Chapter IV: Introduction: To the True-Born Englishman

SPEAK, satire; for there’s none can tell like thee
Whether ’tis folly, pride, or knavery
That makes this discontented land appear
Less happy now in times of peace than war?
Why civil feuds disturb the nation more
Than all our bloody wars have done before?
Fools out of favour grudge at knaves in place,
And men are always honest in disgrace;
The court preferments make men knaves in course,
But they which would be in them would be worse.
’Tis not at foreigners that we repine,
Would foreigners their perquisites resign;
The grand contention’s plainly to be seen,
To get some men put out, and some put in.
For this our senators make long harangues,
And florid members whet their polished tongues.
Statesmen are always sick of one disease,
And a good pension gives them present ease;
That’s the specific makes them all content
With any king and any government.
Good patriots at court abuses rail,
And all the nation’s grievances bewail;
But when the sovereign’s balsam’s once applied,
The zealot never fails to change his side;
And when he must the golden key resign,
The railing spirit comes about again.
Who shall this bubbled nation disabuse,
While they their own felicities refuse,
Who the wars have made such mighty pother,
And now are falling out with one another:
With needless fears the jealous nation fill,
And always have been saved against their will:
Who fifty millions sterling have disbursed,
To be with peace and too much plenty cursed:
Who their old monarch eagerly undo,
And yet uneasily obey the new?
Search, satire, search; a deep incision make;
The poison’s strong, the antidote’s too weak.
’Tis pointed truth must manage this dispute,
And downright English, Englishmen confute.
Whet thy just anger at the nation’s pride,
And with keen phrase repel the vicious tide;
To Englishmen their own beginnings show,
And ask them why they slight their neighbours so.
Go back to elder times and ages past,
And nations into long oblivion cast;
To old Britannia’s youthful days retire,
And there for true-born Englishmen inquire.
Britannia freely will disown the name,
And hardly knows herself from whence they came;
Wonders that they of all men should pretend
To birth and blood, and for a name contend.
Go back to causes where our follies dwell,
And fetch the dark original from hell.
Speak, satire, for there’s none like thee can tell.
_Daniel Defoe._

AN EPITAPH

INTERRED beneath this marble stone
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run.
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple just the same.
They walked and ate, good folks. What then?
Why, then they walked and ate again;
They soundly slept the night away;
They did just nothing all the day,
Nor sister either had, nor brother;
They seemed just tallied for each other.
Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree;
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor trespassed on the other’s ground.
Nor fame nor censure they regarded;
They neither punished nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither praised nor chid;
So every servant took his course,
And, bad at first, they all grew worse;
Slothful disorder filled his stable,
And sluttish plenty decked her table.
Their beer was strong, their wine was port;
Their meal was large, their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate,
And took, but read not, the receipt;
For which they claimed their Sunday’s due
Of slumbering in an upper pew.
No man’s defects sought they to know,
So never made themselves a foe.
No man’s good deeds did they commend,
So never raised themselves a friend.
Nor cherished they relations poor,
That might decrease their present store;
Nor barn nor house did they repair,
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Nor tear nor smile did they employ
At news of grief or public joy.
When bells were rung and bonfires made,
If asked, they ne’er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was deposed or crowned.
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;
They would not learn, nor could advise;
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led--a kind of--as it were;
Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried.
And so they lived, and so they died.
_Matthew Prior._

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.

But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm’d the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.

_Matthew Prior._

TWELVE ARTICLES

I
Lest it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read.

II
By disputing, I will never,
To convince you, once endeavour.

III
When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.

IV
When I talk, and you are heedless,
I will show no anger needless.

V
When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne’er object a word.

VI
When you, furious, argue wrong,
I will grieve, and hold my tongue.

VII
Not a jest or humorous story
Will I ever tell before ye.
To be chidden for explaining,
When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII

Never more will I suppose,
You can taste my verse or prose.

IX

You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.

X

You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI

Show your poverty of spirit,
And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.

