« السابقةمتابعة »
From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond:
Which to the fennes hath him betake,
To filch the gray ducke fro the lake.
Right then, there passen by the way
His aunt, and eke her daughters tway.
Ducke in his trowsers hath he hent,
Not to be spied of ladies gent.
"But ho! our nephew," (crieth one)
"Ho!" quoth another,
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,-
This silly clerk full low doth lout:
They asken that, and talken this,
"Lo here is coz, and here is miss."
But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,
The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote:
Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest,
Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest.
"Te-he," cry'd ladies; clerke, nought spake:
Miss star'd; and gray ducke cryeth Quaake."
"O moder, moder," (quoth the daughter)
Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter?
Bette is to pine on coals and chalke,
Then trust on mon, whose yerde can talke."
In every town where Thamis rolls his tyde,
A narrow pass there is, with houses low;
Where, ever and anon, the stream is ey'd,
And many a boat soft sliding to and fro.
There oft are heard the notes of infant Woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller
How can ye, mothers, vex your children so? [squall:
Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,
And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.
And on the broken pavement, here and there,
Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;
A brandy and tobacco shop is near,
And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by ;
And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry.
At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry,
Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between ;
Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbour
hood I ween.
The snappish cur (the passengers' annoy)
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimp'ring girl, and hoarser screaming boy,
Join to the yelping treble, shrilling cries;
The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise,
And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;
To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;
The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,
And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base
Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,
Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,
Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice t
There learn'd she speech from tongues that never
Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters, [ceases
With Envy, (spitting cat) dread foe to peace;
Like a curs'd cur, Malice before her clatters,
And, vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to
Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand,
Her mouth was black as bull-dog's at the stall:
She scratched, bit, and spar'd ne lace ne band,
And bitch and rogue her answer was to all;
Nay, e'en the parts of shame by name would call
Yea, when she passed by or lane or nook,
Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,
And by his hand obscene the porter took,
Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.
Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown;
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich
Grots, statues, urns, and Jo-n's dog and bitch.
Ne village is without, on either side,
All up the silver Thames, or all adown;
Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are ey'd
Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's
OF A LADY SINGING TO HER LUTE. FAIR charmer, cease, nor make your voice's prize A heart resign'd the conquest of your eyes: Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail, Which winds and lightning both at once assail. We were too blest with these enchanting lays, Which must be heavenly when an angel plays But killing charms your lover's death contrive, Lest heavenly music should be heard alive. Orpheus could charm the trees; but thus a tree, Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he A poet made the silent wood pursue, This vocal wood had drawn the poet too.
to the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,
Nor could that fabled dart more surely wonnd;
Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives;
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.
FAIN would my Muse the flowery treasure sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring:
Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;
Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
The thin undress of superficial Light,
And vary'd tulips show so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted flowret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;
And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,
And mount the hill in venerable rows;
There the green infants in their beds are laid,
The garden's hope, and its expected shade.
Here orange trees with blooms and pendants
And ternal honours to their autumn join ;
Exceed their promise in their ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.
There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,
By laurels shielded from the piercing day:
Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,
Still turns her beauties from th' invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream;
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where Summer's beauty midst of Winter stays,
And Winter's coolness spite of Summer's rays.
WHILE Celia's tears make Sorrow bright,
Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes:
The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus through mists we see the Sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.
These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretel the fervour of the day:
So from one cloud soft showers we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The stars that fall from Celia's eye,
Declare our doom is drawing nigh.
The baby in that sunny sphere
So like a Phaëton appears,
That Heav'n, the threaten'd world to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears:
Else might th' ambitious nymph aspire
To set, like him, Heaven too on fire.
SILENCE Coeval with eternity,
Thou wert, ere Nature's self began to be; 'Twas one vast nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee. Thine was the way, ere Heaven was form'd or Earth,
Ere fruitful Thought conceiv'd Creation's birth,
Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.
Then various elements against thee join'd,
In one more various animal combin'd, [kind.
And fram'd the clamorous race of busy human-
The tongue mov'd gently first, and speech was low,
Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show,
And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.
