Whilst titles serve to hush a villain's fears;
Whilst peers are agents made, and agents peers;
Whilst base betrayers are themselves betray'd,
And makers ruin'd by the thing they made;
Whilst C, false to God and man, for gold,
Like the old traitor who a Saviour sold,
To shame his master, friend, and father gives;
Whilst Bute remains in pow'r, whilst Holland lives;
Can Satire want a subject, where Disdain,
By Virtue fir'd, may point her sharpest strain;
Where cloth'd with thunder, Truth may roll along,
And Candour justify the rage of song?

Such things! such men before thee! such an age!
Where Rancour, great as thine, may glut her rage,
And sicken e'en to surfeit, where the pride
Of Satire, pouring down in fullest tide,
May spread wide vengeance round, yet all the while
Justice behold the ruin with a smile;
Whilst I, thy foe misdeem'd, cannot condemn,
Nor disapprove that rage I wish to stem,
Wilt thou, degen'rate and corrupted, choose
To soil the credit of thy haughty Muse?
With fallacy, most infamous, to stain
Her truth, and render all her anger vain?
When I beheld thee incorrect, but bold,
A various comment on the stage unfold;
When play'rs on play'rs before thy satire fell,
And poor reviews conspir'd thy wrath to swell;
When states and statesmen next became thy care,
And only kings were safe if thou wast there;
Thy ev'ry word I weigh'd in Judgment's scale,
And in thy ev'ry word found truth prevail.
Why dost thou now to falshood meanly fly?
Not even Candour can forgive a lie.

Bad as men are, why should thy frantic rhymes
Traffic in slander, and invent new crimes?
Crimes, which existing only in thy mind,
Weak Spleen brings forth to blacken all mankind.
By pleasing hopes we lure the human heart
To practise virtue, and improve in art;

To thwart these ends, (which proud of honest fame,
A noble Muse would cherish and inflame)
Thy drudge contrives, and in our full career
Sicklies our hopes with the pale hue of fear;
Tells us that all our labours are in vain;
That what we seek, we never can obtain;
That dead to Virtue, lost to Nature's plan,
Envy possesses the whole race of man;
That worth is criminal, and danger lies,
Danger extreme, in being good and wise.

'Tis a rank falshood; search the world around,
There cannot be so vile a monster found,
Not one so vile, on whom suspicions fall
Of that gross guilt, which you impute to all.
Approv'd by those who disobey her laws,
Virtue from Vice itself extorts applause,
Her very foes bear witness to her state;
They will not love her, but they cannot hate,
Hate Virtue for herself, with spite pursue
Merit for merit's sake! Might this be true,
I would renounce my Nature with disdain,
And with the beasts that perish graze the plain:
Might this be true, had we so far fill'd up
The measure of our crimes, and from the cup
Of guilt so deeply drank, as not to find,
Thirsting for sin, one drop, one dreg behind,
Quick ruin must involve this flaming ball,
And Providence in justice crush us all.
None but the damn'd, and amongst them the worst,
Those who for double guilt are doubly curs'd,

Can be so lost; nor can the worst of all
At once into such deep damnation fall;
By painful slow degrees they reach this crime,
Which e'en in Hell must be a work of time.
Cease then thy guilty rage, thou wayward son,
With the foul gall of discontent o'er-run,
List to my voice-be honest, if you can,
Nor slander Nature in her fav'rite man.
But if thy spirit, resolute in ill,
Once having err'd, persists in errour still,
Go on at large, no longer worth my care,
And freely vent those blasphemies in air,
Which I would stamp as false, though on the tongue
Of angels 'the injurious slander hung.

Dup'd by thy vanity (that cunning elf
Who snares the coxcomb to deceive himself)
Or blinded by that rage, did'st thou believe
That we too, coolly, would ourselves deceive? .
That we as sterling falshood would admit,
Because 'twas season'd with some little wit?
When fiction rises pleasing to the eye,
Men will believe, because they love the lie;
But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown,
Must have some solemn proof to pass her down.
Hast thou, maintaining that which must disgrace
And bring into contempt the human race,
Hast thou, or can'st thou, in Truth's sacred court,
To save thy credit, and thy cause support,
Produce one proof, make out one real ground
On which so great, so gross a charge to found!
Nay, do'st thou know one man (let that appear,
From wilful falshood I'll proclaim thee clear)
One man so lost, to Nature so untrue,
From whom this gen'ral charge thy rashness drew?
On this foundation shalt thou stand or fall-
Prove that in one, which you have charg'd on all.
Reason determines, and it must be done;
'Mongst men, or past, or present, name me one.