XII

Never will I give advice,
Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which if you in scorn reject,
’Twill be just as I expect.
Thus we both shall have our ends,
And continue special friends.
_Jonathan Swift._

THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN’S MIND

A SET of phrases learned by rote;
A passion for a scarlet coat;
When at a play, to laugh or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reason why;
Never to hold her tongue a minute,
While all she prates has nothing in it;
Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,
And take his nonsense all for wit.
Her learning mounts to read a song,
But half the words pronouncing wrong;
Has every repartee in store
She spoke ten thousand times before;
Can ready compliments supply
On all occasions, cut and dry;
Such hatred to a parson’s gown,
The sight would put her in a swoon;
For conversation well endued,
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
Nor make a scruple to expose
Your bandy leg or crooked nose;
Can at her morning tea run o’er
The scandal of the day before;
Improving hourly in her skill,
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.
In choosing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs dispute
What linen best the silk will suit,
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,
Can finely counterfeit a fright;
So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
Can dexterously her husband tease,
By taking fits whene’er she please;
By frequent practice learns the trick
At proper seasons to be sick;
Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
At once creating love and pity.
If Molly happens to be careless,
And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,
She gets a cold as sure as death,
And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modest woman can
Be so robustious, like a man.
In party, furious to her power,
A bitter Whig, or Tory sour,
Her arguments directly tend
Against the side she would defend;
Will prove herself a Tory plain,
From principles the Whigs maintain,
And, to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topics from the Tories draws.
_Jonathan Swift._

FROM “THE LOVE OF FAME”

BEGIN. Who first the catalogue shall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.
My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:
He stands for fame on his forefathers’ feet,
By heraldry proved valiant or discreet.
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hands you crave,
You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.
Men should press forward in fame’s glorious chase;
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?
Nothing--but merit in a low estate.
To virtue’s humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,
Slight or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;
The fool or knave, that wears a title, lies.

* * * * *

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found, at length, that it reduced his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection--what is to be done?
He sells his last, for he the whole will buy;
Sells even his house--nay, wants whereon to lie
So high the generous ardor of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,
Lorenzo signed the bargain--with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

* * * * *

The booby father craves a booby son,
And by Heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone.

* * * * *

These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
Though satire couch them with her keenest pen)
Forever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better grace:
As perlers with some hero’s head make bold--
Illustrious mark!--where pins are to be sold.
What’s the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined?
The body’s wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne’er forgot,
Solemnity’s a cover for a sot.
I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For ’tis the wise man’s interest to be seen.

* * * * *

And what so foolish as the chance of fame?
How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!
For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,
But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,
That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,
Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

* * * * *

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,
To gain themselves, not give the writer fame.
The very best ambitiously advise,
Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.
_Edward Young._

DR. DELANY’S VILLA

WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, sir, I will not gibe;
For who could be satirical
Upon a thing so very small?
You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before you’re at the very centre.
A single crow can make it night,
When o’er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Observe a vast variety;
Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs,
And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields,
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;
All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razor, tho’ to say’t I’m loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.
Tho’ small’s the farm, yet here’s a house
Full large to entertain a mouse;
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than savage Caledonian boar;
For, if it’s enter’d by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
A little rivulet seems to steal
Down thro’ a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek:
And this you call your sweet meander,
Which might be suck’d up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To scoop the channel of the rill.
For sure you’d make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city gutter.
Next come I to your kitchen garden,
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;
And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a tailor’s chalk;
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A snail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
Up thro’ a tuft you call your trees:
And, once a year, a single rose
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow for want of room.
In short, in all your boasted seat,
There’s nothing but yourself that’s GREAT.
_Thomas Sheridan._

THE QUIDNUNCKIS

“HOW vain are mortal man’s endeavours?
(Said, at Dame Elleot’s, Master Travers)
Good Orleans dead! in truth ’tis hard:
Oh, may all statesmen die prepar’d!
I do foresee (and for foreseeing
He equals any man in being)
The army ne’er can be disbanded.
I with the king was safely landed.
Ah, friends, great changes threat the land!
All France and England at a stand!
There’s Meroweis--mark! strange work!
And there’s the Czar, and there’s the Turk--
The Pope--” An Indian merchant by,
Cut short the speech with this reply:
“All at a stand? You see great changes?
Ah, sir, you never saw the Ganges.
There dwells the nation of Quidnunckis
(So Monomotapa calls monkeys);
On either bank, from bough to bough,
They meet and chat (as we may now);
Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,
They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug;
And, just as chance or whim provoke them,
They either bite their friends, or stroke them.
There have I seen some active prig,
To show his parts, bestride a twig.
Lord, how the chatt’ring tribe admire!
Not that he’s wiser, but he’s higher.
All long to try the vent’rous thing
(For power is but to have one’s swing);
From side to side he springs, he spurns,
And bangs his foes and friends by turns.
Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces,
Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces!
Down the swift stream the wretch is borne,
Never, ah, never to return!
Zounds! what a fall had our dear brother!
_Morbleu!_ cries one, and damme, t’other.
The nation gives a general screech;
None cocks his tail, none claws his breech;
Each trembles for the public weal,
And for awhile forgets to steal.
Awhile all eyes intent and steady
Pursue him whirling down the eddy:
But, out of mind when out of view,
Some other mounts the twig anew;
And business on each monkey shore
Runs the same track it ran before.”
_John Gay._

THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL

Is there no hope? the Sick Man said.
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
When thus the Man with gasping breath:
“I feel the chilling wound of death;
Since I must bid the world adieu,
Let me my former life review.
I grant, my bargains well were made,
But all men overreach in trade;
’Tis self-defence in each profession;
Sure, self-defence is no transgression.
The little portion in my hands,
By good security on lands,
Is well increased. If unawares,
My justice to myself and heirs
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good sufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed,
Reduce a family to need,
My will hath made the world amends;
My hope on charity depends.
When I am numbered with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,
By heaven and earth ’twill then be known,
My charities were amply shown.”
An angel came. “Ah, friend,” he cried,
“No more in flattering hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?
What widow or what orphan prays
To crown thy life with length of days?
A pious action’s in thy power;
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now, while you draw the vital air,
Prove your intention is sincere:
This instant give a hundred pounds;
Your neighbours want, and you abound.”
“But why such haste?” the Sick Man whines:
“Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?
Perhaps I may recover still;
That sum, and more, are in my will.”
“Fool,” says the Vision, “now ’tis plain,
Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain;
From every side, with all your might,
You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;
And after death would fain atone,
By giving what is not your own.”
“Where there is life there’s hope,” he cried;
“Then why such haste?”--so groaned, and died.
_John Gay._

SANDYS’ GHOST

OR A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID’S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY

YE Lords and Commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all!
Nor think your verses sterling,
Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin;

For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japanned avails
To writing of good sense.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A wit and courtly squire.

Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth,
Like puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his mouth,
The works of all the Muses.

Ah, why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil,
And sell his soul for vanity,
To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratched to fetch up thought,
Forth popped the sprite so thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out,
All upright as a pin,

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff composed most duly.
The squire he dropped his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

“Ho! Master Sam,” quoth Sandys’ sprite,
“Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgell seek, or Carey.

“I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums;
Poor Ovid finds no quarter.
See first the merry P---- comes
In haste, without his garter.

“Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights,
Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers;
Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s,
Beat up for volunteers.

“What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnett or Tom D’Urfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.

“If Justice Philips’ costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses,
They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

“Let Warwick’s muse with Ashurst join,
And Ozell’s with Lord Hervey’s;
Tickell and Addison combine,
And Pope translate with Jervas.

“Lansdowne himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,
Shall join with Frowde in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

“Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
I pray where can the hurt lie?
Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.

“Now, Tonson, ’list thy forces all,
Review them, and tell noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befall
A strange metamorphosis;

“A metamorphosis more strange
Than all his books can vapour.”
“To what” (quoth squire) “shall Ovid change?”
Quoth Sandys, “To waste paper.”
_Alexander Pope._

FROM “THE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT”

“SHUT, shut the door, good John!” fatigued I said;
Tie up the knocker; say I’m sick, I’m dead.
The dog-star rages! nay, ’tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out;
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free;
Ev’n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me--just at dinner-time.
Is there a parson much bemus’d in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk foredoom’d his father’s soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock’d from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darken’d walls?
All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn’d works the cause;
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my life (which did you not prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song),
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool’s wrath or love?
A dire dilemma--either way I’m sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz’d and ty’d down to judge, how wretched I,
Who can’t be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility; I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years.”
“Nine years!” cries he, who high in Drury Lane,
Lull’d by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig’d by hunger, and request of friends:
“The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why take it;
I’m all submission; what you’d have it, make it.”
Three things another’s modest wishes bound,
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: “You know his grace.
I want a patron: ask him for a place.”
Pitholeon libell’d me. “But here’s a letter
Informs you, sir, ’twas when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine;
He’ll write a journal, or he’ll turn divine.”
Bless me! a packet. “’Tis a stranger sues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.”
If I dislike it, “Juries, death, and rage!”
If I approve, “Commend it to the stage.”
There (thank my stars!), my whole commission ends;
The players and I are luckily no friends.
Fir’d that the house reject him, “’Sdeath! I’ll print it,
And shame the fools. Your interest, sir, with Lintot.”
“Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much.”
“Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.”
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, “Do, and we go snacks.”
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door:
“Sir, let me see your works and you no more!”
_Alexander Pope._

