Nor drain I ponds, the golden carp to take,
Nor trowle for pikes, dipeoplers of the lake;
Around the steel no tortur'd worm fhall twine,
No blood of living infect ftain my line.
Let me, lefs cruel, catt the feather'd hook,
With pliant rod, athwart the pebbled brook;
Silent along the mazy margin firay,
And, with the fur-wrought ily, delude the prey.

$43. Rural Sports; a Georgic. GAY.
CANTO II.

NOW,fporting mufe.draw in the flowing reins, Leave the clear ftreams a while for funny plains.

Should you the various arms and toils rchearfe,
And all the fisherman adorn thy verfe;
Should you the wide encircling net difplay,
And in its fpacious arch inclofe the fea;
Then haul the plunging load upon the land,
And with the foal and turbot hide the fand;
It would extend the growing theme too long,
And tire the reader with the wat'ry fong.

Let the keen hunter from the chace refrain, Nor render all the plowman's labour vain When Ceres pours out plenty from her horn, And clothes the fields with golden ears of corn. Now, now, ye reapers, to your task repair; Hafte! fave the product of the bounteous year: To the wide-gathering hook long furrows yield, And rifing theaves extend thro' all the field.

Yet, if for fylvan fports thy bofom glow, Let thy fleet greyhound urge his flying foc. With what delight the rapid course I view ! How does my eye the circling race pursue! He fnaps deceitful air with empty jaws; The fubtle hare darts fwift beneath his paws; She flies, he ftretches, now with nimble bound Eager he preffes on, but overshoots his ground; She turns; he winds, and foon regains the way, Then tears with goary mouth the fcreaming prey. What various fport does rural life afford! What unbought dainties heap the wholefome Nor lefs the fpaniel, fkilful to betray, [board! Rewards the fowler with the feather'd prey. Soon as the lab'ring horfe, with fwelling veins, Hath fafely hous'd the farmer's doubtful gains, To fweet repaft th'unwary partridge flies, With joy amid the fcatter'd harveft lies; Wand'ring in plenty, danger he forgets, Nor dreads the flav'ry of entangling nets. The fubtle dog fcours with fagacious nofe Along the field, and fnuffs each breeze that blows; Again the wind he takes his prudent way, While the ftrong gale directs him to the prey; Now the warm fcent affures the covey near; He treads with caution, and he points with fear; Then (left fome fentry-fowl the fraud defery, And bid his fellows from the danger fly) Clofe to the ground in expectation lies, Till in the fnare the flutt'ring covey rife. Soon as the bluthing light begins to fpread, And glancing Phoebus gildsthe mountain's head,

His early flight th'ill-fated partridge takes,
And quits the friendly fhelter of the brakes.
Or, when the fun cafts a declining ray,
And drives his chariot down the weftern way,
Let your obfequious ranger fearch around,
Where yellow ftubble withers on the ground:
Nor will the roving fpy direct in vain,
But num'rous coveys gratify thy pain.
When the meridian fun contracts the fhade,
And frifking heifers feck the cooling glade;
Or when the country floats with fudden rains,
Or driving mifts deface the moiften'd plains;
In vain his toils th'unfkilful fowler tries,

While in thick woods the feeding partridge lies.

Nor muft the fporting verfe the gun forbear; But what's the Fowler's be the Mufe's care. See how the well-taught pointer leads the way: The fcent grows warm; he ftops; he fprings

the prey;

The flutt'ring coveys from the ftubble rife,
And on fwift wing divide the founding skies;
The fcatt'ring lead purfues the certain fight,
And death in thunder overtakes their flight.
Cool breathes the morning air, and Winter's hand
Spreads wide her hoary mantle o'er the land;
Now to the copfe thy feffer fpaniel take,
Teach him to range the ditch and force the brake;
Not closest coverts can protect the game:
Hark! the dog opens; take thy certain aim.
The woodcock flutters; how he wav'ring flies!
The wood refounds: he wheels, he drops, he dies.

The tow'ring hawk let future poets fing,
Who terror bears upon his foaring wing:
Let them on high the frighted hern furvey,
And lofty numbers paint their airy fray.
Nor fhall the mountain lark the Mufe detain,
That greets the morning with his early ftrain;
When, 'midft his fong, the twinkling glafs
betrays,

While from each angle flash the glancing rays,
And in the fun the tranfient colours blaze,
Pride lures the little warbler from the fkics:
The light-enamour'd bird, deluded, dies.

