and gloves are ever clean;
And then, he can outbow the bowing dean!
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,
Which equally the wife and worthless shares.
In gay fatigues this moft undaunted chief,
Patient of idlenefs beyond belief,
Most charitably lends the town his face
For ornament, in ev'ry public place;
As fure as cards he to th' affembly 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.
Narciffus is the glory of his race;

For who does nothing with a better grace?

To deck my lift by nature were defign'd
Such fhining expletives of human kind,
Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along,
Senfe to be right, and paflion to be wrong.

To counterpoife this hero of the mode,
Some for renown are fingular and odd ;
What other men diflike is fure to please,
Of all mankind, thefe dear antipodes ;
Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter frill;
And birth-days are their days of dretsing ill.
Arbuthnot is a fool, and F. —a fage,
Sly will fright you, E- engage;
By nature ftreams run backward, flame defcends,
Stones mount, and S-x is the worst of friends.
They take their reft 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 fwan is white, or Queenberry is fair.

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out;
His paffion for abfurdity 's fo ftrong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong.
Tho' wrong the mode,comply; more fenfe is fhewa
In wearing others' follies than your own.
If what is out of fashion moft you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wife.

But what in oddnefs can be more fublime
Than S, the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
His daughter's portion a rich fhell enhances:

And

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