Let him retire, betwixt two ages caft,
The firft of this, and hindmost of the last.
A lofing gamefter, let him sneak away;
He bears no ready money from the play.
The fate, which governs poets, thought it fit 25
He should not raife his fortunes by his wit.
The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;
Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:
All fouthern vices, heaven be praised, are here;
But wit's a luxury you think too dear.
When you to cultivate the plant are loth,
"Tis a fhrewd fign 'twas never of your growth;
And wit in northern climates will not blow,
Except, like orange-trees, 'tis hous'd from fnow.
There needs no care to put a playhoufe down, 35
'Tis the most defart place of all the town:
We and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,
Like monarchs, ruined with expensive war;
While, like wife English, unconcern'd you fit,
And fee us play the tragedy of wit..
MAN OF MODE; OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER.
[BY SIR GEORGE ETHERIDGE, 1676.]
MOST modern wits fuch monftrous fools have shown,
They seem not of heaven's making, but their
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass;
But there goes more to a fubftantial afs:
Something of man must be expos'd to view, 5
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool fo nicely writ,
The ladies would miftake him for a wit;
And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks,
I vow, methinks, he's pretty company:
So brisk, so gay, fo travell'd, fo refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
True fops help nature's work, and go to fchool,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call; 15 He's knight o' the fhire, and represents ye all. From each he meets he.culls whate'er he can; Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a fnow-ball grows. 20 His various modes from various fathers follow; One taught the tofs, and one the new French wallow:
His fword-knot this, his cravat that design'd; And this, the yard-long fnake he twirls behind. From one the facred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat phan’d.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a fhog cafts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rifes with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
These fure he took from inoft of you who write.
Yet every man is fafe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
POETS, like difputants, when reasons fail, Have one fure refuge left-and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;
And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this difference grows, 5
Betwixt our fools in verfe, and your's in profe:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat;
And fwears at the gilt coach, but fwear's a-foot:
For tis obferv'd of every fcribbling man,
He grows a fop as faft as e'er he can ;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink and purple beft become his face,
For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor
Nor likes your wit juft as you like his plays;
He has not yet fo much of Mr, Bayes,
He does his beft; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly fue out his writ of ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair fex he begs to ftand or fall.
Let Cæfar's power the men's ambition move,
him who loft the world for love!
But grace you
Yet if fome antiquated lady say,
The last age is not copied in his play;
Heaven help the man who for that face muft drudge,
Which only has the wrinkles of a judge. Let not the young and beauteous join with thofe ;
For fhould you raife fuch numerous hofts of foes,
Young wits and sparks he to his aid muft call; 30 "Tis more than one man's work to please you all.
|