-HOR.

Tuzsz fatires have been favourably received at home and abroad. I am not confcious of the leaft malevolence to any particular person through all the characters; though fome perfons may be fo felfish as to engrofs a general application to themfeives. A writer in polite letters should be content with reputation; the private anrufement he finds in his compofitions; the good influence they have on his feverer ftudies; that admiffion they give him to his fuperiors; and the poffible good effect they may have on the public; or elfe he should to his politenefs fome more lucrative qualifi

But it is poffible, that fatire may not do much ad: men may rife in their affections to their fees, as they do to their friends, when they are abuted by others: It is much to be feared, that fondu will never be chafed out of the world by fatire; all therefore that is to be faid for it is, that misconduct will certainly be never chafed out of the world by fatire, if no fatires are written: tor is that term unapplicable to graver compofiEthics, Heathen and Chriftian, and the Scriptures themselves, are in a great measure a fatre on the weaknefs and iniquity of men; and ne part of that fatire is in verfe too: nay, in the ages, philofophy and poetry were the fame ng; wildom wore no other drefs: fo that I for thefe fatires will be the more eafily pardoned that misfortune by the fevere. If they like not the hion, let them take them by the weight; for weight they have, or the author has failed in aim. Nay, hiftorians themselves may be confidered as fatirifts, and fatirifls moft fevere; fince fech are most human actions, that to relate is to expole them.

f me

fon; because what men aim at by them, is generally public opinion and efteem; which truth is the fubject of the following fatires; and joins them together, as feveral branches from the fame root: an unity of design, which has not, I think, in a 'fet of fatires, been attempted before.

No man can converfe much in the world, but at what he meets with, he muft either be infenfible, grieve, or be angry, or fmile. Some paffion (we are not impaffive) must be moved; for the eral conduct of mankind is by no means a thing ferent to a reasonable and virtuous man. Now imile at it, and turn it into ridicule, I think moft gible; as it hurts ourselves leaft, and gives vice and folly the greatest offence: and that for this rea

YOL. X.

Laughing at the misconduct of the world, will in a great measure cafe us of any more difagree able paffion about it. One paffion is more effectually driven out by another, than by reafon; whatever fome may teach: For to reafon we owe our paffions: had we not reason, we should not be offended at what we find amifs: and the cause seems not to be the natural cure of any effect.

Morcover, laughing fatire bids the fairest for fuccefs: the world is too proud to be fond of a ferious tutor; and when the author is in a paffion, the laugh generally, as in converfation, turns against him. This kind of fatire only has any delicacy in it. Of this delicacy, Horace is the best master: he appears in good humour while he cenfures; and therefore his cenfure has the more weight, as fuppofed to proceed from judgment, not from paffion. Juvenal is ever in a paffion: He has little valuable but his eloquence and morality: The laft of which I have had in my eye; but rather for emulation than imitation, through my whole work.

But though I comparatively condemn Juvenal in part of the fixth fatire (where the occasion moft required it), I endeavoured to touch on his manner; but was forced to quit it foon, as difagreeable to the writer, and reader too. Boileau has joined both the Roman fatirifts with great fuccefs; but has too much of Juvenal in his very ferious Satire on Woman, which should have been the gayeft of all. An excellent critic of our own, commends Boileau's clofenefs, or, as he calls it, preffuefs, particularly; whereas, it appears to me, that repetition is his fault, if any fault fhould be imputed to him.

Will no fuperior genius fnatch the quill,
And fave me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the ftrife, I'll ftrive my voice to raife.
What will not men attempt for facred praife?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or lefs, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The made fhun it, but to make it fure.
O'er globes, and fceptres, now on thrones it fwells;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in fenates, fqueaks in masquerades.
Here, to Steele's bumour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountain's of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in fable plumes,
Adorns our berfe, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? The pimp is proud to fee
So many like himself in high degree:
The bore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue and the marriage-bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims borne
To Laughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they fleer, Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear; And when their fins they fet fincerely down, They'll find that their religion has been one. Others with wishful eyes on glory look, When they have got their picture tow'rds a book: Or pompous title, like a gaudy fign,

Meant to betray dull fots to wretched wine. If at bis title T had drop'd his quill, Tmight have pafs'd for a great genius ftill. Bet T alas! (excufe him, if you can) Is now a fribbler, who was once a man. Imperious fome a claffic fame demand, For heaping up, with a laborious hand, A waggon-load of meanings for one word, While A's depos'd, and B with pomp reford. Some, for renozun, on fcraps of learning doat, And think they grow immortal as they quote. To patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd; Both ftrive to make our foverty our pride. On how witty is a noble peer' Did ever diamond coft a man fo dear? Polite difeafes make fome ideots vain; Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Of folly, vice, difeafe, men proud we fee; And franger ftill!) of blockheads' flattery; Vt fe praife defames; as if a fool should mean, E fpitting on your face, to make it clean. Nor is't enough all hearts are fwoln with pride, Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can the not perform? The love of fame Made bold Alphonfus his Creator blame : Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep: And (ftronger ftill) made Alexander weep. Nay, it holds Delia from a fecond bed,

Though her lov'd lord has four half-months been bed.

