In other things they justly are preferr'd:
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd ;
Against the groffest follies they declaim ;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Befides 'tis labour loft; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach ?
'Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind;
That little fpeck which all the reft does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loofe-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all cenfure too, each little wit
Will be fo glad to see the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of fuch correction will have caufe to boast.
In fuch a fatire all would feek a fhare,
every fool will fancy he is there.
Old ftory-tellers too must pine and die,
To fee their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her, who mifs'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing fparks appear;
Nor fluttering officers who never fight;
Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?
Much lefs half wits: that's more against our rules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar ?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr ?
The cunning courtier should be flighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like #fop's fox becomes a prey at last.
Nor fhall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too eafy, to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a pother,
They are as common that way as the other :
Yet fauntering Charles, between his beastly brace,
Meets with diffembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other fold him :
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail fo long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of bufy blockheads, fhall have here no place;
At council fet as foils on Dorset's score,
To make that great falfe jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wife,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.
But there's no meddling with such nauseous men ;
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen :
'Tis time to quit their company, and chuse
Some fitter fubject for a sharper Mufe.
First, let's behold the merriest man alive
Against his carelefs genius vainly ftrive;
Quit his dear ease, fome deep design to lay,
'Gainst a fet time, and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Juft as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reafon or at rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest fit,
Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit;
That shadow of a jeft fhall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be defroy'd.
So cat transform'd fat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But foon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did juft as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find
That nimbleft creature of the busy kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To fee him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill.
'Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To use a body so, though 'tis one's own :
Yet this falfe comfort never gives him o'er,
That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can foar:
Alas! that foaring, to those few that know,
Is but a bufy groveling here below.
So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilft on the ground th' intranced wretches lie:
So modern fops have fancy'd they could fly.
As the new earl with parts deferving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet lofes all foft days and fenfual nights,
Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune flights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a bufy man.
And what is that at beft, but one, whofe mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if fome odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm fo wittingly contrives?
Will any dog, that has his teeth and ftones,
Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones,
To turn a wheel? and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd ?
Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Though fatire nicely writ no humour stings
But those who merit praise in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos fake;
Who was too much defpis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deferves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing fmoothly, and for reafoning wrong.
As boys on holy-days let loose to play,
Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way;
Then fhout to fee in dirt and deep diftrefs
Some filly cit in her flower'd foolish dress:
So have I mighty fatisfaction found,
To fee his tinfel reafon on the ground:
To fee the florid fool despis'd, and know it,
By fome who scarce have words enough to show it:
For fenfe fits filent, and condemns for weaker
The finner, nay sometimes the wittiest speaker :
But 'tis prodigious fo much eloquence
Should be acquired by fuch little sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:
At bar abusive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolfack, fop at council-table.
Thefe are the grievances of fuch fools as would
Be rather wife than honeft, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whofe harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excefs of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their case:
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