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The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain 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 Steele's humor 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 mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

What 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 born
To slaughter, 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 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 wistful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture towards a book:
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign,
Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.
If at his title T-- had dropp'd 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 wagon-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.

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.

Nor is 't enough all hearts are swoln with pride,
Her power 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,

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 plead,
And for the last all Gresham intercede.

Begin. Who first the catalogue shall 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 hands you crave,
You bid him raise his father's from the grave.
Men should press forward in Fame's glorious chase;
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high-birth triumph! What can be more great?
Nothing-but merit in a low estate.

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;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
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; every 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 Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known,

Though her lov'd lord has four half months been dead. Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.

This passion with a pimple have I seen

Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.
By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot.
It makes Globose a speaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.
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 senate thin?
My growing subject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.

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 ma?

A famous statue.

By your revenue measure your expense;
And to your funds and acres join your sense.
No man is bless'd 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 in lords.
"What lords are those saluting with a grin?"
One is just out, and one as 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 hands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
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,
The boast of merely being out, or in.

Say, dear Hippolytus, (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,
Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone;
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypsy you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have said,
And then ask pardon for the jest you made.

Here breathe, my Muse! and then thy task renew
Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages witout winding-up?

What numbers here, through odd ambition, strive Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame! 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.
Completely dress'd by Monteuil* and grimace,
They take their birth-day suit and public face:
Their smiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night, with Lady B- -'s hair.

What bodily fatigue is half so bad?
With anxious care they labor to be glad.
What numbers, here, would into fame advance,
Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance;
The tavern! park! assembly! mask! and play!
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!
Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.
Fools grin on fools, and, stoic-like, support,
Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.
Courts can give nothing to the wise and good,
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.
High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:
None think the great unhappy, but the great:
Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,
Which makes a swain 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 serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there:
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest;
The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest;
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
But some, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill,
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still:
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The squire is proud to see his coursers strain, Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.

* A famous tailor

Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme: Nor would these heroes of the task be glad, For who can write so fast as men run mad?

SATIRE II.

MY Muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end;
Though toils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gods make other poems fine;
Plain Satire calls for sense in every line:
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When such the foe, a war eternal wage;
"Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage:
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite
I'll glory in the verse 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 zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe
Thou, like the Sun, all colors dost contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every soul finds reason to be proud,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd

Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown, Hippolytus* demands the sylvan crown; But Florio's fame, the product of a shower, Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower! Why teems the Earth? Why melt the vernal skies' Why shines the Sun? To make Paul Diackt rise. From morn to night has Florio gazing stood, And wonder'd how the gods could be so good: What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph so fair! He dotes! he dies! he too is rooted there. O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy, Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy. In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night, And wakes next day a most inglorious wight; The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate, OC! and be kind, ere 'tis too late.

*This refers to the first Satire. †The name of a tulip.

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

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

Serene, quoth Adam, "Lo! 'twas crush'd by me;
Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee."
But all men want amusement; and what crime
In such a Paradise to fool their time?

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

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.
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 whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set:
Their want of edge from their offence is seen;

What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or power? Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
Another Florio doting on a flower!

A short-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung
From sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?
The flower 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, sent 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 chase 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;

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 of fame hast shown,
Of others' farne, 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;
When some home joke has stung their solemn souls,

His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on, In vengeance they determine-to be fools;

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 whereon to lie:

So high the generous ardor of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.

Through spleen, that little Nature gave, make less,
Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness ;

To lumps inanimate a fondness take;
And disinherit sons that are awake.

These, when their utmost venom they would spit,

When terms were drawn, and brought him by the Most barbarously tell you-“ He's a wit.”

clerk,

Lorenzo sign'd the bargain-with his mark.
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 Chesterfield what lies between ;
Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,
And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Stanhope, 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.

By your example would Hilario mend,
How would it grace the talents of my friend;

Poor negroes, thus to show their burning spite
To cacodemons, say, they're devilish white.

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 dung-hill breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white,
Who with much pains, exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his shillings, pounds, and pence.
The booby father craves a booby son;
And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea;
One learns to lisp; another, not to see:
Miss D, tottering, catches at your hand:
Was every thing so pretty born to stand?

* Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus.

Whilst these, what Nature gave, disown through|

pride,

Others affect what Nature has denied ;
What Nature has denied, fools will pursue
As apes are ever walking upon two.

Crassus, a grateful sage, our awe and sport! Supports grave forms; for forms the sage support. He hems; and cries, with an important air,

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If yonder clouds withdraw, it will be fair:" Then quotes the Stagyrite, to prove it true: And adds, The learn'd delight in something 29 new."

Is 't not enough the blockhead scarce can read,
But must he wisely look, and gravely plead?
As far a formalist from wisdom sits,
In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.

These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
Though Satire couch them with her keenest pen)
For ever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better grace:
As pedlars with some hero's head make bold,
Illustrious mark! where pins are to be sold.
What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd?
The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain;

As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot,
Solemnity's a cover for a sot.

I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For 'tis the wise man's interest to be seen.

Hence, Chesterfield, 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 generous scorn how oft hast thou survey'd Of court and town the noontide masquerade; Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace, And hide secure behind a naked face! Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind: Where generous hearts the greatest hazard run, And he who trusts a brother, is undone !

