Indeed the strictness of his morals Engag'd him in a hundred quarrels: H: law, and he was griev'd to fee't, His zeal was fometimes indifcreet: He found his virtues too fevere For our corrupted times to bear: Yet fuch a lewd licentious age Might well excufe a Stoic's rage.

The goat advanc'd with decent pace, And firft excus'd his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd, that he appear'd (Twas nature's fault) without a beard. Ts true, he was not much inclin'd To fondrefs for the female kind; Nx, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect; No by his frigid conftitution; But through a pious refolution: For he had made a holy vow Of chastity, as monks do now; Which he refolv'd to keep for ever hence, And trictly too, as doth his Reverence. Apply the tale, and you shall find How juft it fuits with human-kind. Some faults we own: but, can you guess? -Why, virtues carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us. The lawyer fwears (you may rely on't) He never squeez'd a needy client; And this he makes his conftant rule; For which his brethren call him fool; His confcience always was fo nice, He freely gave the poor advice; Ey which he loft, he may affirm, A burdred fees laft Eafter-term. Wik others of the learned robe Wid break the patience of a Job. Ne pleader at the bar could match Hence and quick difpatch; Ne kept a caufe, he well may boast, Above a term, or two at most.

The cringing knave who feeks a place What fuccefs, thus tells his cafe : Why bould he longer mince the matter? He 'd, because he could not flatter; He Lad not learn'd to turn his coat, Nos for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the minifters resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it. The chaplain vows he cannot fawn, Though it would raife him to the lawn: He pais'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meagre looks: He might, if he were worldly wife, Preferment get, and fpare his eyes; Eat own'd he had a stubborn fpirit, That made him traft alone to merit: Would rife by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion.

The doctor, if you will believe him, Cafe'd a fin; and, (God forgive him!) Ci'd up at midnight, ran to fave A blind old beggar from the grave:

The priest bis confeffor,

But fee how Satan fpreads his fnares;
He quite forgot to fay his prayers.
He cannot help it for his heart
Sometimes to act the parfon's part:
Quotes from the Bible many a fentence,
That moves his patients to repentance:
And, when his medicines do no good,
Supports their minds with heavenly food,
At which, however well intended,
He hears the clergy are offended,
And grown fo bold behind his back,
To call him hypocrite and quack.
In his own church he keeps a feat;
Says grace before and after meat;
And calls, without affecting airs,
His household twice a day to prayers.
He fhuns apothecaries' fhops,
And hates to cram the fick with flops:
He fcorns to make his art a trade,
Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid:
Old nurfe-keepers would never hire,
To recommend him to the fquire;
Which others, whom he will not name,
Have often practis'd to their fhame.

The ftatcfman tells you, with a sneer,
His fault is to be too fincere;
And, having no finifter ends,
Is apt to difoblige his friends.
The nation's good, his mafter's glory,
Without regard to Whig or Tory,
Were all the fchemes he had in view;
Yet he was feconded by few:

Though fome had spread a thousand lies, "Twas be defeated the excife.

"Twas known, though he had borne afperfion,
That flanding troops were his averfion :
His practice was, in every ftation,

To ferve the king, and please the nation;
Though hard to find in every cafe
The fittest man to fill a place :
His promifes he ne'er forgot,
But took memorials on the fpot:
His enemies, for want of charity,
Said, he affected popularity:
"Tis true, the people understood,
That all he did was for their good;
Their kind affections he has try'd;
No love is loft on either fide.
He came to court with fortune clear,
Which now he runs out every year:
Muft, at the rate that he goes on,
Inevitably be undone :

Oh! if his Majefty would please
To give him but a writ of eafe,
Would grant him licence to retire,
As it hath long been his defire,
By fair accounts it would be found,
He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
He owns, and hopes it is no fin,
He ne'er was partial to his kin;
He thought it bafe for men in ftations
To crowd the court with their relations:
His country was his dearest mother,
And every virtuous man his brother;
Through modefty or awkward fhame
(For which he owns himself to blame),
He found the wifeft man he could,
Without refpect to friends or blood;

Nor never acts on private views, When he hath liberty to choose.