But rebel, Wit deserts thee oft in vain ;
Lost in the maze of words he turns again,
And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign,
Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free,
Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,
And routed Reason finds a safe retreat in thee.
With thee in private modest Dulness lies,
And in thy bosom lurks in Thought's disguise;
Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!
Yet thy indulgence is by both confess'd;
Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,
And 'tis in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest.
Silence, the knave's repute, the whore's good name,
The only honour of the wishing dame;
Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame.
But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are
How church and state should be oblig'd to thee At senate, and at bar, how welcome wouldst thou be! Yet Speech ev'n there submissively withdraws, From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause: Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.
Past services of friends, good deeds of foes, What favourites gain, and what the nation owes, Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose. The country wit, religion of the town, The courtier's learning, policy o' th' gown, Are best by thee express'd; and shine in thee alone, The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry, Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee, All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.
THOUGH Artemisia talks, by fits,
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke;
Yet in some things methinks she fails,
'Twere well if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.
Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride, Such nastiness, and so much pride,
Are oddly join'd by Fate:
On her large squab you find her spread, Like a fat corpse upon a bed,
That lies and stinks in statę.
She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face;
All white and black beside:
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,
And masculine her stride.
So have I seen in black and white
A prating thing, a magpye hight,
A stately, worthless animal,
PHRYNE had talents for mankind,
Open she was, and unconfin'd,
Like some free port of trade;
Merchants unloaded here their freight,
And agents from each foreign state
Here first their entry made.
Her learning and good-breeding such,
Whether th' Italian or the Dutch,
Spaniards or French came to her,
To all obliging she'd appear:
"Twas Si Signior, 'twas Yaw Mynheer,
'Twas S'il vous plaist, Monsieur.
Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes,
Still changing names, religion, climes,
At length she turns a bride:
In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of batter'd jades,
And flutters in her pride.
So have I known those insects fair
(Which curious Germans hold so rare)
Still vary shapes and dyes;
Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,
Then painted butterflies.
THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.
PARSON, these things in thy possessing,
Are better than the bishop's blessing.
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there's need:
October store, and best Virginia,
Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea:
Gazettes scnt gratis down, and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd;
A large concordance, bound long since;
Sermons to Charles the First, when prince:
A chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in.
The polyglott-three parts,-my text,
Howbeit,-likewise-now to my next
Lo here the Septuagint,-and Paul,
To sum the whole,-the close of all.
He that has these, may pass his life,
Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife ;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays if he will;
Toast church and queen, explain the news,
Talk with church-wardens about pews;
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor Swift.
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. POPE.
INSCRIBED TO MR. WARBURTON.
PART 1. Of the end and efficacy of satire. The
love of glory and fear of shame universal, ver.
29. This passion, implanted in man as a spur
to virtue, is generally perverted, ver. 41. And
thus becomes the occasion of the greatest follies,
vices, and miseries, ver. 61. It is the work of
satire to rectify this passion, to reduce it to its
proper channel, and to convert it into an incen-
tive to wisdom and virtue, ver. 89. Hence it
appears, that satire may influence those who
defy all laws human and divine, ver. 99. An
objection answered, ver. 131.
PART 11. Rules for the conduct of satire. Justice
and truth its chief and essential property, ver.
169. Prudence in the application of wit and
ridicule, whose province is, not to explore un-
known, but to enforce known truths, ver. 191.
Proper subjects of satire are the manners
of present times, ver. 239. Decency of ex-
pression recommended, ver. 255. The dif
frent methods in which folly and vice ought
to be chastised, ver. 269. The variety of
style and manners which these two subjects
require, ver. 277. The praise of virtue may be
admitted with propriety, ver. 315. Caution
with regard to panegyric, ver. 329. The dig-
nity of true satire, ver. 341.
PART III. The history of satire. Roman satirists,
Lucilius, Horace, Persius, Juvenal, ver. 357,.
&c. Causes of the decay of literature, particu-
larly of satire, ver. 389. Revival of satire, 401,
Erasmus one of its principal restorers, ver. 405.