But ftill the chace, a pleasing task, remains;
The hound muft open in thefe rural ftrains.
Soon as Aurora drives away the night,
And edges eaftern clouds with rofy light,
The healthy huntfman, with the cheerful horn,
Summons the dogs, and greets the dappled

inorn;

The jocund thunder wakes th’enliven'd hounds, They rouze from fleep, and anfwer founds for founds;

Wide thro' the furzy field their rout they take; Their bleeding bofoms force the thorny brake: The flying game their smoking noftrils trace ; No bounding hedge obftructs their eager pace; The diftant mountains echo from afar,

And hanging woods refound the flying war: The tuneful noife the fprightly courfer hears, Paw's the given turf, and pricks his trembling

cars;

The flacken'd rein now gives him all his fpeed, Back flies the rapid ground beneath the feed;

The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modeft fhun it, but to make it fure.
O'er globes and fcepters, now on throne, it fwells,
Now trims the midnight lamp in college-cells.
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches,
pleads,

Harangues in fenates, fqueaks in maiquerades:
Here, to Se's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder aims at Pultney's cloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in fable plumes,
Adorns our hearfe, and flatters on our tombs.
What is not proud! The pimp is proud to fee
So many like himfelt in high degree:
The whore is proud; her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue, and the marriage-bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To flaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went:
One way they look, another way they fteer,
Pray to the gods; but would have mortals hear,
And when their fins they fet fincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.
Others, with withful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture tow'rds a book.
Or pompous title, like a gaudy fign,
Meant to betray dull fots to wretched wine.
If at his title T- had dropt his quill,
T- might have paft for a great genius ftill;
But Talas! (excufe him, if you can)
Is now a fcribbler, who was once a man.

Imperious, fome a claffic fame demand, For heaping up, with a laborious hand, A waggon-load of meanings for one word, While A's depos'd, and B with pomp reftor'd. Some, for renown, on fcraps of learning doat, And think they grow immortal as they quote. To patchwork learn'd quotations are ally'd; Both ftrive to make our poverty our pride.

On glafs how witty is a noble Peer! Did ever diamond coft a man fo dear?

Polite difeafes make fome idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign. On death-beds fome in confcious glory lie, Since of the doctor in the mode they die; Whofe wond'rous skill is, headfman-like, to know For better pay to give a furer blow.

Of folly, vice, difeafe, men proud we fee; And (ftranger ftill) of blockheads flattery, Whofe praite defames; as if a fool fhould mean, By fpitting on your face, to make it clean!

Nor is'tenough all hearts are foln with pride, Her pow'r is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can fhe not perform? The love of Fame Made hold Alphonfus his Creator blame; Empedocles hurl'd down the burning fteep; And, ftranger fill, made Alexander weep. Nay, it holds Delia froin a fecond bed, dead! Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been This paflion with a pimple have I feen Retard a caufe, and give a judge the spleen. By this infpir'd (01 ne'er to be forgot) Some lords have learnt to fpell, and feine to knot.

It makes Globofe a speaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.
It makes dear felf on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.

Sick with the love of fame what throngs pour
Unpeople court, and leave the fenate thin! [in,
My growing fubject feems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.
Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire! had I thy Doriet's force divine,
A knave or fool fhould perith in each line;
Tho' for the first all Weftmiufter should plead,
And for the laft all Gretham intercede.

Begin. Who first the catalogue fhall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ya vulgar! at your peril give him room; He ftands for fame on his forefathers feet, By heraldry prov'd valiant, or difcreet. With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three defcents lefs wife! If virtues at his noble hand you crave, You bid him raife his fathers from the grave, Men fhould prefs forward in fate's gloriouschace; Nobles look backward, and fo lofe the race.

Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?

Nothing but merit in a low eftate.
Ta Virtue's humbleft fon let none prefer
Vice, tho' defcended from the
conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pafs for high or bafe,
Slight or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honeft men, and wife;
The fool or knave that wears a title lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Dorfet, let thofe who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.