The fharper fwore he hated play, Except to pafs an hour away: And well he might; for, to his coft, By want of fkill he always loft: He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contriv'd a thousand feats; Could change the ftock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpeft eye. Nor wonder how his fortune funk; His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. I own the moral not exact. Befides, the tale is falfe in fact; And fo abfurd, that, could I raise up From fields Elyfian, fabling fop, I would accufe him to his face For libelling the four-foot race. Creatures of every kind but ours Well comprehend their natural powers; While we, whom reafon ought to fway, Miftake our talents every day. The afs was never known fo stupid To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be ftroak'd, and fed with pap, As fop would the world perfuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes, whenc'er his lady whiftles; But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I prefume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralift defign'd A compliment on human-kind: For here he owns, that now and then Beaits may degenerate into men.

WOULD you rife in the church? be stupid and dull;
Be empty of learning, of infolence full;
Though lewd and immoral, be formal and grave,
In flattery an artif, in fawning a flave;
No merit, no fcience, no virtue, is wanting
In him that's accomplish'd in cringing and canting.
Be ftudious to practife true meanness of spirit;
For who but Lord Bolton was mitred for merit?
Would you wish to be wrapt in a rochet? in short,
Be pox'd and profane as F-n or Hortet.

THE PARSON's CASE.

THAT you, friend Marcus, like a Stoic,
Can wish to die in ftrains heroic,
No real fortitude implies:
Yet, all muft own, thy with is wife.
Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,
Thy bufy, drudging fcene of life,
Thy infolent, illiterate vicar,
Thy want of all-confoling liquor,
Thy thread-bare gown, thy caflock rent,
Thy credit funk, thy money spent,
Thy week made up of fafting days,
Thy grate unconfcious of a blaze,

Then archbishop of Cafbel.
At that time bifbop of Kilmore.

And, to complete thy other curfes,
The quarterly demands of nurses.
Are ills you wifely wish to leave,
And fly for refuge to the grave:
And, oh, what virtues you exprefs,
In wifhing fuch affliction lefs!

But now, fhould fortune fhift the scene,
And make thy curateship a dean;
Or fome rich benefice provide,
To pamper luxury and pride;
With labour (mall, and income great;
With chariot lefs for ufe than state;
With fwelling scarf and gloffy gown,
And licence to refide in town;
To fhine, where all the gay refort,
At concerts, coffeehoufe, or court,
And weekly perfecute his grace
With vifits, or to beg a place;
With underlings they flock to teach,
With no defire to pray or preach;
With haughty fpoufe in vefture fine,
With plenteous meals and generous wine;
Wouldst thou not wifh, in fo much eafe,
Thy years as numerous as thy days?

THE

HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES. 1733

POOR ladies! though their bufinefs be to play,
'Tis hard they must be bufy night and day:
Why should they want the privilege of men,
Nor take fome fmall diverfions now and then?
Had women been the makers of our laws
(And why they were not, I can fee no caufe),
The men should fiave at cards from morn to righ
And female pleasures be to read and write.

A LOVE SONG,

IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733. FLUTTERING Spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart;.

I a flave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days confuming

All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddefs weeping

Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth: Him the bear, in filence creeping, Gor'd with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tunc harmonious numbers; Fair difcretion, ftring the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking flumbers; Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,

Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the cryftal mirrors, Watering foft Elysian plains. Mournful cyprefs, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping
Softly feeks her filent mate,
See the bird of Juno flooping:
Melody refigns to fate."

ON THE WORDS BROTHER PROTESTANTS, AND FELLOW CHRISTIANS,

Se familiarly used by the Advocates for the Repeal of the Teft-Alt in Ireland, 1733.