THE THREE BLACK CROWS

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand;
“Hark-ye,” said he, “’tis an odd story, this,
About the crows!” “I don’t know what it is,”
Replied his friend. “No! I’m surprised at that;
Where I came from it is the common chat;
But you shall hear--an odd affair indeed!
And that it happened, they are all agreed.
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from ’Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.”
“Impossible!” “Nay, but it’s really true;
I have it from good hands, and so may you.”
“From whose, I pray?” So, having named the man,
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.
“Sir, did you tell”--relating the affair.
“Yes, sir, I did; and, if it’s worth your care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me.
But, by the bye, ’twas two black crows--not three.”
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went;
“Sir”--and so forth. “Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though, in regard to number, not exact;
It was not two black crows--’twas only one;
The truth of that you may depend upon;
The gentleman himself told me the case.”
“Where may I find him?” “Why, in such a place.”
Away goes he, and, having found him out,
“Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.”
Then to his last informant he referred,
And begged to know if true what he had heard.
“Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?” “Not I.”
“Bless me! how people propagate a lie!
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one;
And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none.
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?”
“Crow--crow--perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over.” “And pray, sir, what was’t?”
“Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,
Something that was--as black, sir, as a crow.”
_John Byrom._

AN EPITAPH

A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes;
She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil (sometimes);
Her figure was good; she had very fine eyes,
And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise.
Her adorers were many, and one of them said
“She waltzed rather well--it’s a pity she’s dead.”
_George John Cayley._

AN EPISTLE TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE

WHILE at the helm of State you ride,
Our nation’s envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those counsels that they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is, you cannot doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.

You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If, then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great,
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What ’tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest
Is in our street esteem’d the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
’Fore him who never dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know,
Hath been admired by friend and foe;
But can your earthly domes compare
With all my castles--in the air?
We’re often taught, it doth behove us
To think those greater who’re above us;
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you, twice two story,
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.

Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted;
This, too, doth in my favour speak;
Your levée is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day--
My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance;
Familiar, you to admiration
May be approached by all the nation;
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness you’re offended,
The fault is easily amended;
For I’ll come down, with wondrous ease,
Into whatever _place_ you please.
I’m not ambitious; little matters
Will serve us, great but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o’ this isle,
Just to be doing with a while;
Admiral, general, judge, or bishop--
Or I can foreign treaties dish up.
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation,
Tuscan and French are in my head;
Latin I write, and Greek--I read.
If you should ask, What pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least.
What fittest for? You know, I’m sure:
I’m fittest for--a sinecure.
_Henry Fielding._

THE PUBLIC BREAKFAST

NOW my lord had the honour of coming down
post,
To pay his respects to so famous a toast,
In hopes he her ladyship’s favour might win,
By playing the part of a host at an inn.
I’m sure he’s a person of great resolution,
Though delicate nerves and a weak constitution;
For he carried us all to a place ’cross the river,
And vowed that the rooms were too hot for his liver.
He said it would greatly our pleasure promote,
If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat.
I never as yet could his reason explain,
Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain;
For sure such confusion was never yet known;
Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown;
While his lordship, embroidered and powdered all o’er,
Was bowing, and handing the ladies ashore.
How the Misses did huddle, and scuddle, and run!
One would think to be wet must be very good fun;
For by waggling their tails, they all seemed to take pains
To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains.
And ’twas pretty to see how, like birds of a feather,
The people of quality flocked all together;
All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond,
Just the same as these animals are in a pond.
You’ve read all their names in the news, I suppose,
But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes:
There was Lady Greasewrister,
And Madam Van-Twister,
Her ladyship’s sister;
Lord Cram, and Lord Vulter,
Sir Brandish O’Culter,
With Marshal Carouzer,
And old Lady Mouzer,
And the great Hanoverian Baron Panzmowzer;
Besides many others, who all in the rain went,
On purpose to honour this great entertainment.
The company made a most brilliant appearance,
And ate bread and butter with great perseverance;
All the chocolate, too, that my lord set before ’em,
The ladies despatched with the utmost decorum.
Soft musical numbers were heard all around,
The horns and the clarions echoing sound.
Sweet were the strains, as odourous gales that blow
O’er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses grow.
The peer was quite ravish, while close to his side
Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride.
Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture surveyed
All the powerful charms she so nobly displayed;
As when at the feast of the great Alexander,
Timotheus, the musical son of Thersander,
Breathed heavenly measures.
The prince was in pain,
And could not contain,
While Thais was sitting beside him;
But, before all his peers,
Was for shaking the spheres,
Such goods the kind gods did provide him.
Grew bolder and bolder,
And cocked up his shoulder,
Like the son of great Jupiter Ammon,
Till at length, quite opprest,
He sunk on her breast,
And lay there, as dead as a salmon.