Hogarth-I take thee, Candour, at thy word, Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard; Thee have I heard with virulence declaim, Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name; By thee have I been charg'd in angry strains With that mean falshood which my soul disdainsHogarth stand forth-Nay hang not thus aloofNow, Candour, now thou shalt receive such proof, Such damning proof, that henceforth thou shalt fear To tax my wrath, and own my conduct clearHogarth stand forth-I dare thee to be tried In that great court, where Conscience must preside; At that most solemn bar hold up thy hand; Think before whom, on what account you standSpeak, but consider well-from first to last Review thy life, weigh ev'ry action past— Nay, you shall have no reason to complainTake longer time, and view them o'er againCan'st thou remember from thy earliest youth, And as thy God must judge thee, speak the truth, A single instance where, self laid aside, And justice taking place of fear and pride, Thou with an equal eye did'st Genius view, And give to merit what was merit's due? Genius and merit are a sure offence, And thy soul sickens at the name of sense. Is any one so foolish to succeed, On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed? Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes, The place of executioner supplies. See how he glotes, enjoys the sacred feast, And proves himself by cruelty a priest.

Whilst the weak artist, to thy whims a slave, Would bury all those pow'rs which Nature gave, Would suffer blank concealment to obscure Those rays, thy jealousy could not endure; To feed thy vanity would rust unknown, And to secure thy credit blast his own, In Hogarth he was sure to find a friend; He could not fear, and therefore might commend. But when his spirit, rous'd by honest shame, Shook off that lethargy, and soar'd to fame, When, with the pride of man, resolv'd and strong, He scored those fears which did his honour wrong, And, on himself determin'd to rely, Brought forth his labours to the public eye, No friend in thee, could such a rebel know; He had desert, and Hogarth was his foe.

Souls of a tim'rous cast, of petty name In Euvy's court, not yet quite dead to shame, May some remorse, some qualms of conscience feel, Aul suffer honour to abate their zeal; Bat the man truly and completely great, Allows no rule of action but his hate; Through ev'ry bar he bravely breaks his way, Passion his principle, and parts his prey. Mediums in vice and virtue speak a mind Within the pale of temperance confin'd; The daring spirit scorns her narrow schemes, And, good or bad, is always in extremes.

Man's practice duly weigh'd, through ev'ry age On the same plan hath Envy form'd her rage: 'Gainst those whom fortune hath our rivals made In way of science, and in way of trade, Stung with mean jealousy she arms her spite, First works, then views their run with delight. Our Hogarth here a grand improver shines, And nobly on the gen'ral plan refines; He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound; Worth is his mark, wherever worth is found. Should painters only h's vast wrath suffice? Genius in ev'ry walk is lawful prize. "Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state; His love to merit is to feel his hate.

[friend,

When Wilkes, our countryman, our common Arase, his king, his country to defend, When tools of pow'r he bar'd to public view, And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew, When Rancour found it far beyond her reach To soil his honour, and his truth impeach, What could induce thee, at a time and place, Where manly foes had blush'd to show their face, To make that effort, which must damn thy name, And sink thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame ? Did virtue move thee? No, 'twas pride, rank pride, And if thou hadst not done it, thou hadst dy'd. Malice (who, disappointed of her end, Whether to work the bane of foe or friend, Preys on herself, and driven to the stake, Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take) Had kill'd thee, tott'ring on life's utmost verge, Had Wilkes and Liberty escap'd thy scourge. When that great charter, which our fathers bought With their best blood, was into question brought; When, big with ruin, o'er each English head Vile slav'ry hung suspended by a thread; When Liberty, all trembling and aghast, Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past; When ev'ry breast was chill'd with deep despair, Tall Reason pointed out that Pratt was there; Lurking, most ruffian-like, behind a screen, So plac'd all things to see, himself unseen,