These all their care expend on outward show
For wealth and fame: for fame alone, the beau.
Of late at White's was young Florello seen!
How blank his look! how discompos'd his mien!
So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign!
Sunk were his spirits; for his coat was plain.
Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace;
His health was mended with a silver lace.
A curious artist, long inured to toils
Of gentler sort, with combs, and fragrant oils,
Whether by chance or by some god inspir'd,
So touch'd his curls, his mighty soul was fir'd.
The well-swoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame;
His sumptuous watch-case, though conceal'd it lies,
Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.
He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)
Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.
Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye
On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,
With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!
But Fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
In active measures, brought from France, he wheels,
And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels.

So have I seen, on some bright summer's day,
A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,
Dance on the bank, as if inspir'd by fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.

Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surpris'd In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd. No sublunary chance his vestments fear; Valued, like leopards, as their spots appear. A fam'd surtout he wears, which once was blue, And his foot swims in a capacious shoe; One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim?) Level'd her barbarous needle at his fame: But open force was vain; by night she went, And, while he slept, surpris'd the darling rent: Where yawn'd the frieze 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; Their methods various, but alike their aim; The sloven and the fopling are the same.

46

Ye Whigs and Tories! thus it fares with you, When party-rage too warmly you pursue; Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride.. And folly joins whom sentiments divide. You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they p Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass; While both are one: and henceforth be it known, Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone. But who art thou?" methinks Florello cries; "Of all thy species art thou only wise!" Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch, As crossing straws retard a passing witch, Florello, thou my monitor shalt be; I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee. O THOU myself! abroad our counsels roam, And, like ill husbands, take no care at home. Thou too art wounded with the common dart, And Love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart; And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose! Know, fame and fortune both are made of prose. Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme, Thou unambitious fool, at this late time? While I a moment name, a moment's past; I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last: What then is to be done? Be wise with speed; A fool at forty is a fool indeed.

And what so foolish as the chase of fame! How vain the prize! how impotent our aim! For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, But bubbles on the rapid stream of time, That rise, and fall, that swell, and are no more, Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

SATIRE III.

TO THE RIGHT HON. MR. DODINGTON.

LONG, Dodington, in debt I long have sought
To ease the burthen of my grateful thought;
And now a poet's gratitude you see;
Grant him two favors, and he'll ask for three:
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain.
You love and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend
You read with all the malice of a friend;
Nor favor my attempts that way alone,
But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.

* Milton.

An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,
When wanted Britain bright examples more?
Her learning, and her genius too, decays;
And dark and cold are her declining days;
As if men now were of another cast,
They meanly live on alms of ages past.

Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,
Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;
Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;
Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,
And damn it with improvements of their own.
We bring some new materials, and what's old
New-cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;
Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;
And from sour critics vindicate the Muse.
"Your work is long," the critics cry. "Tis true,
And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:
Shorten my labor, if its length you blame;
For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;
As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,
Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.
Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,
That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,
Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critic's rage,
And with the fell destroyer feed my page.
For what ambitious fools are more to blame,
Than those who thunder in the critic's name?
Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,
To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.
Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,
Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,
"Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!"
Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach,
Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

One judges as the weather dictates; right
The poem is at noon, and wrong at night:
Another judges by a surer gauge,
An author's principles, or parentage;
Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,
The poem doubtless must be written well.
Another judges by the writer's look;
Another judges, for he bought the book;
Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;
Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,
To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.
The very best ambitiously advise,

Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.
Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown
Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?
Not all on books their criticism waste:
The genius of a dish some justly taste,
And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought
The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.
Impatient art rebukes the Sun's delay,
And bids December yield the fruits of May;
Their various cares in one great point combine,
The business of their lives, that is to dine.
Half of their precious day they give the feast;
And to a kind digestion spare the rest.
Apicius, here, the taster of the town,
Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

These worthies of the palate guard with care
The sacred annals of their bills of fare;

In those choice books their panegyrics read,
And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.
If man by feeding well commences great,
Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.
To glory some advance a lying claim,
Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame :
Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;
They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.
Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,

When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;
And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen,
Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen
Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone
To covet shame still greater than his own.
Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,
Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.
Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,
Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;
Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,
And takes a memorandum to forget.
Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots,
Men forge the patents that create them sots.
As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
So most grow infamous through love of praise.
But whence for praise can such an ardor rise,
When those, who bring that incense, we despise?
For such the vanity of great and small,
Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.
Nor can e'en Satire blame them; for 'tis true,
They have most ample cause for what they do.
O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant
A nurse of fools, to stock the continent.
Though Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,
Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.
The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,
Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;

A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn,
|Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.
When cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,
In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.

See Tityrus, with merriment possest,
Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest:
What need he stay? for, when the joke is o'er,
His teeth will be no whiter than before.
Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,
That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?
Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;
Of houses soine; nay, houses that they hire:
Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;
And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.
Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs
My lord has vapors, and my lady swears;
Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,
My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.

To show the strength, and infamy of pride,
By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.
What numbers are there, which at once pursue
Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!
Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;
Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,
To win applause; and takes it by surprise.
"To err," says he, " in small things is my fate."
You know your answer, "He's exact in great."
"My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults."
But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!"

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