Than all her plagues, which truly to unfold
Would make the best blood in my veins run cold,
And strike all manhood dead, which but to name
Would call up in my cheeks the marks of fhame;
Sins, if fuch fins can be, which thut out grace,
Which for the guilty leave no hope, no place
E'en in God's mercy, fins 'gainft Nature's plan
Poffefs the land at large, and man for man
Burn in those fires, which Hell alone could raise
To make him more than damn'd, which, in the
days

Of punishment, when guilt becomes her prey,
With all her tortures fhe can scarce repay,

Be grace shut out, be mercy deaf, let God
With tenfold terrors arm that dreadful nod
Which speaks them loft, and sentenc'd to despair;
Diftending wide her jaws, let Hell prepare
For those who thus offend amongst mankind,
A fire more fierce, and tortures more refin'd;

On earth, which groans beneath their monftrous
weight,

On earth, alas! they meet a diff'rent fate;

And whilst the laws, falfe grace, false mercy fhewn,
Are taught to wear a foftnefs not their own,

Life pofting thro' the veins, each pulfe on fire,
And the whole body tingling with desire,
Pants for those charms, which Virtue might engage
To break his vow, and thaw the froft of Age,
Bidding each trembling nerve, each muscle strain,
And giving pleasure which is almost pain.
Women are kept for nothing but the breed ;
For pleasure we must have a Ganymede;
A fine, fresh Hylas, a delicious boy,
To ferve our purposes of beaftly joy.

Fairest of nymphs where ev'ry nymph is fair,
Whom Nature form'd with more than common care,
With more than common care whom Art improv❜d,
And both declar'd most worthy to be lov'd,
neglected wanders, whilst a croud

Purfue, and confecrate the steps

She, haplefs maid, born in a wretched hour,
Waftes Life's gay prime in vain, like fome fair
flow'r,

Sweet in its feent, and lively in its hue,
Which withers on the stalk from whence it grew,
And dies uncropp'd; whilft he, admir'd, carefs'd,
Belov'd, and ev'ry where a welcome guest,
With brutes of rank and fortune plays the whore,

Men, whom the beafts would fpurn, fhould they ap- For this unnat'ral luft a common sewer.

Amongst the honeft herd, find refuge here.

No longer by vain fear or fhame controul'd,
From long, too long fecurity grown bold,
Mocking rebuke, they brave it in our streets,
And Lumley e'en at noon his mistress meets :
So public in their crimes, fo daring grown,
They almoft take a pride to have them known;
And each unnat'ral villain fearce endures
To make a fecret of his vile amours.
Go where we will, at ev'ry time and place,
Sodom confronts, and ftares us in the face;
They ply in public at our very doors,

And take the bread from much more honeft whores.
Those who are mean high paramours fecure,
And the rich guilty fcreen the guilty poor;
The fin too proud to feel from reason awe,
And those who practise it too great for law.

Woman, the pride and happiness of Man,
Without whofe foft endearments Nature's plan
Had been a blank, and Life not worth a thought;
Woman, by all the Loves and Graces taught,
With fofteft arts, and fure, tho' hidden skill,
To humanize, and mould us to her will;

Dine with Apicius-at his fumptuous board
Find All the world of dainties can afford-
And yet (fo much diftemper'd fpirits pall
The fickly appetite (amidst them all
Apicius finds no joy, but, whilst he carves
For ev'ry gueft, the landlord fits and starves.

The foreft haunch, fine fat, in flavour high,
Kept to a moment, fmokes before his eye,
But smokes in vain; his heedlefs eye ruins o'er
And loaths what he had deified before;
The turtle, of a great and glorious fize,
Worth its own weight in gold, a mighty prize
For which a man of taste all rifques would run,
Itfelf a feaft, and ev'ry difh in one;

The turtle in luxurious pomp comes in,

Kept, kill'd, cut up, prepar'd, and drefs'd by

Quin :

In vain it comes, in vain lies full in view;
As Quin hath drefs'd it, he may eat it too,
Apicius cannot. When the glafs goes round,
Quick-circling, and the roof with mirth refound,
Sober he fits, and filent-All alone

Tho' in a croud, and to himself scarce known,
On grief he feeds, nor friends can cure, nor wine

Woman, with more than common grace form'd here, Sufpend his cares, and make him ceafe to pine.