Virtue, with due contempt, saw Hogarth stand,
The murd'rous pencil in his palsied hand.
What was the cause of Liberty to him,
Or what was Honour? Let them sink or swim,
So be may gratify without control,

The mean resentments of his selfish soul.
Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,
In the same ruin Wilkes may perish too.
With all the symptoms of assur'd decay,
With age and sickness pinch'd, and worn away,
Pale quiv'ring lips, lank cheeks, and fault`ring
tongue,

The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,
Thy body shrivell'd up, thy dim eyes sunk
Within their sockets deep, thy weak hams shrunk
The body's weight unable to sustain,

The stream of life scarce trembling through the vein,
More than half-kill'd by honest truths, which fell,
Through thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee
well,

Can'st thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance give,

And, dead to all things else, to malice live?
Hence, dotard, to thy closet, shut thee in,
By deep repentance wash away thy sin,
From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,
And, on the verge of death, learn how to die.

Vain exhortation! Wash the Ethiop white,
Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night,
Control the course of Nature, bid the deep
Hush at thy pigmy voice her waves to sleep,
Perform things passing strange, yet own thy art
Too weak to work a change in such a heart.
That Envy which was woven in the frame
At first, will to the last remain the same.
Reason may droop, may die, but Envy's rage
Improves by time, and gathers strength from age,
Some, and not few, vain trillers with the pen,
Unread, unpractis'd in the ways of men,
Tell us that Envy, who with giant stride
Stalks through the vale of life by Virtue's side,
Retreats when she hath drawn her latest breath,
And calmly hears her praises after death.
To such observers Hogarth gives the lie;
Worth may be hears'd, but Envy cannot die;
Within the mansion of his gloomy breast,
A mansion suited well to such a guest,
Immortal, unimpair'd she rears her head,
And damns alike the Eving and the dead.

Oft have I known thee, Hogarth, weak and vain, Thyself the idol of thy aukward strain, Through the dull measure of a summer's day, In phrase most vile, prate long long hours away, Whilst friends with friends all gaping sit, and gaze To hear a Hogarth babble Hogarth's praise. But if athwart thee interruption came, And mention'd with respect some ancient's name, Some ancient's name, who in the days of yore The crown of Art with greatest honour wore, How have I seen thy coward check turn pale, And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale! How hath thy jealousy to madness grown, And deem'd his praise injurious to thy own! Then without mercy did thy wrath make way, And arts and artists all became thy prey; Then did'st thou trample on establish'd rules, And proudly levell'd all the ancient schools, Condemn'd those works, with praise through ages

grae'd,

Which you had never seen, or could not taste.

It must be found in labours of my own.
I dare to challenge in one single piece,
Th' united force of Italy and Greece."
Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,
And brought the boasted master-piece to view.
Spare thy remarks-say not a single word-
The picture seen, why is the painter heard?
Call not up shame and anger in our cheeks;
Without a comment Sigismunda speaks.

Poor Sigismunda! what a fate is thine!
Dryden, the great high-priest of all the Nine,
Reviv'd thy name, gave what a Muse could give,
And in his numbers bade thy mem'ry live;
Gave thee those soft sensations, which might move
And warm the coldest anchorite to love;
Gave thee that virtue which could curb desire,
Refine and consecrate love's headstrong fire;
Gave thee those griefs which made the Stoic feel,
And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel;
Gave thee that firmness which our sex may shame,
And make man bow to woman's juster claim,
So that our tears, which from compassion flow,
Seem to debase thy dignity of woe.

But O, how much unlike! how fall'n! how chang'd!
How much from Nature and herself estrang'd!
How totally depriv'd of all the pow'rs
To show her feelings, and awaken ours,
Doth Sigismunda now devoted stand,
The helpless victim of a dauber's hand!

But why, my Hogarth, such a progress made,
So rare a pattern for the sign-post trade,
In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,
Why was heroic painting laid aside?

