But as the diff'ring colours blended lie
When Titian variegates his clouded sky;
Where white and black, the yellow and the green,
Unite and undistinguish'd form the scene;
So the great artist diff'ring passions joins,
And love with hatred, fear with rage, combines.
Nor Nature this confusion makes alone;
She gives us often half, and half's our own.
Men what they are not struggle to appear,
And Nature strives to show them as they are;
While Art, repugnant thus to Nature, fights,
The various man appears in different lights.
The sage or hero on the stage may show
Behind the scenes the blockhead or the beau.
For tho' with Quin's or Garrick's matchless art,
He acts; my friend, he only acts a part:
For Quin himself, in a few moments more,
Is Quin again who Cato was before.
Thus while the courtier acts the patriot's part,
This guides his face and tongue, and that his heart.
Abroad the patriot shines with artful mien,
The naked courtier glares behind the scene.
What wonder then to-morrow if he grow
A courtier good, who is a patriot now!
UN G (ALIAS NEW HOG'S NORTON), IN COM. HANTS.
WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY IN THE YEAR 1728
To Rosalinda, now from town retired,
Where noblest hearts her brilliant eyes have fired;
Whom nightingales in fav'rite bowers delight,
Where sweetest flowers perfume the fragrant night;
Where music's charms enchant the fleeting hours,
And wit transports with all Thalia's powers;
Alexis sends: Whom his hard fates remove
From the dear scenes of poetry and love,
To barren climates, less frequented plains,
Unpolish'd nymphs, and more unpolish'd swains.
In such a place how can Alexis sing?
An air ne'er beaten by the muse's wing!
In such a place what subject can appear?
What not unworthy Rosalinda's ear?
Yet if a charm in novelty there be,
Sure it will plead to Rosalind for me?
Whom courts or cities nought unknown can show,
Still U- G- — presents a prospect new.
As the daub'd scene, that on the stage is shown,
Where this side canvas is, and that a town;
Or as that lace which Paxton half lace calls,
That decks some beau apprentice out for balls;
Such our half house erects its mimic head,
This side a house presents, and that a shed.
Nor doth the inward furniture excel,
Nor yields it to the beauty of the shell:
Here Roman triumphs placed with awkward art,
A cart its horses draws, an elephant the cart,
On the house-side a garden may be seen,
Which docks and nettles keep for ever green.
Weeds on the ground, instead of flowers, we see,
And snails alone adorn the barren tree.
Happy for us, had Eve's this garden been;
She'd found no fruit, and therefore known no sin.
Nor meaner ornament the shed-side decks
With hay-stacks, faggot piles, and bottle-ricks;
The horses' stalls, the coach a barn contains;
For purling streams, we've puddles filled with rains.
What can our orchard without trees surpass?
What, but our dusty meadow without grass?
I've thought (so strong with me burlesque prevails,)
This place design'd to ridicule Versailles;
Or meant, like that, art's utmost power to show,
That tells how high it reaches, this how low.
Our conversation does our palace fit,
We've everything but humour, except wit.
O then, when tired with laughing at his strains, Give one dear sigh to poor Alexis' pains; Whose heart this scene would certainly subdue, But for the thoughts of happier days, and you; With whom one happy hour makes large amends For every care his other hours attends.
WHILE at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is, you cannot doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great.
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I.
The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
Before him who never dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admired by friend and foe:
But can your earthly domes compare
To all my castles in the air?
We're often taught it doth behove us
To think those greater who're above us.
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you twice two story,
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.1
Greatness by poets still is painted,
With many followers acquainted;
This too doth in my favour speak,
Your levée is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.
Nor in the manner of attendance Doth your great bard claim less ascendance. Familiar you to admiration,
May be approach'd by all the nation:
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness your offended,
The fault is easily amended,
For I'll come down with wond'rous ease,
Into whatever place you please.
I'm not ambitious; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures. Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while; Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop; Or I can foreign treaties dish up. If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation;
Where Lord Orford then lived.
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