To the RIGHT HONOURABLE
The Earl of Litchfield.
ORENZO! to recriminate is just.
Fondness for Fame is Avarice of Air.
I grant the Man is vain, who writes for Praise.
Praise no Man e'er deferv'd, who fought no
As just thy Second Charge. I grant the Muse
Has often blusht at her degen'rate Sons,
Retain'd by Senfe to plead her filthy Cause;
To raise the Low, to magnify the Mean,
And fubtilize the Grofs into Refin'd:
As if to magic Numbers pow'rful Charm
'Twas giv'n, to make a Civet of their Song
Obfcene, and fweeten Ordure to Perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the Brute,
And lifts our Swine-enjoyments from the Mire.
The Fact notorious, nor obfcure the Cause.
We wear the Chains of Pleasure, and of Pride;
Thefe fhare the Man; and these distract him too;
Draw diff'rent Ways, and clash in their Commands.
Pride, like an Eagle, builds among the Stars;
But Pleasure, Lark-like, nefts upon the Ground.
Joys fhar'd by Brute-Creation, Pride resents;
Pleafure embraces: Man would both enjoy,
And both at once: A Point how hard to gain!
But, what can't Wit, when stung by ftrong Defire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous Enterprize.
Since Joys of Senfe can't rife to Reafon's Tafte;
In fubtle Sophiftry's laborious Forge,
Wit hammers out a Reason new, that stoops
To fordid Scenes, and greets them with Applaufe.
Wit calls the Graces the chafte Zone to loofe;
Nor less than a plump God to fill the Bowl.
A thousand Phantoms, and a thoufand Spells,
A thousand Opiates fcatters, to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool'd Mind delightfully confound.
Thus that which fhock'd the Judgment, fhocks no more;
That which gave Pride Offence, no more offends.
Pleasure and Pride, by Nature mortal Foes,
At War eternal, which in Man fhall reign,
By Wit's Address, patch up a fatal Peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank Debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, curfed Art! wipes off th' indebted Blufh
From Nature's Cheek, and bronzes ev'ry Shame.
Man fmiles in Ruin, glories in his Guilt,
And Infamy stands Candidate for Praise.
All writ by Man in favour of the Soul,
These fenfual Ethics far, in Bulk, tranfcend.
The Flow'rs of Eloquence profufely pour'd
O'er fpotted Vice, fill half the letter'd World.
Can Pow'rs of Genius exercise their Page,
And confecrate Enormities with Song?
But let not thefe inexpiable Strains
Condemn the Mufe that knows her Dignity;
Nor meanly ftops at Time, but holds the World
As 'tis, in Nature's ample Field, a Point,
A Point in her Efteem; from whence to start,
And run the Round of univerfal Space,
To vifit Being univerfal there,
And Being's Source, that utmoft Flight of Mind!
Yet, fpite of this fo vaft Circumference,
Well knows, but what is Moral, nought is Great.
Sing Syrens only? Do not Angels fing?
There is in Poefy a decent Pride,
Which well becomes her when the speaks to Profe,
Her younger Sifter; haply, not more wife.
Think'ft thou, LORENZO! to find Paftimes here?
No guilty Paffion blown into a Flame,
No Foible flatter'd, Dignity difgrac'd,
No fairy Field of Fiction all on Flower,
No Rainbow Colours, here, or filken Tale;
But folemn Counfels, Images of Awe,
Truths, which Eternity lets fall on Man
With double Weight, through thefe revolving Spheres,
This Death-deep Silence, and incumbent Shade:
Thoughts, fuch as fhall revifit your last Hour;.
Vifit uncall'd, and live when Life expires;
And thy dark Pencil, Midnight! darker ftill
In Melancholy dipt, embrowns the whole.
Yet this, ev'n This, my Laughter-loving Friends!
LORENZO! and thy Brothers of the Smile!
If, what imports you moft, can most engage,
Shall fteal your Ear, and chain you to my Song.
Or if you fail me, know, the Wife shall tafte
The Truths I fing; the Truths I fing shall feel;
And, feeling, give Affent; and Their Affent
Is ample Recompence; is more than Praise.
But chiefly Thine, O LITCHFIELD! nor mistake;
Think not un-introduc'd I force my Way;
NARCISSA, not unknown, not unally'd,
By Virtue, or by Blood, illuftrious Youth!
To thee, from blooming Amaranthine Bowers,
Where all the Language Harmony, defcends
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