This pallion with a pimple have I feen Retard à caufe, and give a judge the fpleen,

By this infpir'd (O ne'er to be forgot !).
Some lords have learn'd to spell, and fome to knot.
It makes Globese a fpeaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his moufe.
It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.

Sick with the love of fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the fenate thin?
My growing fubject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.

Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire had I thy Dorfet's force divine,
A knave or fool fhould perish in each line;
Though for the first all Westminster should plead,
And for the laft all Gresham intercede.

Begin. Who firft the catalogue fhall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.

My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:
He ftands for fame on his forefathers' feet,
By heraldry, prov`d valiant or difcreet.
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three defeents less wife!
If virtues at his noble hands you crave,
You bid him raife his father's from the grave.
Men thould prefs forward in fame's glorious chafe;
Nobles look backward, and so lofe the race.

Let high birth triumph! What can be more
great?

Nothing but merit in a low eftate.
To virtue's humblett fan let none prefer
Vice, though defcended from the conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pafs for high, or bafe,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of boneft men, and wife;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, inftead of their difcharge.
Dorfet, let thofe who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, fhine.

Vain as falfe greatnefs is, the mufe must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol ftone.
Mean fons of earth, who, on a South-fea tide
Of full fuccefs, fwam into wealth and pride.
Knock with a purfe of gold at Anftis' gate,
And beg to be defcended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur foar,
They light a torch to fhow their shame the more.
Thofe governments which curb not evils, cause I
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with folid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty found;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immenfe eftate!
In cot and grandeur, Chandos he'll out-do
And, Burlington, thy tafte is not so true.
The pile is finish'd; every toil is past;
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;
When, lo! my lord to fome fmall corner runs,
And leaves flate-rooms to frangers and to duns.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to
Provides a home from which to run away. [pay,
In Britain, what is many a lordly feat,
But a difcharge in full for an estate?

In fmaller compafs lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antique ftatues, are his flame:
Not Fountaine's felf more Parian charms has
known;

Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.
The bailiffs come (rude men profanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, firs, he cries; I'll fooner rot in jail :
"Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"
Such beads might make their very bufto's laugh:
His daughter ftarves; but Cleopatra's fafe.
Men, overloaded with a large estate,
May fpill their treafure in a nice conceit :
The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'tis fad

To fay you're curious, when we fwear you're mad.
By your revenue meafure your expence;
And to your funds and acres join your fenfe.
No man is blefs'd by accident or guess;
True wifdom is the price of happiness:
Yet few without long difcipline are fage;
And our youth only lays up fighs for age.
But how, my mufe, canst thou refift fo long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme: The court affords"
Much food for fatire,-it abounds in lords.
"What fords are thofe faluting with a grin?"
One is just out, and one as lately is.

How comes it then to pafs we fee prefide "On both their brows an equal fhare of pride?" Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all, Attends our glory, nor deferts our fall. As in its home it triumphs in bigh place, And frowns a haughty exile in difgrace. Some lords it bids admire their wands fo white, Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravifh'd fight: Some lords it bids refign; and turns their wands, Like Mofes, into ferpents in their hands. Thefe fink, as divers, for renown; and boaft, With pride inverted, of their honours loft. But against reason fure 'tis equal fin, The boaft of merely being out, or in.

What numbers bere, through odd ambition,
ftrive

To feem the most transported things alive?
As if by joy, defert was understood:
And all the fortunate were wife and good.
Hence aching bofoms wear a vifage gay,
And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.
Completely dreft by 1 Monteuil and grimace,
They take their birth-day fuit and public face:
Their fmiles are only part of what they rear.
Put off at night, with Lady B's hair,
What bodily fatigue is half fo bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.

What numbers, bere, would into fame advance, Confcious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance; The tavern, park, affembly, makk, and play, Thofe dear deftroyers of the tedious day! That wheel of fops! that faunter of the town! Call it diverfion, and the pill goes down. Fools grin on fools, and, foic-like fupport, Without one figh, the pleasures of a court.

• A famous ftatue. A famous taylor.

Courts can give nothing, to the wife and good,
But fcorn of pomp, and love of folitude.
High ftations tumult, but not blifs, create:
None think the great unhappy, but the great:
Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a fling,
Which makes a fwain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and show;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind ferene,
And guiltless heart, to range the fylvan fcene;
No fplendid poverty, no fmling care,
No well-bred hate, or fervile grandeur, there
There pleafing objects useful thoughts fuggeft;
The fenfe is ravish'd, and the foul is bleft;
On every thorn delightful wifdom grows;
In every rill a fweet inftruction flows.
But fome, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill,
In fpite of lacred leifure, blockheads itill:
Nor fhoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native foil, the drawing-room.