Vain as falfe greatnefs is, the Mufe muft own We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone. Mean fons of Earth, who on a South-Sea tide Of full fuccefs fwam into wealth and pride, Knock with a purfe of gold at Anstis' gate, And beg to be defcended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur foar,
They light a torch to fhew their fhame the more.
Thofe governments which curb not evils, caufe;
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with folid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty found,
But builds himself a name; and to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immenfe eftate;
In coft and grandeur Chandos he'll out-do;
And Burlington, thy tafte is not fo true;
The pile is finifh'd, ev'ry toil is past,
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;
When lo my lord to fome fmall corner runs,
And leaves ftate-rooms to ftrangers and to duns.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to
Provides a home, from which to run away. [pay,
In Britain what is many a lordly feat,
But a difcharge in full for an eftate ?

In fmaller compafs lies Pygmalion's fame; Not domes, but antic ftatues are his flame.

Not

Not F-t-n's felf more Parian charms has known;
Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.
The bailiffs come (rude men, profanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, firs," he cries, "I'll fooner rot in jail!
Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"
Such heads might make their very Buftos laugh.
His daughter starves, but Cleopatra's fafe.

Men overloaded with a large estate
May fpill their treafure in a nice conceit;
The rich may be polite, but oh! 'tis fad
To fay you're curious, when we (wear you're mad.
By your revenue meafure your expence,
And to your funds and acres join your sense:
No man is bleft by accident, or guefs;
True wisdom is the price of happiness;
Yet few without long difcipline are sage ;
And our youth only lays up fighs for age.
But how, my Mufe, canft thou refufe fo long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy molt inviting theme? the court affords
Much food for Satire, it abounds in lords.
"What lords are those faluting with a grin ?”
One is juft out, and one is lately in.

How comes it then to pals we fee prefide
"On both their brows an equal share of pride?"
Pride, that impartial paffion, reigns thro' all,
Attends our glory, nor deferts our fall:
As in its home, it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in difgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their wands fo white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd
fight;

Some lords it bids refign, and turns their wands,
Like Mofes', into ferpents in their hands.
Thefe fink, as divers, for renown! and beaft
With pride inverted of their honors loft.
But against reafon fure 'tis equal fin
To boast of merely being out or in.

What numbers here, thro' odd ainbition, strive
To feem the most transported things alive!
As if by joy defert was understood,
And all the fortunate were wife or good.
Hence aching bofoms wear a vitage gay,
And ftifled groans frequent the ball and play.
Completely dreft by + Monteuel, and grimace,
They take their birth-day fuit, and public face;
Their finiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night with lady B's hair.
What bodily fatigue is half fo bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.

What numbers here would into Fame advance, Conscious of merit in the coxcomb's dance! The tavern! park! affembly! mask! and play! Thofe dear deftroyers of the tedious day! That wheel of fops! that faunter of the town; Call it diverfion, and the pill goes down; Fools grin on fools, and, Stoic-like, support, Without one figh, the pleasures of a court. Courts can give nothing to the wife and good, But fcorn of pomp and love of folitude. High ftations tumults, but not blifs create; None think the great unhappy, but the great;

A famous ftatue

Fools gaze and envy; envy darts a fting,
Which makes a fwain as wretched as a king.

I envy none their pageantry and fhow;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind ferene
And guiltless heart, to range the fylvan scene.
No fplendid poverty, no fmiling care,
No well-bred hate, or fervile grandeur there;
There pleafing objects ufeful thoughts fuggeft,
The fcene is ravish'd, and the foul is bleft;
On ev'ry thorn delightful wifdom grows,
In ev'ry rill a fweet inftruction flows:
But fome, untaught, o'erhear the whifp'ring rill,
In fpite of facred leifure, blockheads till;
Nor fhoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native foil, the drawing room.

The 'fquire is proud to fee his courfer ftrain, Or well-breath'd beagles fweep along the plain. Say, dear Hippolitus (whofe drink is ale, Whofe erudition is a Chriftmas-tale, Whofe mittrefs is faluted with a fmack, And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back) When thy fleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound, And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground, Is that thy praife? let Ringwood's fame alone, Juft Ringwood leaves each animal his own, Nor envies when a gipfy you commit, And thake the clumiy bench with country wit; When you the dulleft of dull things have faid, And then afk pardon for the jeft you made,

Here breathe,my Mufe! and then thytalk renew,
Ten thousand fools unfung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheifts made by church-debates ;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large eftates;
Ladies, whofe love is conftant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind !
Fewer grave lords to Scroope difcreetly bend :
And fewer fhocks a ftatefman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,

| Who lulls the town in winter with his ftrain,
At Bath in fummer chants the reigning las,
And fweetly whiftles as the waters país?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?
Is there whom his tenth Epic mounts to Fame?
Such, and fuch only, might exhauft my theme
Nor would thefe heroes of the task be glad,
For who can write fo faft as men run mad?

