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Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace, Fame's a reversion, in which men take place Still to reflect the temper of his face?
(O late reversion !) at their own decease. Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well, When my lord 's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave? He starves his authors, that their works may sell. Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
That same is wealth, fantastic poets cry; To loll, or thump it, for his better ease ?
That wealth is fame, another clan reply ; Or a vile bull, for noon, or night, bespoke,
Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags; When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke? And swell in just proportion to their bags. Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old, find
Think glory nothing but the beams of gold ; His lordship's jest ; or, if his nose broke wind,
The first young lord, which in the Mall you meet, For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,
Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street, That can cry, “ Chimney sweep," or drive a plou? From rescued candles'-ends who rais'd a sum, With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close! And starves to join a penny to a plum. Scarce meaner they, who terms like these impose. A beardless miser! "Tis a guilt unknown
But what's the tribe most likely to comply? To former times, a scandal all our own. The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;
Of ardent lovers, the true modern band The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land. Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold:
For love, young, noble, rich Castalio dies ; All men they flatter, but themselves the most, Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes. With deathless fame, their everlasting boast : Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down; For Fame no cully makes so much her jest, No rival can prevail-but half-a-crown. As her old constant spark, the bard profest.
He glories to late times to be convey'd, “ Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight, Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made : Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,
Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd, And what to my great soul like glory dear ?" When Harry conquer’d, and half France expir'd. Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain: That fame's unwholesome taken without meat, Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain. And life is best sustain'd by what is eat :
“Who'd be a slave ?" the gallant Colonel cries Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes. And wishes all his wants were in his wit.
To deathless fame he loudly pleads his rightAh! what avails it, when his dinner's lost, Just is his title-for he will not fight : That his triumphant name adorns a post?
All soldiers valor, all divines have grace, Or that his shining page (provoking fate !) As maids of honor beauty—by their place : Defends sirloins, which sons of dullness eat? But, when indulging on the last campaign,
What foe to verse without compassion hears, His lofty terms climb, o'er the hills of slain; What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears, He gives the foe he slew, at each vain word, When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown,
A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword. A prostitute on every bulk in town,
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, With oiher whores undone, though not in print, A soldier should be modest as a maid : Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint ?
Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy ; Ye bards ! why will you sing, though uninspir’d? Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy. Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd ? "Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree; Defunct by Phæbus' laws, beyond redress, But if you pay yourself, the world is free. Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press? Were there no tongue to speak them but his own Bad metre, that ercrescence of the head,
Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known. Like hair, will sprout, although the poet's dead. Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name
All other trades demand, verse-makers beg : Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, A dedication is a wooden-leg ;
Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak; A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion, The Roman would not blush at the mistake. Exposes borrow'd brals to move compassion. Though such myself, vile bards I discommend; Nay more, though gentle Damon is my friend. "Is it then a crime to write ?"-If talent rare Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear :
SATIRE V. For some, though few, there are, large-minded
ON WOMAN. Who watch unseen the labors of the pen;
O fairest of creation ! last and best!
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
Nor reigns ambition in bold man alone ; And Dorset smiles, if Phæbus smil'd before ; Soft female hearts the rude invader own; Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires, But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things, And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.
Than routing armies, and dethroning kings:
Attend, and you discern it in the fair,
Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh.
The sex we honor, though their faults we Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play, blame;
O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea : Nay, thank their faults for such a fruilful theme : Nor rests by night, but, more sincere than nice, A theme, fair - ! doubly kind to me,
She shakes the curtains with her kind advice :
Doubly, like echo, sound is her delight,
Is 't not enough plagues, wars, and famines, rise Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice, To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise ? Too fond of admiration, lose their price;
Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong : To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight:
What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state! As unresery'd, and beauteous, as the Sun,
What strokes we feel from fancy, and from fate ! Through every sign of vanity they run;
If fate forbears us, fancy strikes the blow;
How oft the noon, how oft the midnight, bell, Taverns, exchanges, bridewells, drawing-rooms, (That iron tongue of Death!) with solemn knell, Instalments, pillories, coronations, tombs,
On Folly's errands as we vainly roam, Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews, Knocks atour hearts, and finds our thoughts from home Sales, races, rabbits, (and, still stranger!) pews. Men drop so fast, ere life's mid-stage we tread,
Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for Fame ; Few know so many friends, alive, as dead.
