« AnteriorContinuar »
She bids his heir the sum retain,
And 'tis a counter now again.
A guinea with a touch you fee
Take ev'ry shape but Charity ;-
And not one thing you saw, or drew,
But chang'd from what was first in view.
The juggler now, in grief of heart,
With this submission own'd her art.
Can I such matchless slight withstand ?
How practice hath improv'd your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng ;
You ev'ry day, and all day long.
Mr. Moore has convey'd a very useful and important lesson to the ladies, and represented disagreeable truths in a pleasing manner, by the following Fable.
The Poet and his PATRON. A Fable. By Mr. Moore.
Why, Cælia, is your spreading waist
So loose, so negligently lac'd?
Why must the wrapping bed-gown hidė,
Your snowy bosom's swelling pride?
How ill that dress adorns your head,
Distain'd, and rumpled from the bed!
Those clouds, that shade your blooming face,
A little water might displace,
As nature every morn bestows,
The crystal dew, to cleanse the rose.
Those tresses, as the raven black
That wav'd in ringlets down your back,
Uncomb'd, and injur'd by neglect,
Destroy the face, which once they deck'd..
Whenče this forgetfulness of dress?
Pray, madam, are you marry'd ? Yes.
Nay, then indeed the wonder ceases,
No matter now how loose
The end is won, your fortune's made,
Your sister now may take the trade.
Alas! what pity 'tis to find
This fault in half the female kind!
From hence proceed averfion, strife,
And all that fours the wedded life.
Beauty can only point the dart,
'Tis neatness guides it to the heart;
Let neatnefs then, and beauty strive
To keep a wav'ring flame alive.
'Tis harder far (you'll find it true)
To keep the conqueft, than subdue ;
Admit us once behind the screen,
What is there farther to be seen?
A newer face may raise the flame,
But every woman is the fame.
Then study chiefly to improve
The charm, that fix'd your husband's love,
Weigh well his humour, Was it dress,
That gave your beauty power to bless ?
Pursue it still ; be neater seen;
?'Tis always frugal to be clean ;
So shall you keep alive desire,
And time's fwift wing shall fan the fire,
In garret high (as stories fay)
A Poet sung his tunesul lay;
So soft, so smooth his verse, you'd swear
Apollo and the muses there :
Thro' all the town his praises rung,
His fonnets at the Play house sung ;
High waving o'er his lab'ring head,
The goddess Want her pinions spread, $
And with poetic fury fir'd
What Phoebus faintly had infpir’d.
A noble youth of taste and wit,
Approv'd the sprightly things he writ,
And fought him in his cobweb doine,
Dischargʻd bis rent, and brought him home,
Behold him at the stately board;
Who, but the Poet and my Lord !
Each day, deliciously he dines,
And greedy quaffs the gen'rous wines ;
His fides were plump, his kin was sleeky
And plenty wanton'd on his check;
Astonish'd at the change so new,
Away th' inspiring goddess flew.
Now, dropt for politics and news,
Neglected lay the drooping muse ;
Unmindful whence his fortune came,
He filled the poetic flame ;
Nor tale, nor fonnet, for my lady,
Lampoon, nor epigram was ready.
With just contempt his patron saw,
(Resolv'd his bounty to withdraw)
And thus with anger in his look,
The late repenting fool bespoke.
Blind to the good that courts thee grown,
Whence has the fun of favour fhone?
Delighted with thy tuneful art,
Esteem was growing in my heart,
But idly thou reject'st the charm,
That gave it birth, and kept it warm.
Unthinking fools, alone despise
The arts, that taught them first to rise.
There is something very original, as well as droll and
satyrical, in the following Fable by Mr. Smart.
The BAG-WIG and the TOBACCO.Pipe.
A bag-wig of a jauntee air,
Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Loaded with powder and perfume,
Hung in a spend thrift's dressing room ;
Close by its fide, by chance convey'd,
A black tobacco-pipe was
And with its vapours far and near
Out ftunk the effence of monsieur :
At which its rage, the thing of hair,
Thus, bristling up, began declare :
“ Bak'd dirt, that with intrusion rude
“ Breaks in upon my solitude ;
“And with thy fetiá breath defiles
“ The air for forty thousand miles. —
“ Avaunt-pollution's in thy touch-
“ Oh barborous English !-horrid Dutch!
- I cannot bear it. Here, Sue, Nan,
,66 Go, call the maid to call the man,
" And bid him come without delay,
66 To take this odious pipe away:
“ Hideous ! sure some one smoak’d thee, friend, .« Reversely at his t'other end.
" Oh, what mixt odours ! what a throng
.66 Of salt and four, and stale and strong!
" A most unnatural combination,
Enough to mar all perspiration.-
“ Monstrous !-again-—'wou'd vex a saint.
« Susan, the drops or else I faint!".
The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of soul)
Raising himself upon his bowl,
In smoak, like oracle of old,
Did thus his sentiments unfold :
Why what's the matter, goodman Swagger,
.. Thou flånting, French, fantastic bragger,
~ Whose whole fine speech is (with a pox)
« Ridiculous and heterodox.
“ 'Twas better for the English nation
« Before such scoundrels came in fashion ;
“ When none sought hair in realms unknown,
“ But ev'ry blockhead wore his own.
“ Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
... Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe ;
“ Who with my cloud compelling aid
“ Help our plantations and our trade ;
" And am, when sober and when mellow,
“ An upright, downright honest fellow.
“ Tho fools, like you, may think me rough,
.66 And scorn me 'cause I am in buff,
“ Yet your contempt I glad receive,
“ 'Tis all the fame that you can give.
“ None finery or foppry prize
“ But they who've something to disguise ;
• For simple nature hates abuse,
“ And PLAINNESS is the dress of Use.
What has been said on the Fable leads me to a confideration of the more sublime and enterprising part
allegorical poetry ; which gives life and action to virtues and vices, to passions and diseases, to natural and moral qualities ; and introduces goblins, fairies, and other imaginary personages and things, acting as divine, human, or infernal beings; and by that means affords matter and machinery fufficient even for an heroic poem : which has pass'd unregarded by the writers on the Art of Poetry, notwithstanding these airy disguises are, as it were, the very quintessence or soul of the science.