Donne, ver. 411. The abuse of satire in Eng-
land, during the licentious reign of Charles II.
ver. 415. Dryden, ver. 429. The true ends of
satire pursued by Boileau in France, ver. 439.
and by Mr. Pope in England, ver. 445.
FATE gave the word: the cruel arrow sped;
And Pope lies number'd with the mighty dead!
Resign'd he fell; superior to the dart,
That quench'd its rage in yours and Britain's heart!
You mourn but Britain, lull'd in rest profound,
(Unconscious Britain!) slumbers o'er her wound.
Exulting Dulness ey'd the setting light,
And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night:
Rous'd at the signal, Guilt collects her traiu,
And counts the triumphs of her growing reign: 10.
With inextinguishable rage they burn;
And snake-hung Envy hisses o'er his urn:
Th' envenom'd monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blast the laurel that surrounds his tomb.
But you, O Warburton! whose eye refin'd
Can see the greatness of an honest mind;
Can see each virtue and each grace unite,
And taste the raptures of a pure delight;
You visit oft his awful page with care,
And view that bright assemblage treasur'd there; 20
You trace the chain that links his deep design,
And pour new lustre on the glowing line.
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Muse,
Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues:
Intent from this great archetype to draw
Satire's bright form, and fix her equal law;
Pleas'd if from hence th' unlearn'd may comprehend,
And reverence his and Satire's generous end.
In every breast there burns an active flame,
The love of glory, or the dread of shame :
The passion one, though various it appear,
As brighten'd into hope, or dium'd by fear.
The lisping infant, and the hoary sire,
And youth and manhood feel the heart-born fire:
The charms of praise the coy, the modest woo,
And only fly, that Glory may pursue:
She, power resistless, rules the wise and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant hermits at her feet;
Haunts the proud city, and the lowly shade,
And sways alike the sceptre and the spade.
Hence Satire's power: 'Tis her corrective part,
To calm the wild disorders of the heart.
She points the arduous height were Glory lies,
And teaches mad Ambition to be wise:
In the dark bosom wakes the fair desire,
Draws good from ill, a brighter flaine from fire:
Strips black Oppression of her gay disguise,
And bids the hag in native horrour rise;
Strikes towering Pride and lawless Rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's awful head.
Nor boasts the Muse a vain imagin'd power,
Though oft she mourns those ills she cannot cure. 100
The worthy court her, and the worthless fear;
Who shun her piercing eye, that eye revere.
Her awful voice the vain and vile obey,
And every foe to Wisdom feels her sway.
Smarts, pedants, as she smiles, no more are vain;
Desponding fops resign the clouded cane:
Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's self is still,
And Dulness wonders while she drops her quill.
Like the arm'd bee, with art most subtly true,
From poisonous Vice she draws a healing dew: 110
Weak are the ties that civil arts can find,
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind:
Cunning evades, securely wrapp'd in wiles!
And Force, strong-sinew'd, rends th' unequal toils :
The stream of vice impetuous drives along,
Too deep for Policy, for Power too strong.
Ev'n fair Religion, native of the skies,
Scorn'd by the crowd, seeks refuge with the wise;
The crowd with laughter spurus her awful train,
50 And Mercy courts, and Justice frowns in vain. 120
But Satire's shaft can pierce the harden'd breast:
She plays a ruling passion on the rest :
Undaunted storms the battery of his pride,
And awes the brave, that arth and Heaven defy'd.
When fell Corruption by her vassals crown'd,
Derides fall'n Justice prostrate on the ground;
Swift to redress an injur'd people's groan,
Bold Satire shakes the tyrant on her throne;
Powerful as Death, defies the sordid train,
Thus Heaven in pity wakes the friendly flame,
To urge mankind on deeds that merit fame:
But man, vain man, in folly only wise,
Rejects the manna sent him from the skies:
With rapture hears corrupted Passion's call,
Still proudly prone to mingle with the stall,
As each deceitful shadow tempts his view,
He for the imag'd substance quits the true;
Eager to catch the visionary prize,
In quest of glory plunges deep in vice;
Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits every praise he pants to gain.
Thus still imperious Nature plies her part;
And still her dictates work in every heart.