Our ardent labors for the toys we seek,
Now what reward for all this grief and toil ?
But one, a female friend's endearing smile ;
How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh,
Zara resembles una crown'd with snows; Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame. Without she freezes, and within she glows :
The sylvan race our active nymphs pursue ; Twice ere the Sun descends, with zeal inspir'd, Man is not all the game they have in view : From the vain converse of the world retir'd, In woods and fields their glory they complete ; She reads the psalms and chapters for the day, There Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate ; In-Cleopatra, or the last new play.
While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd, Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace,
Nor rashly tempts the barbarous sun and wind. Deceives mankind, and hides behind her face. Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed, Nor far beneath her in renown, is she,
And volt from hunters to the managed sleed ; Who through good-breeding is ill company; Command his prancings with a martial air, Whose manners will not let her larum cease, And Fobert has the forming of the fair. Who thinks you are unhappy, when at peace ; More than one steed must Delia's empire feel, To find you news, who racks her subtle head, Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel ; And vows—“that her great-grandfather is dead." And as she guides it through th' admiring throng,
A dearth of words a woman need not fear; With what an air she smacks the silken thong ! But 'tis a task indeed to learn—to hear :
Graceful as John, she moderates the reins, In that the skill of conversation lies;
And whistles sweet her diuretic strains : That shows, or makes, you both polite and wise. Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these Xantippe cries, “Let nymphs who nought can May drive six harness'd monarchs, if they please : say
They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit, Be lost in silence, and resign the day;
Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit. And let the guilty wife her guilt confess,
O'er the belles-lettres lovely Daphne reigns; By tame behavior, and a soft address !"
Again the god A pollo wears her chains : Through virtue, she refuses to comply
With legs loss d high, on her sophee she sits, With all the dictates of humanity;
Vouchsafing audience to contending wits : Through wisdom, she refuses to submit
of each performance she's the final test; To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit ; One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest; Then, her unblemish'd honor to maintain,
And then, pronouncing with decisive air, Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain: Fully convinces all the town-she's fair. But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word
Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face, Props from the lip of her unwary lord,
How would her elegance of taste decrease! Her darling china, in a whirlwind sent,
Some ladies' judgment in their features lies, Just intimates the lady's discontent.
And all their genius-sparkles from their eyes. Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame; “ But hold," she cries, “ lampooner! have a care; But keen Xantippe, scorning borrow'd flame, Must I want common sense, because I'm fair 1"
O no: see Stella ; her eyes shine as bright, You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite ;
To keep her word, a brown one comes at night:
Like a dove's neck, she shifts her transient charms
But one admirer has the painted lass; Nor is't a sanction for impertinence.
Nor finds that one, but in her looking-glass : Sempronia lik'd her man; and well she might; Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess, The youth, in person and in parts, was bright; That all her art scarce makes her please us less. Possess'd of every virtue, gracc, and art,
To deck the female cheek, HE only knows, That claims just empire o'er the female heart: Who paints less-fair the lily and the rose. He met her passion, all her sighs return'd,
How gay they smile! Such blessings Nature pours, And, in full rage of youthful ardor, burn'd: O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores : Large his possessions, and beyond her own; In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, Their bliss the theme and envy of the town: She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green; The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more, Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, In stepp'd deformd, debauch’d, diseas'd, threescore. And wasle their music on the savage race. The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear; Is Nature then a niggard of her bliss ? or pride and avarice who can cure the fair ? Repine we guiltless in a world like this?
Man's rich with little, were his judgment true; But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;
And painted art's deprav'd allurements choose. Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights; Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air But fools create themselves new appetites : (An odd effect !) gives vapors to the fair ; Fancy and pride seek things at vast expense, Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs, Which relish not 10 reason, nor to sense.
And larks, and nightingales, are odious things; When surfeil, or unthankfulness, destroys,
But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds delight: In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,
And to be press'd to death, transports her quite : In fancy's airy land of noise and show,
Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads. Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures grow; And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their Like cals in air-pumps, to subsist we strive
shades, On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.
Black kennels' absent odors she regrets, Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call : And stops her nose at beds of violets. He comes; but where's his patient ? At the ball. Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene? The doctor stares ; her woman curt'sies low, Or is the public to the private scene? And cries, “ My lady, sir, is always so:
Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way : Diversions put her maladies to flight;
Through briers and brambles in the world we stray
Which choke our passage, our career control,
O sacred solitude ! divine retreat!
