While Collins* mourns, with an unfeigned zeal,
The' apostate youth who reason'd once so well.
Collins, who makes so merry with the creed,
He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;
But only thinks so: to give both their due,
Satan and he believe and tremble too.
Of some for glory such the boundless rage
That they're the blackest scandal of their age.
Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;
Nay, a freemason with some terror names;
Omits no duty; nor can Envy say
He miss'd these many years, the church or play :
He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true,
But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;
His character and gloves are ever clean,
And then he can outbow the bowing dean:
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,
Which equally the wise and worthless shares.
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belief,
Most charitably lends the town his face,
For ornament in every public place:
As sure as cards he to the' assembly comes,
And is the furniture of drawingrooms:
When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,
And, join'd to two, he fails not-to make three.
Narcissus is the glory of his race,
For who does nothing with a better grace?
To deck my list by Nature were design'd Such shining expletives of humankind, [along, Who want, while through blank life they dream Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.
* Anthony Collins, founder of the sect of Freethinkers.
To counterpoise this hero of the mode, Some for renown are singular and odd; What other men dislike is sure to please, Of all mankind, these dear antipodes: Through pride, not malice, they run counter still, And birthdays are their days of dressing ill. Arbuthnot is a fool, and Foe a sage,
Sedley will fright you, Etherege engage:
By Nature streams run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends.
They take their rest by day, and wake by night,
And blush if you surprise them in the right;
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,
A swan is white, or Queensberry * is fair.
Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out;
His passion for absurdity's so strong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong.
Though wrong the mode, comply: more sense is shown
In wearing others' follies than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime
Than Sloane †, the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances,
And Ashmole's baby-house ‡ is, in his view,
Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat which Joseph never wore!
* The Duchess of Queensberry, a celebrated toast.
+ Sir Hans Sloane, whose collections enrich our Museum, The Ashmolean Museum at Oxford.
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin
That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's
'Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,
Since the great plague that swept as many more,
Was ever year unbless'd as this? (he'll cry)
It has not brought us one new butterfly!'
In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,
Unhappy Jersey! how came you to please?
Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game,
But in effect his chase is much the same:
Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title and estate:
Where'er their lordships go, they never find
Or Lico or their shadows lag behind;
He sets them sure where'er their lordships run,
Close at their elbows, as a morning dun;
As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
And Fame was, like a fever, to be caught:
But after seven years' dance from place to place,
The Dane is more familiar with his Grace.
Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer,
Or living pendant dangling at his ear,
For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
For months before by trumpets through the town?
Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,
Still to reflect the temper of his face?
Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,
When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave?
Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
To loll or thump it, for his better ease?
Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke,
When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?
* A Danish dog belonging to the Duke of Argyle.
Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not
His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,
For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,
That can cry chimneysweep, or drive a plough?
With terms like these how mean the tribe that close!
Scarce meaner they who terms like these impose.
But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;
The writing tribe, who, shameless auctions hold
Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold;
All men they flatter, but themselves the most,
With deathless fame their everlasting boast:
For Fame no cully makes so much her jest
As her old constant spark, the bard profess'd.
Boyle* shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,
Pelham's magnificent, but I can write;
And what to my great soul like glory dear?
Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
That fame's unwholesome taken without meat,
And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:
Grown lean and wise, he curses what he's writ,
And wishes all his wants were in his wit.
Ah! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,
That his triumphant name adorns a post?
Or that his shining page (provoking fate)
Defends surloins, which sons of Dulness eat?
What foe to verse without compassion hears,
What cruel proseman can refrain from tears,
When the poor Muse, for less than half a crown,
A prostitute on every bulk in town,
Earl of Orrery.
+ Earl of Peterborough.
Duke of Newcastle,
With other whores undone, though not in print, Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint?
Ye bards! why will you sing, though uninspired?
Ye bards! why will you starve to be admired?
Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,
Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?
Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,
Like hair, will sprout although the poet's dead.
All other trades demand, verse-makers beg:
A dedication is a wooden leg;
A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,
Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.
Though such myself, vile bards I discommend;
Nay more, though gentle Damon is my friend.
'Is't then a crime to write?'-If talent rare
Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:
For some, though few there are, large-minded men,
Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;
Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court,
Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support;
Who, serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit,
My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
Argyle true wit is studious to restore,
And Dorset smiles, if Phoebus smiled before;
Pembroke in years the longloved arts admires,
And Henrietta* like a Muse inspires.
But, ah! not inspiration can obtain
That fame which poets languish for in vain. How mad their aim who thirst for glory, strive To grasp what no man can possess alive! Fame's a reversion, in which men take place (O late reversion!) at their own decease: * Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles Harley.
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