With the perfuafive language of a tear

To melt the rugged temper of our inle,

Or win us to her purpose with a fmile;

Woman, by fate the quickeft fpur decreed,
The fairest, beft reward of ev'ry deed

Which bears the stamp of honour; at whofe name
Our ancient heroes caught a quicker flame,
And dar'd beyond belief, whilft o'er the plain,
Spurning the carcafes of Princes flain,
Confufion proudly ftrode, whilft Horror blew
The fatal trump, and Death ftalk'd full in view;
Woman is out of date, a thing thrown by
As having loft its use; no more the eye
With female beauty caught, in wild amaze,
Gazes entranc'd, and could for ever gaze;
No more the heart, that feat where love refides,
Each breath drawn quick and short, in fuller tides

Why mourns Apicius thus? Why runs his eye,
Heedlefs, o'er delicates, which from the sky
Might call down Jove? where now his generous

wish,

That, to invent a new and better dish,

The world might burn, and all mankind expire,
So he might roaft a Phoenix at the fire?
Why fwims that eye in tears, which, thro' a race
Of fixty years, never fhew'd one fign of grace?
Why feels that heart, which never felt before?
Why doth that pamper'd glutton eat no more,
Who only liv'd to eat, his ftomach pall'd,
And drown'd in floods of forrow? Hath Fate call'
His father from the grave to fecond life?
Hath Clodius on his hands return'd his wife ;
Or hath the law, by strictest juftice taught,
Compell'd him to reftore the dower the brought?

Thus fhalt thou pafs untainted life's gay bloom,
Thus ftand uncourted in the drawing-room,
At midnight thus, untempted, walk the street,
And run no danger but of being beat.

Too full for continence, that Fate could give
Her darling as a curfe; that she may live,
Ere fixteen winters their fhort course have run,
In agonies of foul, to curfe that fon.

Where is the mother, whofe officious zeal
Difcreetly judging what her daughters feel
By what the felt herfelf in days of yore,
Against that letcher Man makes faft the door?
Who not permits, e'en for the sake of pray'r,
A prieft, uncaftrated, to enter there,
Nor (could her wishes and her care prevail)
Would fuffer in the house a fly that's male?
Let her discharge her cares, throw wide her doors,
Her daughters cannot, if they would, be whores;
Nor can a man be found, as times now go,
Who thinks it worth his while to make them fo.
Tho' they more fresh, more lively than the morn,
And brighter than the noon-day fun, adorn
The works of Nature; tho' the mother's grace
Revives, improv'd, in every daughter's face;
Undifciplin'd in dull Difcretion's rules,
Untaught, and undebauch'd by boarding-schools,
Free and unguarded, let them range the town,
Go forth at random, and run Pleasure down,
Start where the will, difcard all taint of fear,
Nor think of danger, when no danger's near.
Watch not their fteps-They're fafe without thy In never-ceafing ftreams let forrow flow;

Pray then for daughters, ye wife mothers, pray;
They shall reward your love, not make you gray
Before your time with forrow they fhall give
Ages of peace and comfort, whilst ye live
Make life moft truly worth your care, and fave,
In fpite of death, your mem'ries from the grave.
That fenfe, with more than manly vigour
fraught,

care,

And M- grown gray, perforce grows chaste;
Nor, to the credit of our modest race,
Rifes one ftallion to fupply their place.

A maidenhead, which, twenty years ago,
In mid December the rank fly would blow

Tho' clofely kept, now, when the Dog-Star's heat
Enflames the marrow in the very street,
May lie untouch'd, left for the worms, by those
Who daintily pafs by, and hold their nose.
Poor, plain Concupifcence is in difgrace,
And fimple Letch'ry dares not fhew her face,
Left fhe be fent to Bridewell: bankrupts made,
To fave their fortunes, bawds leave off that trade,
Which first had left off them; to Wellclofe Square
Fine, fresh, young ftrumpets (for Dodd preaches
there)

Throng for fubfiftence; pimps no longer thrive,
And penfions only keep L- alive.