Each power that sovereign Nature bids enjoy,
Man may corrupt, but man can ne'er destroy,
Like mighty rivers, with resistless force
The passions rage, obstructed in their course;
Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore,
And drown those virtues which they fed before. 60
And sure, the deadliest foe to Virtue's flame,
Our worst of evils, is perverted Shame..
Beneath this load, what abject numbers groan,
Th' entangled slaves to folly not their own!
Meanly by fashionable fear oppress'd,
We seek our virtues in each other's breast;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign vice,
Another's weakness, interest, or caprice.
Each fool to low ambition, poorly great,
That pines in splendid wretchedness of state,
Tir'd in the treacherous chase, would nobly yield,
And, but for shame, like Sylla, quit the field:
The demon Shame paints strong the ridicule,
And whispers close, "The world will call you fool,"
Behold yon wretch by impious Fashion driven,
Believes and trembles while he scoffs at Heaven.
By weakness strong, and bold through fear alone,
He dreads the sneer by shallow coxcombs thrown;
Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod ;
To man a coward, and a brave to God.
Faith, Justice, Heaven itself now quit their hold,
When to false Fame the captive heart is sold:
Hence, blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd ;
Nought could subdue his virtue, but his pride.
Hence chaste Lucretia's innocence betray'd
Fell by that honour which was meant its aid.
Thus Virtue sinks beneath unnumber'd woes,
When passions, born her friends, revolt her foes.
| And slaves and sycophants surround in vain.
But with the friends of vice, the foes of satire,
All truth is spleen; all just reproof, ill-nature.
Well may they dread the Muse's fatal skill;
Well may they tremble when she draws her quill:
Her magic quill, that, like Ithuriel's spear,
Reveals the cloven hoof, or lengthen'd ear:
Bids Vice and Folly take their natural shapes,
Turns dutchesses to strumpets, beaux to apes;
Drags the vile whisperer from his dark abode,
Till all the demon starts up from the toad.
O sordid maxim, form'd to screen the vile,
That true Good-nature still must wear a smile!
In frowns array'd her beauties stronger rise,
When love of virtue wakes her scorn of vice:
Where Justice calls, 'tis cruelty to save;
And 'tis the Law's good-nature hangs the knave.
Who combats Virtue's foe is Virtue's friend;
Then judge of Satire's merit by her end :
To guilt alone her vengeance stands confin'd,
The object of her love is all mankind.
Scarce more the friend of man, the wise must own,
Ev'n Allen's bounteous hand, than Satire's frown
This to chastise, as that to bless was giv'n:
Alike the faithful ministers of Heaven.
Oft in unfeeling hearts the shaft is spent: Though strong th' example, weak the punishment They least are pain'd, who merit satire most: Folly the Laureat's, vice was Chartres' boast
DARE nobly then: but, conscious of your trust,
As ever warm and bold be ever just:
Nor court applause in these degenerate days;
The villain's censure is extorted praise.
But chief, be steady in a noble end,
And shew mankind that Truth has yet a friend,
'Tis mean for empty praise of wit to write,
As foplings grin to show their teeth are white;
To brand a doubtful folly with a smile,
Or madly blaze unknown defects, is vile:
"Tis doubly vile, when, but to prove your art,
You fix an arrow in a blameless heart.
O lost to Honour's voice, O doom'd to shame,
Thou fiend accurst, thon murderer of Fame !
Fell ravisher, from Innocence to tear
That name, than liberty, than life more dear!
Where shall thy baseness meet its just return,
Or what repay thy guilt, but endless scorn?
And know, immortal Truth shall mock thy toil:
Immortal Truth shall bid the shaft recoil;
With rage retorted, wing the deadly dart;
And empty all its poison in thy heart.'
With caution next, the dangerous power apply;
An eagle's talon asks an eagle's eye:
Let Satire then her proper object know,
And ere she strike, be sure she strike a foe,
Nor fondly deem the real fool confest,
Because blind Ridicule conceives a jest :
Before whose altar Virtue oft hath bled,
And oft a destin'd victim shall be led :
Lo Shaftesbury rears her high on Reason's throne,
And loads the slave with honours not her own: 200
Big-swoln with folly, as her smiles provoke,
Prophaneness spawns, pert dunces nurse the joke!