By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid : Must women have a doctor, or a dance ?
The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam, (Strangers on Earth!) are innocence and peace : But droop and die, in perfect health, at home : There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore, For want—but not of health, are ladies ill; We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; And tickets cure beyond the doctor's bill.
There, bless’d with health, with business unperples'd, Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair
This life we relish, and insure the next ; Yon lady lolls! With what a tender air!
There too the Muses sport; these numbers free, Pale as a young dramatic amhor, when,
Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee. O'er darling lines, fell Cibber waves his pen.
There sport the Muses; but not there alone : Is her lord angry, or has Veny* chid ?
Their sacred force Amelia feels in town. Dead is her father, or the mask forbid ?
Nought but a genius can a genius fit; “ Late sitting-up has turn'd her roses white." A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit : Why went she not to bed ? “Because 'twas night.” Both wits! though miracles are said to cease, Did she then dance or play ? “ Nor this, nor that." Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.
peace; “No, all alone, her prayers she rather chose, With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose, Than be that wrelch to sleep till morning rose." On Durfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose : Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,
The learned war both wage with equal force, Goes, with the fashionable owls, to bed :
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce. This her pride covels, this her health denies ;
Phoebe, though she possesses nothing less, Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.
Is proud of being rich in happiness ; Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive, Laboriously pursues delusive toys, And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.
Content with pains, since they're reputed joys.
With what well-acted transport will she say, • Lap-dog.
"Well, sure we were so happy yesterday!
And then that charming party for to-morrow .!" In glittering scenes, o'er her own heart, severe;
In these great points she leads the cominonweal;
Assumes her nod, to close the grand debate. If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains; When such her mind, why will the fair express What is it, but rank poison in your veins ? Their emulation only in their dress ? As Flavia in her glass an angel spies,
But oh! the nymph that mounts above the skies,
And make her family a sinecure :
And thanks her Maker that her cards are good. The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found What angels would those be, who thus excel. (Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd. In theologics, could they sew as well! “What miracle,” says Strephon, "makes thee Yet why should not the fair her text pursue ? weep?"
Can she more decently the doctor woo? “Ah, barbarous man," she cries,“ how could you— "Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat
Of her religion, should be barr'd in that. Men love a mistress as they love a feast ;
Isaac, a brother of the canting strain, How grateful one to touch, and one to taste ! When he has knock'd at his own skull in vain, Yet sure there is a certain time of day,
To beauteous Marcia often will repair
O how his pious soul exults to find
Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he Let women never triumph, nor despair;
Hangs on ber bloom, like an industrious bee ; Nor praise, nor blame, too much, the warm, or chill; Hums round about her, and with all his power Hunger and love are foreign to the will.
Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a flower! There is indeed a passion more refin’d,
The young and gay declining, Appia fiies For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind : At nobler game, the mighty and the wise : But not of that unfashionable set
By nature more an eagle than a dove, Is Phyllis ; Phyllis and her Damon met.
She impiously prefers the world to love. Eternal love exactly hits her taste ;
Can wealth give happiness ? look round and see Phyllis demands eternal love at least.
What gay distress! what splendid misery! Embracing Phyllis with soft-smiling eyes,
Whatever fortune slavishly can pour,
The mind annihilates, and calls for more.
How will the miser startle, to be sold
or such a wonder, as insolvent gold ! The fair philosopher to Rowley flies,
What Nature wants has an intrinsic weight; Where, in a bor, the whole creation lies :
All more is but the fashion of the plate, She sees the planets in their turns advance, Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view; And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance :
It charms us now ; anon we cast anew; of Desaguliers she bespeaks fresh air ;
To some fresh birth of fancy more inclin'd : And Whiston has engagements with the fair. Then wed not acres, but a noble mind. What vain experiments Sophronia tries !
Mistaken lovers, who make worth their care, "Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies.
And think accomplishments will win the fair; But though today this rage of science reigns, The fair, 'tis true, by genius should be won, (O fickle sex!) soon end her learned pains. As flowers unfold their beauties to the Sun; Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got,
And yet in female scales a fop outweighs, Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.
And wit must wear the willow and the bays. Το. turn ; she never took the height Nought shines so bright in vain Liberia's eye Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right.