Why is it not resum'd? Thy friends at court,
Men all in place and pow'r, crave thy support;
Be grateful then for once, and, through the field
Of politics, thy epic pencil wield,

Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow,
And would maintain too, but they know not how.
Through ev'ry pannel let thy virtue tell
How Bute prevail'd, how Pitt and Temple fell!
How England's sons (whom they conspir'd to bless
Against our will, with insolent success)
Approve their fall, and with addresses run,
How got, God knows, to hail the Scottish Sun!
Point out our fame in war, when vengeance, hurl'd
From the strong arm of Justice, shook the world;
Thine, and thy country's honour to increase,
Point out the honours of succeeding peace;
Our moderation, christian-like, display,
Show what we got, and what we gave away.
In colours, dull and heavy as the tale,
Let a state chaos through the whole prevail.

But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse,
Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues;
Whilst her quick spirits rouse at Freedom's call,
And ev'ry drop of blood is turn'd to gall;
Whilst a dear country, and an injur'd friend,
Urge my strong anger to the bitt'rest end;
Whilst honest trophies to revenge are rais'd,
Let not one real virtue pass unprais'd:
Justice with equal course bids Satire flow,
And loves the virtue of her greatest foe.
O that I here could that rare Virtue mean,
Which scorns the rule of Envy, Pride, and Spleen,
Which springs not from the labour'd works of Art,
But hath its rise from Nature in the heart,
Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,
And spreads with joy the blessing all around!

Contented with a diff'rent kind of praise,
Must Hogarth stand: that praise which Genius gives,
In which to latest time the artist lives,

But not the man; which, rightly understood,
May make us great, but cannot make us good;
That praise be Hogarth's; freely let him wear
The wreath which Genius wove, and planted there,
Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down,
Myself would labour to replace the crown.

In walks of humour, in that cast of style,
Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile;
In comedy, his natʼral road to fame,
Nor let me call it by a meaner name,
Where a beginning, middle, and an end
Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,
Each inade for each, as bodies for their soul,
So as to form one true and perfect whole,
Where a plain story to the eye is told,
Which we conceive the moment we behold,
Hogarth unrivall'd stands, and shall engage
Uurivall'd praise to the most distant age.

How could'st thou then to shame perversely run, And tread that path which Nature bade thee shun? Why did Ambition overleap her rules, And thy vast parts become the sport of fools? By diff'rent methods diff'rent men excel, But where is he who can do all things well? Humour thy province, for some monstrous crime Pride struck thee with the phrenzy of sublime. But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mind So partial be, and to herself so blind, What with contempt all view'd, to view with awe, Nor see those faults which ev'ry blockhead saw ? Blush, thon vain man, and if desire of fame, Founded on real art, thy thoughts inflame, To quick destruction Sigismunda give, And let her mem'ry die, that thine may live.

But should fond Candour, for her mercy sake,
With pity view, and pardon this mistake;
Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind,
Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind;
Of arts despis'd, of artists by thy frown
Aw'd from just hopes, of rising worth kept down,
Of all thy meanness through this mortal race,
Can'st thou the living memory erase?

Or shall not vengeance follow to the grave,
And give back just that measure which you gave?
With so much merit, and so much success,
With so much pow'r to curse, so much to bless,
Would he have been man's friend instead of foe,
Hogarth had been a little God below.
Why then, like savage giants, fam'd of old,
Of whom in scripture story we are told,
Dost thou in cruelty that strength employ,
Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?
Why dost thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,
Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou hast made?
Most rank Ill-nature must applaud thy art;
But even candour must condemn thy heart.

For me, who warm and zealous for my friend,
In spite of railing thousands, will commend,
And, no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,
Spite of commending thousands, will oppose,
I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage,
But with an eye of pity view thy age;
Thy feeble age, in which, as in a glass,
We see how men to dissolution pass.
Thou wretched being, whom, on Reason's plaa,
So chang'd, so lost, I cannot call a man,

What could persuade thee, at this time of life,
To lanch afresh into the sea of strife?
Better for thee, scarce crawling on the earth,
Almost as much a child as at thy birth,
To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,
And sunk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.
Why would thy grey, grey hairs resentment brave,
Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?
Now, by my soul, it makes me blush to know
My spirits could descend to such a foe.
Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke,
It seems rank cowardice to give the stroke.