Come, let us join awhile this tittering crew,
And own the ideot guide for once is true;
Deride our weak forefathers' musty rule,
Who therefore smil'd because they saw a fool;
Sublimer logic now adorns our isle,
We therefore see a fool, because we smile.
Truth in her gloomy cave why fondly seek?
Lo gay she sits in Laughter's dimpled cheek: 210
Contcmns each surly academic foe,
And courts the spruce freethinker and the beau.
Dædalian arguments but few can trace,
But all can read the language of Grimace.
Hence mighty Ridicule's all-conquering hand
Shall work Herculean wonders through the laud:
Bound in the magic of her cobweb chain,
You, mighty Warburton, shall rage in vain,
In vain the trackless maz of Truth you scan,
And lend th' informing clue to erring man :
No more shall Reason boast her power divine,
Her base eternal shook by Folly's mine!
Truth's sacred fort th' exploded laugh shall win;
And eoxcombs vanquish Berkeley by a grin.
But you, more sage, reject th' inverted rule, That truth is e'er explor'd by Ridicule : On truth, on falsehood, let her colours fall, She throws a dazzling glare alike on all; As the gay prism but mocks the flatter'd eye, And gives to every object every dye. Beware the mad adventurer: bold and blind She hoists her sail, and drives with every wind Deaf as the storm to sinking Virtue's groan, Nor heeds a friend's destruction, or her own. Let clear-ey'd Reason at the helm preside, Bear to the wind, or stem the furious tide; Then Mirth may urge, when Reason can explore, This point the way, that waft us glad to shore.
Though distant times may rise in Satire's page, Yet chief 'tis her's to draw the present age: 240 With Wisdom's lustre, Folly's shade contrast, And judge the reigning manners by the past: Bid Britain's heroes (awful shades!) arise, And ancient Honqur beam on modern Vice: Point back to minds ingenuous, actions fair, Till the sons blush at what their fathers were Ere yet t'was beggary the great to trust; Ere yet 'twas quite a folly to be just; When low-born sharpers only dar'd a lye, Or falsify'd the card, or cogg'd the dye; Fre Lewdness the stain'd garb of Honour wore, Or Chastity was carted for the whore; Vice flutter'd in the plumes of Freedom dress'd; Or public Spirit was the public jest.
Be ever, in a just expression, bold, Yet ne'er degrade fair Satire to a scold: Let no unworthy mien her form debase, But let her smile, and let her frown with grace: In mirth be temperate, temperate in her spleen; Nor, while she preaches modesty, obscene. 260 Deep let her wound, not rankle to a sore, Nor call his lordship —, her grace a The Muse's charms resitless then assail, When wrapp'd in Irony's transparent veil : Her beauties half-conceal'd, the more surprise, And keener lustre sparkles in her eyes.
Then be your line with sharp encomiums grac'd: Style Clodius honourable, Bufa chaste.
Dart not on Folly an indignant eye: Who e'er discharg'd artillery on a fly? Deride not Vice: absurd the thought and vain, To bind the tiger in so weak a chain. Nay more; when flagrant crimes your laughter The knave exults: to smile, is to approve. The Muse's labour then success shall crown, When Folly feels her smile, and Vice her frown. Know next what measures to each theme belong, And suit your thoughts and numbers to your song: On wing proportion'd to your quarry rise, And stoop to earth, or soar among the skies. 280 Thus when a modish folly you rehearse, Free the expression, simple be the verse. In artless numbers paint th' ambitious peer, That mounts the box, and shines a charioteer : In strains familiar sing the midnight toil Of mps and senates disciplin'd by Hoyle; Patriots and chiefs, whose deep design invades, And carries off the captive king-of spades! Let Satire here in milder vigour shine, And gayly graceful sport along the line; Bid courtly Passion quit her thin pretence, And smile each affectation into sense.
Not so when Virtue, by her guards betray'd, Spurn'd from her throne, implores the Muse's aid,