To his Grace the Duke of Dorset.
-Tanto major Famæ sitis est, quam

Juv Sat. 10.

Virtutis-
My verse is Satire; Dorset, lend your ear,
And patronise a Muse you cannot fear;
To Poets sacred is a Dorset's name,
Their wonted passport thro' the gates of fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays;
The dazzled judgement fewer faults can see,
And gives applause to Be, or to me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue;
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.

Instructive Satire, true to virtue's cause,
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our rage,
When purchas'd follies from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the law shows her teeth, but dares not
bite,
[light;
And South-Sea treasures are not brought to
When churchmen Scripture for the classics quit;
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying sinners to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore
To chafe our spleen when themes like these in-

crease,

;

Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?
Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wash an Ethiop white,
Set up each senseless wretch for nature's boast,
On whom praise shines as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral eloquence her colors spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirize with nothing-but their praise?
Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful
strain,
[plain?
Nor hears that virtue which he loves, com-
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester are dead,
And guilt's chief foe in Addison is fled;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels fairly won,
Sits siniling at the goal while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking still!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly distrest, what author shall we find
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,

The courtly Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to
raise:

What will not men attempt for sacred praise?

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart :
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it but to make it sure.
O'er globes and sceptres now on thrones it swells,
Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells.
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades:
Here, to Se's humor makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pult'ney's eloquence:
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead:
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and Alatters on our tombs.
Who is not proud? the pimp is proud to see
So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue, and the marriage bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims
To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn. [borne

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they

went:

One way they look, another way they steer;
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their sins they set sincerely 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
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign
[book;
Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.
If at his title T-- had dropt his quill,

T might have pass'd for a great genius still;
But T―, alas! (excuse him if you can)
Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.

Imperious some a classic 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 restor'd.

Some for renown on scraps of learning dote,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patchwork learn'd quotations are allied;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.

On glass how witty is a noble peer!
Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Polite diseases make some idiots vain,
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
On death-beds some in conscious glory lie,
Since of the doctor in the mode they die;
Whose wondrous skill is, headsman-like, to
For better pay to give a surer blow. [know

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see:
And (stranger still) of blockheads' flattery,
Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean
By spitting on your face to make it clean!

* Horace.

Nor is 't enough all hearts are swoln with | But builds himself a name; and to be great,

pride;
Her pow'r is mighty, as her realm is wide.
What can she not perform? The love of fame
Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame,
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep,
And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep.
Nay it holds Delia from a second bed,
Though her lov'd lord has four half months been
This passion with a pimple have I seen [dead.
Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.
By this inspir'd (oh ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learnt to spell, and some to knot.
It makes Globose a speaker in the house;
He hems-and is delivered of his mouse.
It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.
[in,
Sick with the love of fame, what throngs pour
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin!
My growing subject 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 Dorset's force divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line:
Though for the first all Westminster should
And for the last all Gresham intercede. [plead,
Begin-who first the catalogue should grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.
My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar, at your peril give him room!
He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,
By heraldry prov'd valiant or discreet,
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hand you crave,
You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.
Men should press forward in fame's glorious
chace;

Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high birth triumph! what can be more
Nothing- but merit in a low estate. [great?
To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror,
Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,
Slight or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men and wise;
The fool or knave that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt instead of their discharge.
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary shine.

Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone.
Mean sons of Earth, who on a South Sea tide
Of full success swam into wealth and pride,
Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,
And beg to be descended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause;
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;

Sinks in a quarry an immense estate;
In cost and grandeur Chandos he'll outdo;
And, Burlington, thy taste is not so true.
The pile is finish'd, ev'ry toil is past,
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;
When, lo! my Lord to some small corner runs,
And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith
to pay,

Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain what is many a lordly seat,
But a discharge in full for an estate?

In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame.
Not F-t-n's self 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, sirs," he cries; "I'll sooner rot in jail!
Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English
bail?"

Such heads might make their very bustos laugh:
His daughter starves, but * Cleopatra's safe.

Men overloaded with a large estate
May spill their treasure in a nice conceit;
The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'tis sad
To say you're curious, when we swear you're
By your revenue measure your expense, [mad.
And to your funds and acres join your sense:
No man is blest by accident or guess;
True wisdom is the price of happiness :
Yet few without long discipline are sage;
And our youth only lays up sighs for age.