Sure 'tis a curse which angry Fates impose,
To mortify man's arrogance, that those
Who 're fashion'd of some better sort of clay,
Much sooner than the common herd decay.
What bitter pangs must humble Genius feel,
In their last hours, to view a Swift and Steele?
How must ill-boding horrours fill her breast,
When she beholds men, mark'd above the rest
For qualities most dear, plung'd from that height,
And sunk, deep sunk, in second childhood's night?
Are men, indeed, such things, and are the best
More subject to this evil, than the rest,
To drivel out whole years of ideot breath,
And sit the monuments of living death?
O, galling circumstance to human pride!
Abasing thought, but not to be denied!'
With curious art the brain too finely wrought,
Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought.
Constant attention wears the active mind,
Blots out her pow'rs and leaves a blank behind.
But let not youth, to insolence allied,
In heat of blood, in full career of pride,
Possess'd of genius, with unhallow'd rage,
Mock the infirmities of rev'rend age.
The greatest genius to this fate may bow;
Reynolds, in time, may be like Hogarth now.

THE GHOST

IN FOUR BOOKS,

BOOK I.

WITH eager search to dart the soul,
Curiously vain, from pole to pole,
And from the planets' wand'ring spheres
Textort the number of our years,
And whether all those years shall flow
Serenely smooth, and free from woe,
Or rude misfortune shall deform
Our life, with one continual storm;
Or if the scene shall motley be,
Alternate joy and misery;

Is a desire, which, more or less,

All men must feel, though few confess,
Hence, ev'ry place and ev'ry age
Affords subsistence to the sage,
Who, free from this world and its cares,
Holds an acquaintance with the stars,
From whom he gains intelligence
Of things to come some ages hence,
Which unto friends, at easy rates,
He readily communicates.

At its first rise, which all agree on,
This noble science was Chaldean,

That ancient people, as they fed
Their flocks upon the mountain's head,
Gaz'd on the stars, observ'd their motions,
And suck'd in astrologic notions,
Which they so eagerly pursue,
As folks are apt whate'er is new,
That things below at random rove,,
Whilst they're consulting things above;
And when they now so poor were grown,
That they'd no houses of their own,
They made bold with their friends the stars,
And prudently made use of their's.

To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd,
And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd:
Th' exotic science soon struck root,
And flourish'd into high repute.
Each learned priest, O strange to tell!
Could circles make, and cast a spell;
Could read and write, and taught the nation
The holy art of divination.

Nobles themselves, for at that time
Knowledge in nobles was no crime,
Could talk as learned as the priest,
And prophesy as much at least.
Hence all the fortune-telling crew,
Whose crafty skill mars Nature's hue,
Who, in vile tatters, with smirch'd face,
Run up and down from place to place,
To gratify their friends' desires,
From Bampfield Carew to Moll Squires,
Are rightly term'd Egyptians all;
Whom we, mistaking, Gipsies call.

The Grecian sages borrow'd this,
As they did other sciences,
From fertile Egypt, though the loan
They had not honesty to own.
Dodona's oaks, inspir'd by Jove,
A learned and prophetic grove,
Turn'd vegetable necromancers,
And to all comers gave their answers:
At Delphos, to Apollo dear,

All men the voice of Fate might hear;
Each subtle priest on three-legg'd stool,
To take in wise men, play'd the fool.
A mystery, so made for gain,

E'en now in fashion must remain.
Enthusiasts never will let drop

What brings such business to their shop,
And that great saint we Whitefield call,
Keeps up the humbug spiritual.

Among the Romans, not a bird,
Without a prophecy was heard;
Fortunes of empires often hung
On the magician magpie's tongue,
And ev'ry crow was to the state
A sure interpreter of Fate.
Prophets, embodied in a college,

(Time out of mind your seat of knowledge,
For genius never fruit can bear
Unless it first is planted there,
And solid learning never falls
Without the verge of college walls)
Infallible accounts would keep
When it was best to watch or sleep,
To eat or drink, to go or stay,
And when to fight or run away;
When matters were for action ripe,
By looking at a double tripe;
When emperors would live or die,
They in an ass's skull could spy;

When gen'rals would their station keep,
Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep.
In matters, whether small or great,
In private families or state,
As amongst us, the holy seer
Officiously would interfere,