As inundation, fays the fable,
C'erflow'd a farmer's barn and ftable;
Whole ricks of hay, and ftacks of corn,
Were down the fudden current borne;
While things of heterogeneous kind
Together float with tide and wind.
The generous wheat forgot its pride,
And laid with litter fide by fide;
Caring all, to fhow their amity,
As in a general calamity.
A ball of new dropt horfe's dung,
Mngling with apples in the throng,
Said to the pippin plump and prim,
"See, brother, how we apples fwim."

Thas Lamb, renown'd for cutting corns,
An offer'd fee of Radcliff fcorns :
"Not for the world-we doctors, brother,
* Maft take no fees of one another."
Thus to a dean fome curate floven
Subfcribes, "Dear Sir, your brother loving."
Th all the footmen, fhoe-boys, porters,
About St. James's, cry, "We courtiers."
This He in the houfe will prate,
"Sir, we the minifters of state."

Thes at the bar the blockhead Bettefworth,
Though half a crown o'erpays his sweat's worth,
Who knows in law nor text nor margent,
Calls Singleton his brother ferjeant.
And thus fanatic faints, though neither in
Dodirne nor difcipline our brethren,
Are Brother Proteftants and Chriftians,
As much as Hebrews and Philistines;
But in no other sense, than nature
Has made a rat our fellow creature.
Lice from your body fuck their food;
But is a loufe your flesh and blood?
Though born of human filth and sweat, it
May as well be faid man did beget it:
But maggots in your nofe and chin
As well may claim you for their kin.
Yet critics may object, Why not?
Since lice are brethren to a Scot:
Which made our fwarm of fects determine
Employments for their brother vermin.
But be they English, Irish, Scottish,
What Proteftant can be fo fottifh,

While o'er the church thefe clouds are gathering,
To call a fwarm of lice his brethren?

As Mofes, by divine advice,

In Egypt turn'd the duft to lice;
And as our fects, by all defcriptions,

Have hearts more harden'd than Egyptians ;

As from the trodden duft they fpring,
And, turn'd to lice, infeft the king:
For pity's fake, it would be juft,
A rod fhould turn them back to duff.
Let folks in high or holy stations
Be proud of owning fuch relations;
Let courtiers hug them in their bosom,
As if they were afraid to lofe'em:
While 1, with humble Job, had rather
Say to corruption-"Thou art my father."
For he that has fo little wit
To nourish vermin, may be bit.

THE YAHOO's OVERTHROW;

OR, THE KEVAN BAYL'S NEW BALLAD, Upon Serjeant Kite's infulting the Dean.

To the Tune of " Derry down."

JOLLY boys of St. Kevan's, St. Patrick's, Donore, And Smithfield, I'll tell you, if not told before, How Bettefworth, that booby, and fcoundrel in Hath infulted us all by infulting the Dean. [grain, Knock him down, down, doron, knock him down.

The Dean and his merits we every one know; But this fkip of a lawyer, where the de'il did he grow?

How greater his merit at Four Courts or House, Than the barking of Towzer, or leap of a loufe? Knock bim down, &c.

That he came from the Temple, his morals do

fhow; But where his deep law is, few mortals yet know: His rhetoric, bombaft, filly jefts, are by far More like to lampooning, than pleading at bar. Knock him down, &c.

This pedlar, at fpeaking and making of laws, Hath met with returns of all forts but applaufe; Has, with noife and odd gestures, been pratting fome years,

What honefter folks never durft for their ears.

Knock him down, &c.

Of all fizes and forts, the fanatical crew Are his brother Proteftants, good men and true; Red hat, and blue bonnet, and turban's the fame : What the de'el is't to him whence the devil they came ? Knock him dron, &c.

Hobbes, Tindal, and Woolfton, and Collins, and Nayler, And Muggleton, Toland, and Bradley the tailor, Are Chriftians alike; and it may be averr'd, He's a Chriftian as good as the rest of the herd. Knock him down, &c.

He only the rights of the clergy debates, Their rights their importance! We'll fet on [lefs:

new rates;

On their tithes at half-nothing, their priesthood at What's next to be voted, with ease you may guess. Knock him down, &c.