And if thefe ftrains fome nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the verfe I did not write.

So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to fuch weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty Vanity to thee they owe
Their zeft of picafure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the fun, all colours doft contain,
Varying, like rays of light on drops of rain;
For ev'ry foul finds reafons to be proud,
Tho' hits'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolitus demands the Sylvan crown;
But Florie's fame, the product of a show'r,
Grows in his garden, an illuftrious flow'r!
Why teems the earth? why melt the vernal skies?
Why fhines the fun? To make +Paul Diack rife.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good.
What shape? what hue? was ever nymph fo fair?
He doats! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O folid blifs! which nothing can destroy
Except a cat, bird, fnail, or idle boy.
In Fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! fee thy fair fifter's fate,
OC and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are thöfe enemics I mention'd all; Beware, O Florists, thy ambition's fall. A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame; A Quaker ferv'd him, Adam was his name. To one lov'd tulip oft the mafter went, Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ; But caine, and mift it one ill-fated hour: He rag'd, he roar'd; "what Dæmon cropt my flow'r "

Serene, quoth Adam, 'Lo! 'twas crufh'd by me; Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dft thy

⚫ knee.'

"But all men want amufement, and what crime "In fuch a Paradife to fool their time >" None; but why proud of this? to Fame they foar? We grant they're idle, if they'll afk no more.

We fimile at Florifts, we defpife their joy, And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy; But are thofe wifer whom we most admire, Survey with envy, and purfue with fire? What's he who fighs for wealth, or fame, or Another Florio doating on a flow'r, [pow'r A fhort-liv'd flow'r, and which has often sprung From fordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus ! is thy fancy finit ? The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit. Thy gawdy fhelves with crimson bindings glow, And Epictetus is a perfect beau.

How fit for thee bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That fcience fhould be purchas'd by the yard,
And Tonfon, turn'd upholsterer, fend home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room!

If not to fome peculiar end affign'd,
Study's the fpecious trifling of the mind;

This refers to the first Satire,

Or is at beft a fecondary aim,
A chace for fport alone, and not for game;
If fo, fure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent;
His farms were flown; when lo! a fale comes on,
A choice collection! what is to be done?
He fells his laft, for he the whole will buy;
Sells e'en his house, nay wants whereon to lye;
So high the gen'rous ardor of the man
For Romans, Grecks, and Orientals ran.
To make the purchase he gives all his store,
Except one darling diamond that he wore.
For what a mistress gave, 'tis death to pawn;
Yet when the termswere fix'd,and writings drawn,
The fight fo ravish'd him, he gave the clerk
Love's facred pledge, and fign'd them with his
Unlearned men of books affume the care, [mark;
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Not in his author's liveries alone Is Codrus' Erudite ambition shown? Editions various, at high prices bought, Inform the world what Codrus would be thought And, to this coft, another must fucceed, To pay a fage, who fays that he can read, Who titles knows, and indexes have feen; But leaves to what lies between : Of pompous books who fhuns the proud expence, And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Lumley, whofe accomplishments make good The promife of a long-illuftrious blood; In arts and manners eminently grac'd, The strictest honor, and the finest tafte! Accept this verfe; if Satire can agree With fo confummate an humanity. But know, my lord, if you refent the wrong, That on candour I obtrude my fong; 'Tis Satire's juft revenge on that fair name, Which all their malice cannot make her theme. By your example would Hilario mend, How would it grace the talents of my friend, Who with the charms of his own genius fmit, Conceives all virtues are compriz'd in wit! But time his fervent petulance may cool; For though he is a wit, he is no fool. In time he'll learn to ufe, not waste his sense, Nor make a frailty of an excellence. His brifk attack on blockheads we should prize, Were not his jeft as flippant with the wife. 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 fmart, 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 fimooth oil the razor beft is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set;

The name of a Tulip.