As riot, impudence, and perfidy; She strikes each point with native force of mind, The youth of fire, that has drunk deep. and play'd While puzzled Learning blunders far behind. And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid ; Graceful 10 sight, and elegant to thought,
For him, as yet unhang'd, she spreads her charms The greal are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught. Snatches the dear destroyer to her arms; Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet, And amply gives (though treated long amiss) When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet; The man of merit his revenge in this.
If you resent, and wish a woman ill,
Leads on your train, and sparkles at your head, But turn her o'er one moment to her will.
What seems most hard, is, not to be well-bred The languid lady next appears in state, Her bright example with success pursue, Who was not born to carry her own weight; And all, but adoration, is your due. She rolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid “But adoration! give me something more,” To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
Cries Lycé, on the borders of threescore : Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom,
Nought treads so silent as the foot of Time; She, by just stages, journeys round the room : Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime; But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs 'Tis greatly wise to know, before we're told, To scale the Alps—that is, ascend the stairs. The melancholy news, that we grow old. My fan! let others say, who laugh at toil;
Autumnal Lycé carries in her face Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style; Memento mori to cach public place. And that is spoke with such a dying fall,
O how your beating breast a mistress warms, That Betty rather sees than hears the call : Who looks through spectacles to see your charms ! The motion of her lips, and meaning eye,
While rival undertakers hover round, Piece out th' idea her faint words deny.
And with his spade the sexion marks the ground. O listen with attention most profound !
Intent not on her own, but others' doom, Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.
She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb. And help! oh help! her spirits are so dead, In vain the cock has summon'd sprites away, One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day. If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er,
Gay rainbow silks her mellow charms infold, She pants ! she sinks away! and is no more. And nought of Lycé but herself is old. Let the robust and the gigantic carve,
Her grizzled locks assume a smirking grace, Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve : And art has levelld her deep-furrow'd face. But chew she must herself; ah cruel fate! Her strange demand no mortal can approve, That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat.
We'll ask her blessing, but can't ask her love. An antidote in female caprice lies
She grants, indeed, a lady may decline (Kind Heaven!) against the poison of their eyes. (All ladies but herself) at ninety-nine. Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien ;
O how unlike her was the sacred age Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene. of prudent Portia ! Her grey hairs engage, In fair and open dealing where's the shame? Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline; What Nature dares to give, she dares to name. Virtue's the paint that can with wrinkles shine ; This honest fellow is sincere and plain,
That, and that only, can old age sustain ; And justly gives the jealous husband pain. Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain (Vain is the task to petticoats assign’d,
Not numerous are our joys, when life is new;
And downward tend into the vale of age,
We call for death, and shelter in a shroud.
Where's Portia now ?-But Portia left behind Believe her dress, she's not a grenadier.
Two lovely copies of her form and mind. If thunder's awful, how much more our dread, What heart untouch'd their early grief can view, When Jove deputes a lady in his stead!
Like blushing rose-buds dipp'd in morning dew? A lady? pardon my mistaken pen,
Who into shelter takes their tender bloom, A shameless woman is the worst of men.
And forms their minds to flee from ills to come ?
Fancy and passion toss it to and fro;
Ye beauteous orphans, since in silent dust And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains, Your best example lies, my precepts trust. With Chinese painters modern toasts agree, Life swarms with ills; the boldest are afraid : The point they aim at is deformity:
Where then is safety for a tender maid ? They throw their persons with a hoyden air Unfit for conflict, round beset with woes, Across the room, and toss into the chair.
And man, whom least she fears, her worst of foes. So far their commerce with mankind is gone, When kind, most cruel; when oblig'd the most, They, for our manners, have exchang'd their own. The least obliging; and by favors lost. The modest look, the castigated grace,
Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate; The gentle movement, and slow-measur'd pace, And scorn you for those ills themselves create. For which her lovers died, her parents paid, If on your fame our sex a blot has thrown, Are indecorums with the modern maid.
"Twill ever stick, through malice of your own. Stiff forms are bad; but let no worse intrude, Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies; Nor conquer art and nature, to be rude.
And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise : Modern good-breeding carry to its height,
Then please the best ; and know, for men of sense, And Lady D—'s self will be polite.
Your strongest charms are native innocence. Ye rising fair! ye bloom of Britain's isle ! Arts on the mind, like paint upon the face, When high-born Anna, with a soften'd smile, Fright him, that's worth your love, from your embrace