The Squire is proud to fee his courfers strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles fweep along the plain.
Say, dear Hippolytus (whofe drink is ale,
Whofe erudition is a Christmas-tale,
Whofe miftrefs is faluted with a fmack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back)
When thy fleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praife? Let Ringwood's fame alone;
Juft Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypfy you commit,
And shake the clumfy bench with country wit;
When you the dulleft of dull things have faid,
And then afk pardon for the jet you made.

Here breathe, my mufe: and then thy task re

new!

Ten thousand fools urfung are ftill in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whofe love is conftant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords to Scrope difcreetly bend;
And fewer foocks a flatelman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his ftrain,
At Bath, in fummer, chants the reigning lafs,
And sweetly rubifiles as the waters pass ›
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding-up?
Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame ?
Such, and fuch only, might exhauft my theme a
Nor would thefe heroes of the task be glad,
For who can write fo faft as men run mad?

SATIRE II.

My mufe, proceed, and reach thy deftin'd end;
Though toils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and God's make other poems fine;
Plain fatire calls for fenfe in every line:
Then, to what fwarms thy faults I dare expofe 1
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When fuch the foć, a war eternal wage;
'Tis molt ill-nature to repress thy rage:

And if thefe ftrains fome nobler mufe excite, ' glory in the verfe I did not write.

So weak are human-kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd.
Almighty vanity to thee they owe

Their z of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the fun, all colours doft contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every foul finds reafons to be proud,
Though his'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolytus demands the fylvan crown;
But Florio's fame the product of a fhower,
Grows in his garden, an illuftrious flower!
Why teems the earth? Why melt the vernal fkies?
Why fhines the fun? To make Paul † Diack rise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing flood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good;
What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph fo fair?
He doats! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O folid blifs! which nothing can deftroy,
Except a cat, bird, fnail, or idle boy.

In faine's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair fifter's fate
OC and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are thofe enemies I mention'd, all;
Beware, O Florist, thy ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame
A Quaker ferv'd him, Adam was his name;
To one lov'd tulip oft the mafter went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ;
But came and mifs'd it one ill-fated hour:

He rag'd! he roar'd!" What dæmon cropt my flower?"

Serene, quoth Adam, " Lo! 'twas crush'd by me; "Fall' is the Baal to which thou bow'dft thy knec."

Bat all men want amusement; and what crime
In fuch a paradife to fool their time?

None: but why proud of this? To fame they foar;
We
We grant they're idle, if they'll afk no more.

We fmile at florifts, we defpife their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy:
But are thofe wifer whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?
What's he who fighs for wealth, or fame, or power?
Another Florio doating on a flower!

A fhort-liv'd flower; and which has often fprung From fordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus is thy fancy fait ?
The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.
The gaudy fhelves with crimfon bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfe& beau.

How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like,them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That fcience fhould be purchas'd by the yard;
And Tonfon, turn'd upholsterer, fend home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to fome peculiar end defign'd,
Elady's the specious trifling of the mind;

This refers to the firft fatire.
The name of a tulip.

Or is at best a fecondary aim,

A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
If fo, fure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a fale comes on,
A choice collection! what is to be done?
He fells his laft; for he the whole will buy;
Sells ev'n his houfe; nay, wants whereon to lie:
So high the generons ardour of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
When terms were drawn, and brought him by thờ
clerk,

Lorenzo fign'd the bargain-with his mark.
Unlearned men of books affume the care,
As eunuch's are the guardians of the fair.
Not in his authors' liveries alone

Is Codrus' erudite ambition fhown:
Editions various, at high prices bought,
Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this coft another must fucceed,

To pay a fage, who fays that he can read;
Who titles knows, and indexes has feen;
But leaves to Chefterfield what lies between;
Of pompous books who fhuns the proud expence,
And humbly is contented with their fenfe.

O Stanhope, whofe accomplishments make good
The promife of a long-illuftrious blood,
In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
The strictcft boneur! and the finest tafte!
Accept this verfe; if fatire can agree
With fo confummate an bumanity.

By your example would Hilario mend ; How would it grace the talents of my friend, Who, with the charms of his own genius fmit, Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit! But time his fervent petulence may cool; For though he is a wit, he is no fool. In time he'll learn to fe, not waste, his fenfe; Nor make a frailty of an excellence. He fpares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind, Like doom's-day, all the faults of all mankind.

What though wit tickles? tickling is unfafe,
If ftill 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a fting within a brother's heart?

Farts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as feldom as your fword;
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius bere.
As in fimooth oil the razor beft is whet,
So wit is by politenefs fharpeft fet :
Their want of edge from their offence is seen ;
Both pain us leaf when exquifitely keen.
The fame men give is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jefler, when the joke's unkind.

Since Marcus, doubtlefs, thinks himself a wit
To pay my compliment, what place fo fit?
His moft facetious letters came to hand,
Which my firft fatire fweetly reprimand:
If that a juft offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou, a fool, or knave?

* Letters fent to the author, figned Marcute