Where is the mother, who thinks all her pain,
And all her jeopardy of travail, gain,
When a man-child is born; thinks ev'ry pray'r
Paid to the full, and answer'd in an heir?
Short-fighted woman! little doth she know
What ftreams of forrow from that fource
Little fufpect, while fhe furveys her boy,
Her young Narciffus, with an eye of joy

may

flow;

That fortitude of foul, that stretch of thought,
That genius, great beyond the narrow bound
Of earth's low walk, that judgment perfect found
When wanted moft, that purity of tafte
Which Critics mention by the name of Chafte
Adorn'd with elegance, that eafy flow
Of ready wit which never made a foe,
That face, that form, that dignity, that ease,
Thofe pow'rs of pleafing, with that will to please,
By which Lepel, when in her youthful days,
E'en from the currrifh Pope extorted praife,
We fee, tranfmitted, in her daughter fhine,
And view a new Lepel in Caroline.

Is a fon born into this world of woe?

Be from that hour the house with fables hung,
Let lamentations dwell upon thy tongue,
E'en from the moment that he first began
To wail and whine; let him not see a man ;
Lock, lock him up, far from the public eye,
Give him no opportunity to buy,

Or to be bought: B, tho' rich, was fold,
And gave his body up to fhame for gold.

Let it be bruited all about the town,
That he is coarse, indelicate and brown,
An antidote to luft, his face deep scarr'd
With the small-pox, his body maim'd and marr'd,
Eat up with the King's-evil, and his blood,
Tainted throughout, a thick and putrid flood,
Where dwells Corruption, making him all o'er,
From head to foot, a rank and running fore.
Should't thou report him as by Nature made,
He is undone, and by thy praife betray'd;
Give him out fair, letchers in number more,
More brutal and more fierce, than throng'd the
door

Of Lot in Sodom, fhall to thine repair,
And force a paffage, tho' a God is there.

Let him not have one fervant that is male;
Where Lords are baffled, fervants oft prevail.
Some vices they propofe, to all agree;
was guilty, but was M-

H

free?
Give him no tutor-throw him to a punk,
Rather than truft his morals to a monk-
Monks we all know-we, who have liv'd at home,
From fair report, and travellers, who roam,
More feelingly-nor trust him to the gown,
'Tis oft a covering in this vile town

For bafe defigns; ourselves have liv'd to fee
More than one parfon in the pillory.
Should he have brothers, (image to thy view
A fcene, which, tho' not public made, is true)
Let not one brother be to t' other known,
Nor let his father fit with him alone.
Be all his fervants female, young, and fair;
And if the pride of Nature fpur thy heir

To deeds of venery, if, hot and wild,
He chance to get some score of maids with child,
Chide, but forgive him; whoredom is a crime,
Which, more at this than any other time,
Calls for indulgence, and, 'mongst such a race,
To have a baftard is fome fign of grace.

Born in fuch times, should I fit tamely down,
Supprefs my rage, and faunter thro' the town
As one who knew not, or who fhar'd these crimes?
Should I at leffer evils point my rimes,
And let this giant fin, in the full eye
Of obfervation, pafs unwounded by ?
Tho' our meek wives, paffive obedience taught,
Patiently bear those wrongs for which they ought,
With the brave fpirit of their dams poffefs'd,
To plant a dagger in each husband's breast,
To cut off male increase from this fair ifle,
And turn our Thames into another Nile ;
Tho', on his Sunday, the fmug pulpiteer,
Loud 'gainst all other crimes, is filent here,
And thinks himself abfolv'd, in the pretence
Of decency, which meant for the defence
Of real Virtue, and to raise her price,
Becomes an agent for the caufe of Vice;
Tho' the Law fleeps, and thro' the care they take
To drug her well, may never more awake;
Born in fuch times, nor with that patience curft
Which faints may boast of, I must speak, or burst.
But if, too eager in my bold career.
Haply I wound the nice and chafter ear,
If all unguarded, all too rude, I speak,
And call up blushes in the maiden's cheek,
Forgive, ye fair-my real motives view
And to forgiveness add your praises too.
For you I write-nor with a better plan,
The cause of Woman is most worthy Man-
For you I still will write, nor hold my hand,
Whilft there's one flave of Sodom in the land.

Let them fly far, and skulk from place to place,
Not daring to meet manhood face to face,
Their fteps I'll track, nor yield them one retreat
Where they may hide their heads, or reft their feet,
"Till God in wrath fhall let his vengeance fall,
And make a great example of them all,
Bidding in one grand pile this town expire,
Her tow'rs in duft, her Thames a lake of fire;
Or they (moft worth our wish) convinc'd, tho' late,
Of their past crimes, and dangerous estate,
Pardon of women with repentance buy,
And learn to honour them, as much as I.

