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With modesty ber cheeks are dy'd,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean:
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day :
Serenely gay and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.



LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd,
As rational, the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precisiov,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione preditum ;
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em :
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature :
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
De:48 est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute;

Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and Aattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place ;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob ;*
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster-row:
No jugglers, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupedes;
No single brute his fellow leads ;
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape.
Like man,

he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state:
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;
At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters,

* Sir Robert Walpole.

Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act;
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike--for all

ape all.



Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind:
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
Till reading (I forget what day on)
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair ;
But let us not proceed too furious ;
First please to turn to god Mercurius :
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather ? very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning lights
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A just comparison-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes;

Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air :
And here my simile unites,
For, in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe to observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-incircled wand;
By classic authors term’d Caduceus ;
And highly fam'd for several uses :
To wit-most wondrously endu’d,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore :
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing :
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he :
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards ! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks ?





(From the Citizen of the World.)

WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd bepeath a rug ;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ;
The sanded foor that grits beneath the tread
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ;
The royal game of Goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black

face :
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire :

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