Whofe faithlefs hearts no kindness could fecure,
Nor for a day preferve their paffion pure;
Whom neither love nor beauty could reftrain,
Nor fear of endless infamy and pain.
In me behold thy queen; for know, with ease
• We deities affume each form we please;
Nor can the feeble ken of mortal eyes
Perceive the goddess thro' the dark disguise.
• Now feel the force of Heav'n's avenging hand,
And here, inanimate, for ever stand.'
She spoke; amaz'd the lift'ning monarch flood,
And icy horror froze his ebbing blood;
Thick fhades of death upon his eyelids creep,
And clos'd them faft in everlasting sleep;
No fenfe of life, no motion he retains,
But fix'd, a dreadful monument remains:
A ftatue now, and if reviv'd once more,
Would prove, no doubt, as perjur'd as before.
BY THE REV. MR. BRAMSTON.
HOE'ER he be that to a taste aspires,
Let him read this, and be what he defires.
In men and manners vers'd, from life I write,
Not what was once, but what is now polite.
Those who of courtly France have made the tour,
Can fcarce our English aukwardness endure.
But honeft men who never were abroad,
Like England only, and it's taste applaud.
Strife ftill fubfifts, which yields the better goût;
Books or the world, the many or the few,
True tafte to me is by this touchstone known,
That's always best that's nearest to my own.
To fhew that my pretenfions are not vain,
My father was a play'r in Drury Lane;
Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother fold:
He a dramatick poet, fhe a fcold.
His tragick Mufe could counteffes affright,
Her wit in boxes was my lord's delight.
No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands.
my Pindarick
parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got,
My infant tears a fort of measure kept,
I fquall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept.
No youth did I in education waste,
Happy in an hereditary taste.
Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum.
My guts ne'er fuffer'd from a college cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.
Grammar in vain the fons of Prifcian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech:
Since thefe declin'd, thofe undeclin'd they call,
I thank my ftars, that I declin'd them all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence,
I truft to Mother Wit and Father Senfe.
Nature's my guide, all sciences I fcorn;
Pains I abhor, I was a poet born.
Yet is my goût for criticism fuch,
I've got fome French, and know a little Dutch.
Huge commentators grace my learned shelves,
Notes upon books out-do the books themselves.
Criticks, indeed, are valuable men,
But hyper-criticks are as good again.
Tho' Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill,
With notes by Bentley, they'd be better still.
The Boghoufe-Miscellany's well defign'd,
To eafe the body, and improve the mind.
Swift's whims and jokes for my resentment call,
For he displeases me that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in fenfe obfcure.
To him as nature, when he ceas'd to fee,
Milton's an univerfal blank to me.
Confirm'd and fettled by the nation's voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and people's choice.
Always upheld by national fupport,
Of market, univerfity, and court:
Thomson, write blank; but know, that for that reason,
These lines fhall live when thine are out of Seafon.
Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays,
As London ladies owe their shape to stays.
Had Cibber's felf the Careless Hufband wrote,
He for the laurel ne'er had had my vote:
But for his epilogues and other plays,
He thoroughly deserves the modern bays.
It pleases me, that Pope unlaurell'd goes,
While Cibber wears the bays for play-house profe:
So Britain's monarch once uncover'd fate,
While Bradshaw bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat.
Long live old Curl! he ne'er to publish fears
The fpeeches, verfes, and last will of peers.
How oft has he a publick fpirit fhewn,
And pleas'd our ears, regardless of his own!
But, to give merit due, though Curl's the fame,
Are not his brother bookfellers the fame?
Can ftatutes keep the British press in awe,
While that fells beft, that's most against the law?
Lives of dead play'rs my leisure hours beguile,
And feffions-papers tragedize my ftile.
'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life,
So oft a mother, and not once a wife:
She could with juft propriety behave,
Alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave.
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept,
By prebends bury'd, and by generals kept.
T'improve in morals Mandeville I read,
And Tyndal's fcruples are my fettled creed.
I travell'd early, and I foon faw through
Religion all, ere I was twenty-two.
Shame, pain, or poverty, fhall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my ease procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.
As Pafaran directs, I'd end my life,
And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that Bible, which the parfon quotes,
And men of spirit all shall cut their throats.
But not to writings I confine my pen,
I have a tafte for buildings, mufick, men.
Young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast,
With fuperficial smattering at moft;
Not fo my mind, unfatisfied with hints,
Knows more than Budgel writes, or Roberts prints.
I know the town, all houses I have seen,
From Hyde Park Corner down to Bethnal Green.
Sure wretched Wren was taught by bungling Jones,
To murder mortar and disfigure ftones!
Who in Whitehall can fymmetry discern?
I reckon Covent Garden church a barn.
Nor hate I lefs thy vile cathedral, Paul!
The choir's too big, the cupola's too small;
Subftantial walls and heavy roofs I like,
'Tis Vanbrugh's ftructures that my fancy ftrike:
Such noble ruins ev'ry pile would make,
I wish they'd tumble-for the prospect sake.
To lofty Chelsea, or to Greenwich dome,
Soldiers and failors all are welcom'd home.
Her poor to palaces Britannia brings,
St. James's hofpital may serve for kings.
Buildings fo happily I understand,
That for one houfe I'd mortgage all my land.
Dorick, Ionick, fhall not there be found,
But it fhall coft me threefcore thousand pound.
From out my honeft workmen, I'll select
A bricklayer, and proclaim him architect;
First bid him build me a ftupendous dome;
Which having finifh'd, we fet out for Rome;
Take a week's view of Venice and the Brent,
Stare round, fee nothing, and come home content.
I'll have my villa too, a fweet abode !
It's fituation fhall be London road:
Pots o'er the door I'll place like Cit's balconies,
Which Bentley calls the Gardens of Adonis *.
I'll have my gardens in the fashion too,
For what is beautiful that is not new?
Fair four-legg'd temples, theatres that vie
With all the angles of a Chriftmas pye.
Does it not merit the beholder's praise,
What's high to fink, and what is low to raife?
Slopes fhall afcend where once a green-house stood,
And in my horse-pond I will plant a wood.
Let mifers dread the hoarded gold to waste,
Expence and alteration fhews a taste.
In curious paintings I'm exceeding nice,
And know their feveral beauties by their price.
Auctions and fales I conftantly attend,
But chufe my pictures by a skilful friend.
Originals and copies much the fame,
The picture's value is the painter's name.
My tafte in sculpture from my choice is feen,
I buy no ftatues that are not obfcene.
In spite of Addison, and ancient Rome,
Sir Cloudefly Shovel's is my fav'rite tomb.
* Bentley's Milton, Book 9. ver. 439.
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