At length his old mafter (I need not him name) To this damnable speaker had long ow'd a fhame ;

On this worrier of deans whene'er we can hit, We'll show him the way how to crop and to flit;

We'll teach him fee better addrefs to afford

To the Dean of all Deans, though he wears not a fword.

Knock bir dorun, &c. We'll colt him through Kevan, St. Patrick's, Denore,

Aud Smithfield, as Rap was ne'er colted before; We'll oil him with kennel, and powder him with A modus right fit for infulters of deans. [grains, Knock bina doon, &c.

And, when this is over, we'll make him amends: To the Dean he fhail go; they fhell kits and be friends:

But how? Why, the Dean fhall to him difclofe
A face for to kifs, without eyes, ears, or pofe.
Knock bin durun, &c.

If you fay this is hard on a man that is reckon'd That ferjeant at law whom we cail Kite the fecond, You mistake; for a flave, who will coax his fpe

rio13,

[riors. May be proud to be licking a great man's pofleKacak bim down, &c. What care we how high runs his paffion or pride?

Though his foul he defpifis, ha values his hide; Then fear uct his tongue, or 15fword, or his life; He'll take his revenge on his recent wite.

Kank bim down, down, down, hop lim down.

ON THE

ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL, AND BETTESWORTH.

DEAR Dick, pr'ythce tell by wl at paflion you

move?

On his virtues hold forth; 'tis the very best way
And fay of the man what all honeft men fay.
But if, ftill obdurate, your anger remains;
If fill your foul bofom more rancour contains;
Say then more than they; nay, lavishly flatter,
"I is your grofs panegyrics alone can bespatter:
For thine, my dear Dick, give me leave to speak
plain,

Like a very foul mop, dirty more than they clean

ON POETRY:

A RHAPSODY, 1733.

ALL human race would fain be quits,
And millions mifs for one that hits.
Young's univerfal paffion, pride,
Was never known to spread fo wide.
Say, Britain, could you ever boast
Three poets in an age at most ?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
Afprig of bays in fifty years;
While every fool his claim alleges,
As if it grew in commen hedges
What reafon can there be aflığa'l
For this perverf.ncf, in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A Lear will ret attempt to fly;
A founder'd Lorf will oft' débate
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate;
A deg by inftin&t turns afide,
Who fees the ditch too deep and wide.
But man we find the only creature,
Who, led by felly, combats Nature;
Who, when fee loudly cries, Forbear,
With obftinacy fixes there;
And, where his genius leat inclines,

Abfurdly bends his whole defigns.

By valeur, conduct, fortune won;
Not empire to the ring fun
Not highell wifem in debates
For framing laws to govern ftates;
Not fkill in fciences profound,
So large to grasp the circle round;
Such heavenly influence require,
As how to frike the A2's are.

Not beggar's brat on bulk begot;
Not baftard of a pedlar Sect;
Not boy breht up to clearing fhoes,
The spawn of bild well or the flows;
Not infants drops, the fpurious pledges
Of mig Etterling under hedges;
Are to disqualify d by tate

To rife in church, or law, or t,
Ahe whom Phœbus in Lis ire
Hath blaited with poetic fire.
What hope of cutioia in the fair,
While not a foul demands your ware?
Where you have nothing to produce
Ier private life, er public ufe?
Court, city, stry, want you rot;
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.
For prets, 'aw miles no provifion;
The wealth, have you in deriion:
Of itate affairs you cannot iufter;
Are awkward when you try to flatter

Year portion, taking Britain round,
Was just one annual hundred pound;
Now not fo much as in remainder,
Sice Cibber brought in an attainder;
For ever fix'd by right divine

line.