END OF THE TIMES.

INDEPENDENCE.

To be the flave of Greatnefs, to strike fail,
When, fweeping onward with her peacock's tail,
Quality, in full plumage, paffes by;

He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye,
And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due ftate,
And is above converfing with the great.

Perish thofe flaves, thofe minions of the quill,
Who have confpir'd to feize that facred hill
Where the Nine Sifters pour a genuine ftrain,
And funk the mountain level with the plain;
Who, with mean, private views, and fervile art,
No spark of virtue living in their heart,
Have bafely turn'd apoftates, have debas'd
Their dignity of office, have difgrac'd,
Like Eli's fons, the altars where they stand,
And caus'd their names to stink thro' all the land,
Have ftoop'd to prostitute their venal pen
For the fupport of great but guilty men,
Have made the Bard, of their own vile accord,
Inferior to that thing we call a Lord.

What is a Lord? Doth that plain fimple wore
Contain fome magic fpell? As foon as heard,
Like an alarum-bell on Night's dull ear,
Doth it ftrike louder, and more strong appear
Than other words? Whether we will or no,
Thro' Reafon's Court doth it unqueftion'd go
E'en on the mention, and of course transmit
Notions of fomething excellent, of wit
Pleafing tho' keen, of humour free tho' chaste,
Of sterling genius with found judgment grac'd,
Of virtue far above temptation's reach,
And honour which not malice can impeach?
Believe it not-'twas Nature's first intent,
Before their rank became their punishment,

They should have pafs'd for men, nor blush'd to
prize

The bleffings the beftow'd.-She gave them eyes,
And they could feehe gave them ears-they
heard-

The inftruments of ftirring, and they stirr'd-.
Like us, they were defign'd to eat, to drink,
To talk, and (ev'ry now and then) to think :
"Till they, by pride corrupted, for the fake
Of fingularity, difclaim'd that make ;
Till they, difdaining Nature's vulgar mode,
Flew off, and ftruck into another road,
More fitting Quality, and to our view
Came forth a fpecies altogether new,

Something we had not known, and could not know,
Like nothing of God's making here below;
Nature exclaim'd with wonder-Lords are Things,
Which, never made by me, were made by Kings.
A Lord (nor let the honest and the brave
The true, old noble with the fool and knave
Here mix his fame; curit be that thought of mine,
Which with a Band F- fhould Grafton join)
A Lord (nor here let cenfure rafhly call
My juft contempt of some, abuse of all,
And as of late, when Sodom was my theme,
Slander my purpofe, and my Muse blafpheme,
Because the ftops not, rapid in her fong,

"APPY the Bard (tho' few fuch Bards we find) To make exceptions as the goes along,

H Who, bove controlment, dares to speak his Tho' well the hopes to find, another year,

mind;

Pares unabash'd, in ev'ry place appear,
And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear.
Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need
Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead

A whole Minority exceptions here)

A mere, mere Lord, with nothing but the name,
Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame,
Lives on another man; himself a blank,
Thanklefs he lives, or muft fome grandfire thank

For fmuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf;
A Bard owes all to Nature and himself.

Gods, how my foul is burnt up with disdain,
When I fee men, whom Phabus in his train
Might view with pride, lacquey the heels of those
Whom Genius ranks amongst her greatest foes!
And what's the caufe? Why thefe fame fons
Scorn,

No thanks to them, were to a title born,
And could not help it; by chance hither fent,
And only deities by accident.

Hard fortune on our getting chanc'd to fhine,
Their birthright honours had been your's or mine.
*Twas a mere random stroke; and should the Throne
Eye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown,
Thou, tho' a Bard, might'st be their fellow yet,
But Felix never can be made a Wit.

No, in good faith-that's one of these few things
Which Fate hath plac'd beyond the reach of Kings.
Bards may be Lords, but 'tis not in the cards,
Play how we will, to turn Lords into Bards.

A Bard-a Lord-Why let them hand in hand
Go forth as friends, and travel thro' the land;
Obferve which word the people can digeft
Moft readily, which goes to market best,
Which gets moft credit; whether men will trust
A Bard because they think he may be just,
Or on a Lord will chufe to rifk their gains,
Tho' Privilege in that point ftill remains.

