His wishes then give Fidus to declare,
And paint the chief perfections of the fair.
May she then prove, who shall thy lot befall,
Beauteous to thee, agreeable to all.
Nor wit, nor learning proudly may she boast;
No low-bred girl, nor gay fantastic toast:
Her tender soul, good-nature must adorn,
And vice and meanness be alone her scorn.
Fond of thy person, may her bosom glow
With passions thou hast taught her first to know.
A warm partaker of the genial bed,
Thither by fondness, not by lewdness led.
Superior judgment may she own thy lot;
Humbly advise, but contradict thee not.
Thine to all other company prefer ;
May all thy troubles find relief from her.
If fortune gives thee such a wife to meet,
Earth cannot make thy blessing more complete.
THAT Varius huffs, and fights it out to-day,
Who ran last week so cowardly away,
In Codrus may surprise the little skill,
Who nothing knows of humankind, but ill :
Confining all his knowledge, and his art,
To this, that each man is corrupt at heart.
But thou who Nature thro' each maze canst trace, Who in her closet forcest her embrace;
Canst with thy Horace see the human elves
Not differ more from others than themselves :
Canst see one man at several times appear,
Now gay, now grave, now candid, now severe;
Now save his friends, now leave 'em in the lurch;
Now rant in brothels, and now cant in church.
Yet farther with the muse pursue the theme,
And see how various men at once will seem;
How passions blended on each other fix,
How vice with virtues, faults with graces mix ;
How passions opposite, as sour to sweet,
Shall in one bosom at one moment meet,
With various luck for victory contend,
And now shall carry, and now lose their end.
The rotten beau, while smell'd along the room,
Divides your nose 'twixt stenches and perfume:
So vice and virtue lay such equal claim,
Your judgment knows not when to praise or blame. Had Nature actions to one source confin'd,
Ev'n blund'ring Codrus might have known mankind.'
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 shew 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 shew
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 retir'd,
Where noblest hearts her brilliant eyes have fir'd;
Whom nightingales in fav'rite bow'rs delight,
Where sweetest flow'rs perfume the fragrant night;
Where music's charms enchant the fleeting hours,
And wit transports with all Thalia's pow'rs;
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 shew,
presents a prospect new.
As the daub'd scene, that on the stage is shewn, 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 an house presents, and that a shed. Nor doth the inward furniture excel, Nor yields it to the beauty of the shell: Here Roman triumphs plac'd 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 flow'rs, 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 fill'd 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 pow'r to shew,
That tells how high it reaches, this how low.
Our conversation does our palace fit,
We've ev'rything but humour, except wit.
O then, when tir'd 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 ev'ry care his other hours attends.
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