A monarch's right) on Grub-street
Poor ftarveling bard, how fmall thy gains!
How unproportion'd to thy pains!
And here a fimile comes pat in:
Though chickens take a month to fatten,
The gues in lefs than half an hour
Will more than half a fcore devour.
So, after toiling twenty days
To earn a feck of pence and praife,
Taybours, grown the critics prey,
A fwallow'd o'er a difh of tea;
Gee to be never heard of more,
Gene where the chickens went before.
How hala new attempter learn
Oident fpirits to difcern,
And how diftinguish which is which,
Thenget's vein, or fcribbling itch?
To hear an old experienc'd finner,
hatag thus a young beginner.
Con yourfef; and if you find
Arm impulfe urge your mind,
Mudge within your breat
bet you can manage beft;
your genies mot inclines
Lite, prate, or humorous lines,
Teddies in mourniˇul tone,
floncemus fent from hand unknown.
Ta, ring with Aurora's light,
The mute inveh'd, fit down to write;
cu, correct, infert, refine,

, diminifi, interline;
dl, when invention falls,

cratch your head, and bite your nails.
Yer poem finish'd, next your care
real to trapfcribe it fair.

wit all printed trash is Stef with numerous breaks and dafies. reimen would you give a wipe, At it in le tops.

T

ters are in vulgar fhapes, Tata to one the wit escapes: Phen in capitals exprcft, That reader fmokes the joft:

perhaps he may invent Abar than the pect meant; Avearned commentators view la Here, more than Homer know. Your pon in its rodith drefs, Correctly fitted for the prefs, Cravey by penny-pe to Lintot, Ett no finalive look into 't. If Luftet thinks 'rvi'l quit the coft, You need not fear your labour loft: And how agr cably furpris'd Are yeto fe it advertis'd! the wker fhows you one in print, As fra as farthings from the mint The product of your toil and (weating A board of your own begetting. be ture at Will's, the following day, Lie fog, and hear what critics fay; And, if you find the general vogue Prosodices you a ftupid reque

Damns all your thoughts as low and little, Sit ftill, and fwallow down your spittle. Be filent as a politician,

For

For talking may beget fufpicion:
Or praife the judgment of the town,
And help yourfell to run it down.
Give up your fond paternal pride,
Nor argue on the weaker fide:
poems read without a name
We justly praife, or justly blame;
And critics have no partial views,
Except they know whom they abuse:
And, fince you ne'er provoke their spite,
Depend upon't their judgment's right.
But if you blab, you are undone:
Confider what a rifk you run:
You lofe your credit all at once;
The town will mark you for a dunce;
The vileft doggrel, Grub-street fends,
Will pafs for yours with foes and friends;
And you muft bear the whole difgrace,
Till fome fresh blockhead takes your place.
Your fecret kept, your poem funk,
And fent in quires to line a trunk,
If ftill you be difpos'd to rhyme,
Go try your hand a fecond time.
Again you fail: yet Safe 's the word;
Take courage, and attempt a third.
But firft with care employ your thoughts
Where critics mark'd your former faults;
The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit,
The fimiles that nothing fit;
The cant which every fool repeats,
Town jefts and coffee-houfe conceits;
Defcriptions tedious, flat, and dry,
And introduc'd the Lord knows why:
Or where we find your fury fct
Agaiaft the harmlefs alphabet;
And A's and B's your malice vent,

While readers wonder whom you meant;
A public or a private robber,
A fintefman, or a South-fea jobber;
A prelate who no God believes;
A parliament, or den of thieves;
A pick-purfe at the bar or bench;
A duchefs, or a fuburb wench:
Or oft', when epithets you link
In gaping lines to fill a chink;
Like flepping-ftones to fave a ftride,
In ftreets where kennels are too wide;
Or like a heel-piece, to fupport
A cripple with one foot too fhort;
Or like a bridge, that joins a marifh
To moorland of a different parish.
So have feen ill-coupled hounds
Drag different ways in miry grounds.
So geographers in Afric maps
With favage pictures fill their gaps,
And o'er unhabitable downs
Place elephants for want of towns.

But, though you mifs your third effay,
You need not throw your pen away.
Lay now afide all thoughts of fame,
To fpring more profitable game.
From party-merit feek fupport;
The vileft verfe thrives beft at court.
A pamphlet in Sir Rob's defence
Will never fail to bring in pence