With pious arts and rev'rend skill
Would bend lay bigots to his will,
Would help or injure foes or friends,
Just as it serv'd his private ends.
Whether in honest way of trade,
Traps for virginity were laid,
Or if, to make their party great,
Designs were form'd against the state,
Regardless of the common weal,
By int'rest led, which they call zeal,
Into the scale was always thrown
The will of Heav'n to back their own.
England, a happy land we know,
Where follies naturally grow;
Where without culture they arise,
And tow'r above the common size;
England a fortune-telling host,

As num'rous as the stars, could boast;
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea;
Who vers'd in ev'ry modest lore,
Can a lost maidenhead restore,
Or, if their pupils rather choose it,
Can show the readiest way to lose it;
Gipsies, who ev'ry ill can cure,
Except the ill of being poor;

Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell,
Who can in henroost set a spell,
Prepar'd by arts, to them best known,
To catch all feet except their own;
Who as to fortune can unlock it,
As easily as pick a pocket;
Scotchmen who, in their country's right,
Possess the gift of second-sight,

Who (when their barren heaths they quit,
Sure argument of prudent wit,
Which reputation to maintain,
They never venture back again)
By lies prophetic heap up riches,
And boast the luxury of breeches.
Amongst the rest, in former years,
Campbell, illustrious name, appears,
Great hero of futurity,

Who, blind, could ev'ry thing foresee,
Who, dumb, could ev'ry thing foretel,
Who, Fate with equity to sell,
Always dealt out the will of Heaven
According to what price was given.

Of Scottish race, in Highlands born,
Possess'd with native pride and scorn,
He hither came, by custom led,

To curse the hands which gave hin bread.
With want of truth, and want of sense,
Amply made up by impudence,
(A succedaneum, which we find
In common use with all mankind)
Caress'd and favour'd too by those,
Whose heart with patriot feelings glows;
Who foolishly, where'er dispers'd,
Still place their native country first;
(For Englishmen alone have sense
To give a stranger preference,
Whilst modest merit of their own
Is left in poverty to groan)

Campbell foretold just what he wou'd,
And left the stars to make it good;
On whom he had impress'd such awe,
His dictates current pass'd for law;
Submissive all his empire own'd:

No star durst smile, when Campbell frown'd
This sage deceas'd, for all must die,
And Campbell's no more safe than I,
No more than I can guard the heart,
When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,
Succeeded ripe in art and years,
Another fav'rite of the spheres;
Another and another came,

Of equal skill, and equal fame ;

As white each wand, as black each gown,
As long each beard, as wise each frown;
In ev'ry thing so like, you 'd swear,
Campbell himself was sitting there.
To all the happy art was known,
To tell our fortunes, make their own.
Seated in garret, for you know,
The nearer to the stars we go,
The greater we esteem his art,

Fools curious flock'd from every part.
The rich, the poor, the maid, the married,
And those who could not walk, were carried..
The butler, banging down his head,
By chamber-maid, or cook-maid led,
Inquires, if from his friend the Moon,
He has advice of pilfer'd spoon.

The court-bred woman of condition,
(Who, to approve her disposition
As much superior as her birth
To those compos'd of common earth,
With double spirit must engage
In ev'ry folly of the age)
The honourable arts would buy,
To pack the cards, and cog a die.

The hero (who for brawn and face
May claim right honourable place
Amongst the chiefs of Rutcher Row,
Who might some thirty years ago,
If we may be allow'd to guess
At his employment by h's dress,
Put med'cines off from cart or stage,
The grand Toscano of the age,
Or might about the countries go,
High steward of a puppet-show,
Steward and stewardship most meet,
For all know puppets never eat;

Who would be thought (though, save the mark,
That point is something in the dark)
The man of honour, one like those
Renown'd in story, who lov'd blows
Better than victuals, and would fight,
Merely for sport, from morn to night;
Who treads, like Mavors firm, whose tongue

Is with the triple thunder hung;

Who cries to Fear-" Stand off-aloof"

And talks as he were cannon-proof;
Would be deem'd ready, when you list,
With sword and pistol, stick and fist,
Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks,
At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box,
But at the same time bears about,
Within himself, some touch of doubt,

Of prudent doubt, which hints-that fame

Is nothing but an empty name;

That life is rightly understood

By all to be a real good;