Oh, had I a voice that was stronger than steel,
With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel,
And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter
All the speeches my lord made to Lady Bunbutter!
So polite all the time, that he ne’er touched a bit,
While she ate up his rolls and applauded his wit;
For they tell me that men of true taste, when they treat,
Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat;
And if that be the fashion, I never will give
Any grand entertainment as long as I live;
For I’m of opinion, ’tis proper to cheer
The stomach and bowels as well as the ear.
Nor me did the charming concerto of Abel
Regale like the breakfast I saw on the table;
I freely will own I the muffins preferred
To all the genteel conversation I heard.
E’en though I’d the honour of sitting between
My Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen,
Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine.
Cries Peggy: “This place is enchantingly pretty;
We never can see such a thing in the city.
You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton Street,
And never so civil a gentleman meet;
You may talk what you please, you may search London through,
You may go to Carlisle’s, and to Almack’s, too,
And I’ll give you my head if you find such a host,
For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast.
How he welcomes at once all the world and his wife,
And how civil to folks he ne’er saw in his life!”
“These horns,” cries my lady, “so tickle one’s ear,
Lord! what would I give that Sir Simon was here!
To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go,
For I find here are folks one may venture to know.
Sir Simon would gladly his lordship attend,
And my lord would be pleased with so cheerful a friend.”
So, when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast
Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week past,
I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng
Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling along;
For his lordship was pleased that the company now
To my Lady Bunbutter should courtesy and bow;
And my lady was pleased, too, and seemed vastly proud
At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd.
And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored
This beautiful image set up by my lord,
Some few insignificant folk went away,
Just to follow the employments and calls of the day;
But those who knew better their time how to spend,
The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend.
Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a cotillion,
Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postilion;
All the while her mamma was expressing her joy
That her daughter the morning so well could employ.
Now, why should the Muse, my dear mother, relate
The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great?
As homeward we came, ’tis with sorrow you’ll hear
What a dreadful disaster attended the peer;
For whether some envious god had decreed
That a naiad should long to ennoble the breed,
Or whether his lordship was charmed to behold
His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old,
In handing old Lady B---- and daughter,
This obsequious lord tumbled into the water;
But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the boat,
And I left all the ladies a-cleaning his coat.
_Christopher Anstey._

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran
Whene’er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends,
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show’d the rogues they lied:
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
_Oliver Goldsmith._

ON SMOLLETT

WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,
The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done that angry Heaven should send
The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,
And hailed the honours of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle stand superbly bound;
From Livy’s temples tear the historic crown,
Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.
Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.
Who ever read “The Regicide” but swore
The author wrote as man ne’er wrote before?
Others for plots and under-plots may call;
Here’s the right method--have no plot at all!

_Charles Churchill._

THE UNCERTAIN MAN

DUBIUS is such a scrupulous good man--
Yes, you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not with a peremptory tone
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,
He humbly hopes--presumes--it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just belief,
Would hang an honest man and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers, seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,
Centring at last in having none at all.
_William Cowper._

A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY

THE circle formed, we sit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.
“Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, show
Every five minutes how the minutes go.
Each individual, suffering a constraint--
Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint--
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are
Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,
Filled up at last with interesting news:
Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;
And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if ’twere treason against English laws.
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,
As from a seven years’ transportation, home
And there resume an unembarrassed brow,
Recovering what we lost we know not how,
The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,
Expression, and the privilege of thought.
_William Cowper._

ON JOHNSON