But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire; it abounds with lords.
"What lords are those saluting with a grin ?"
One is just out, and one is lately in.
"How comes it then to pass we see preside
"On both their brows an equal share of pride?"
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all;
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall:
As in its home, it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their wands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd

sight:

[strive

Some lords it bids resign, and turns their wands,
Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown! and boast
With pride inverted of their honors lost.
But against reason sure 'tis equal sin
To boast of merely being out or in.
What numbers here, through odd ambition,
To seem the most transported things alive!
As if by joy desert was understood,
And all the fortunate were wise and good.
Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,
And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.

A famous statue.

+ This refers to the first Satire.

We smile at florists, we despise their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy;
But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?
What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or
Another Florio doting on a flow'r! [pow'r?
A short-liv'd flower, and which has often sprung
From solid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?
The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect 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 science should be purchas'd by the yard;
And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to some peculiar end design'd,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind;
Or is at best a secondary aim,

A chace for sport alone, and not for game:
If so, sure 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 sale comes on,
A choice collection! What is to be done?
He sells his last, for he the whole will buy;
Sells e'en his house, nay wants whercon to lie;
So high the gen'rous ardor of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
To make the purchase, he gives all his store,
Except one darling diamond that he wore:
For what a mistress gave, 'tis death to pawn;
Yet when the terms were fix'd, and writings
drawn,

The sight so ravish'd him, he gave the clerk
Love's sacred pledge, and sign'd them with his
mark.

By your example would Hilario mend,
How would it grace the talents of my friend,
Who, with the charms of his own genius smit,
Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit!
But time his fervent petulance may cool;
For, though he is a wit he is no fool.
In time he 'll learn to use, not waste, his sense;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
His brisk attack on blockheads we should prize,
Were not his jest as flippant with the wise.
He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like doom's-day, all the faults of all mankind.

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

Parts may be prais'd, good nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword,
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in smooth oil the razor best is wet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set.
Their want of edge from their offence is seen;
Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
The fame men give, is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.

Since Marcus doubtless thinks himself a wit,
To pay my compliment, what place so fit?
His most facetious letters came to hand,
Which my first Satire sweetly reprimand.
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou-a fool, or knave?
For all but such with caution I forbore;
That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before;
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No mask so good but Marcus must shine through;
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell,
Thy best concealment had been writing well;
But thou a brave neglect for Fame hast shown,
Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded, and this maxim know:
The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull
Their peevish reason, vain of being dull; [souls,
When some home-joke has stung their solemn
In vengeance they determine-to be fools;
Thro' spleen, that little nature gave, make less,
Quite zealous in the way of heaviness;
To lumps inanimate a fondness take,
And disinherit sons that are awake, [spit,
ex-These, when their utmost venom they would
Most barbarously tell you-" he's a wit."
Poor negroes thus, to show their burning spite
To Cacodæmons, say they're devilish white.

Unlearned men of books assume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
Not in his authors' liveries alone
Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown.
Editions various, at high prices bought,
Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this cost another must succeed,
To pay a sage who says that he can read,
Who titles knows, and indexes has seen,
But leaves to what lies between; [pense,
Of pompous books who shuns the proud
And humbly is contented with their sense.
O Lumley, whose accomplishments make good
The promise of a long illustrious blood;
In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
The strictest honor, and the finest taste!
Accept this verse; if Satire can agree
With so consummate an humanity.
But know, my Lord, if you resist the wrong,
That on your candor I obtrude my song;
"Tis Satire's just revenge on that fair name,
Which all their malice cannot make her theme.

Lampridius from the bottom of his breast
Sighs o'er one child, but triumphs in the rest.
How just his grief! one carries in his head
A less proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without special grace,
To rise above a Justice of the Peace.
The dunghill breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;

* Letters sent to the Author, signed Marcus.

I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For 'tis the wise man's int'rest to be seen.
Hence, Scarborough, that openness of heart,
And just disdain for that poor mimic art ;
Hence (manly praise!) that manner nobly free,
Which all admire, and I commend in thee.
With gen'rous scorn how oft has thou sur-But open force was vain; by night she went,

And when he slept surpris'd the darling rent;
Where yawn'd the frize is now become a doubt,
And glory at one entrance quite shut out*.

He scorns Florello, and Florello him;
This hates the filthy creature, that the prim.
Thus in each other both these fools despise
Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes;
run,Their methods various, but alike their aim;
The sloven and the fopling are the same.