A Bard-a Lord-let Reafon take her scales,
And fairly weigh thofe words; fee which prevails,
Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam,
And which by finking, we the victor deem.

'Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove,
Summons a fynod in the facred grove.
Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high,
And fit in ftate the Senate of the sky;
Whilft, in a kind of parliament below,
Men ftare at thofe above, and want to know
What they're tranfacting. Reafon takes her stand
Juft in the midft, a balance in her hand,
Which o'er and o'er fhe tries, and finds it true.
From either fide, conducted full in view,

A man comes forth, of vigour ftrange and queer;
We now and then fee fomething like them here.

The firft was meagre, flimfy, void of strength,
But Nature kindly had made up in length
What fhe in breadth denied. Erect and proud,
A head and fhoulders taller than the croud,
He deem'd them pigmies all: loose hung his skin
O'er his bare bones; his face fo very thin,
So very narrow, and fo much beat out,
That Phyfiognomists have made a doubt,
Proportion loft, expreffion quite forgot,
Whether it could be call'd a face or not;
At end of it howe'er, unblefs'd with beard,
Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd:
With legs, which we might well conceive that Fate
Meant only to fupport a spider's weight,
Firmly he ftrove to tread, and with a stride
Which fhew'd at once his weakness and his pride,
Shaking himself to pieces, feem'd to cry,

Obferve, good people, how I fhake the sky."
In his right-hand a paper did he hold,
On which, at large, in characters of gold,
Diftinct, and plain for those who run to fee,
Sain Archibald had wrote L, 0, R, D.

This, with an air of fcorn, he from afar
Twirl'd into Reafon's fcales, and on that bar,
Which from his foul he hated, yet admir'd,
Quick turn'd his back, and as he came retir'd.
The Judge to all around his name declar'd;
Each goddefs titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove star'd,
of And the whole people cried, with one accord,
"Good Heaven blefs us all, is that a Lord!"
Such was the firftthe fecond was a man,
Whom Nature built on quite a diff'rent plan;
A bear, whom from the moment he was born,
His dam defpis'd, and left unlich'd in fcom ;
A Babel, which, the pow'r of Art undone,
She could not finish when she had begun ;
An utter Chaos, out of which no might
But that of God could ftrike one fpark of light.
Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to blade
A H
might at full length have laid;
Vaft were his bones, his muscles twisted strong;
His face was fhort, but broader than 'twas long i
His features, tho' by Nature they were large,
Contentment had contriv'd to overcharge,
And bury meaning, fave that we might spy
Senfe low'ring on the penthouse of his eye;
His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stout
That they might bear a manfion-house about;
Nor were they, look but at his body there,
Defign'd by Fate a much lefs weight to bear.
O'er a brown Caflock, which had once been
black,

Which hung in tatters on his brawny back,
A fight moft ftrange, and aukward to behold,
He threw a covering of blue and gold.
Juft at the time of life, when man by rule,
The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool,
He started up a fop, and, fond of show,
Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau.
A fubject, met with only now and then,
Much fitter for the pencil than the pen ;
Hogarth would draw him (Envy must allow)
E'en to the life, was Hogarth living now.

With fuch accoutrements, with fuch a form,
Much like a porpoise just before a storm,
Onward he roll'd: a laugh prevail'd around,
E'en Jove was feen to fimper. ; at the found
(Nor was the caufe unknown, for from his youth
Himself he ftudied by the glafs of Truth)
He join'd their mirth, nor fhall the gods condemn,
If, whilft they laugh'd at him, he laugh'd at them.
Judge Reafon view'd him with an eye of grace,
Look'd through his foul, and quite forgot his face,
And, from his hand receiv'd, with fair regard
Plac'd in her other scale the name of Bard.
Then (for fhe did as Judges ought to do,
She nothing of the cafe beforehand knew,
Nor wish'd to know; she never ftretch'd the laws,
Nor, bafely to anticipate a cause.
Compell'd Sollicitors, no longer free,
To fhew thofe briefs fhe had no right to fee)
Then the with equal hand her fcales held out,
Nor did the caufe one moment hang in doubt;
She held her fcales out fair to public view,
The Lord, as fparks fly upwards, upwards flew.
More light than air, deceitful in the weight;
The Bard, preponderating, kept his state.
Reafon approv'd, and with a voice whose found
Shook earth, fhook heaven, on the clearest ground,