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Who fhames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro', | Happy my ftudies, when by the fe approv'd!

He pins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew :
Deftroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of Himfy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaflian fneer?
And has not Colley ftill his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henly, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit? [offend,
Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's fake-you'll
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [all.
But foes like thefe--P. One Flatt rer's worfe than
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worfe when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grubftreet will my fame defend,
And more abufive, calls himfelf my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, Subfcribe, fubfcribe!'
There are, who to my perfon pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am fhort.
Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high;
Such Ovid's nofe; and, Sir! you have an Eye-
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my Betters met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Juft fo immortal Maro held his head;'
And when I die, be fure you let me know
Great Homer died three thoufand years ago. +
Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parent's, or my own?
As vet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father difobey'd:
The Mufe but ferv'd to cafe fome Friend, not
To help me thro this long difeafe, my Life;
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach the Being you preferv'd to bear.

[Wife,

But why then publish Granville the polite,
And knowing Walb, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praife,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read;
Ev'n mitred Rochefter would nod the head;
And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends be-
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. [fore)

Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!
From thefe the world will judge of men and

books,

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure Defcription held the place of Senfe ?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted miftrefs, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never antwer'd, I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madnefs made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Did fome more fober Critic come abroad;
If wrong, I fini'd; if right, I kifs'd the rod.
Pains, reading, ftudy, are their just pretence;
And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Commas and points they fet exactly right;
And 'twere a fin to reb them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds:
Each wight who reads not, and but fcans and fpells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch fmall Critics fome regard inay claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's name.
Pretty in Amber to obferve the forms
Of hairs, or ftraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry : I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's fecret ftandard in his mind,
That cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This who can gratify for who can guess?
The Bard whom pilfer'd Paftorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown,
Juft writes to make his barrennefs appear,
And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines

a year;

He, who ftill wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left:
And He, who now to fenfe, now nontenfe leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but profe run mad:
All thefe, my modeft Satire bade tranflate,
And own'd that nine fuch Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and ftamp, and roar and
And swear, not Addison himself was safe. [chafe '

Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe

True Genius kindles, and fair Fame infpires; [fires

VARIATIONS.

*For fong, for filence, fome expect a bribe;
And others roar aloud, Subfcribe, fubfcribe!'
Time, praife, or money, is the leaft they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave. [admire,
But, friend, this fhape, which You and Curl (a)
Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my Sire (b):
(a) Curl fet up his head for a fign. (b) His Father was crooked.

And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
I had it from my mother (c), not the Mufe.
Happy, if he, in whom thefe frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

(c) His Mother was much afflicted with head-achs.

Bleft

Bleft with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converfe, and live with cafe:
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with fcornful, yet with jealous eves,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife;
Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer,
And, without fneering, teach the reft to fncer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate diflike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a fufpicious friend;
Dreading ev'n Fools, by Flatterors befieg'd,
And fo obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry fentence raife,
And wonder with a foolish face of praife-
Who but muft laugh, if fuch a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
What tho' my name ftood rubric on the walls,
Or plafter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals?
Or imoking forth, a hundred hawkers load,
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
I fought no homage from the race that write;
I kept, like Afian monarchs, from their fight:
Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long)
No more than thou, great George! a birthday fong.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days,
To fpread about the itch of verfe and praife;
Nor, like a puppy, dangled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down;
Nor at rehearsals fweat, and mouth'd, and cried,
With handkerchief and orange at my fide:
But fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state.
Proud, as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill;
Fed with foft dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand and hand in song, †
His library (where bufts of poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undiftinguifh'd race,
Who firft his judgment afk'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and fome days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praife;
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd;
And others (harder ftill) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh;
Dryden alone efcap'd this judging eye;

my

But ftill the great have kindness in referve;
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May fome choice pation blefs each grey goofe
May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo till! [quill!
So when a ftatefman wants a day's defence,
Or envy holds a whole week's war with fenfe,
Or fimple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whiftled off hands!
Bleit be the great for those they take away,
And thofe they left me, for they left me Gay;
Left me to fee neglected Genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the fole return,
My Verfe, and Queenfb'ry weeping o'er thy urn,
Oh let me live iny own, and die fo too!
(To live and die is all I have to do):
Maintain a Poet's dignity and cafe,
And fee what friends, and read what books I please:
Above a patron, tho' I condefcend
Sometimes to call a minifter my friend.

I

I was not born for courts or great affairs:
pay my debts, believe, and fay my pray'rs ;
Can fleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead. ‡

Why am I afk'd what next fhall fee the light? Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to lave? [doubt "I found him clofe with Swift'"'—' Indeed no (Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will;

No, fuch a Genius never can lie still;' And then for mine obligingly mistakes The firft lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but finile, When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my ftyle? |

Curft be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foc, Give virtue fcandal, innocence a fear, Or from the foft-eyed virgin fteal a tear! But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, Infults fallen worth, or beauty in diftrefs; Who loves a lye, lame flander helps about, Who writes a libel, or who copies out; That fop whose pride affects a patron's name, Yet abfent wounds an author's honeft fame; Who can your merit felfifbly approve, And fhew the fenfe of it without the love; Who has the vanity to call you Friend, Yet wants the honour injur'd to defend; Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say And, if he lye not, muft at least betray:

VARIATION S

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Be nice no more, but with a mouth profound
As rumbling D-s, or a Norfolk hound,
With George and Fred'ric roughen ev'ry verfe;
Then Smooth up all and Caroline rehearse.
P. No-the high tafk to lift up Kings to Gods,
Leave to Court Sermons, and to Birth-day Odes,
On themes like thefe, fuperior far to thine,
Let laurell'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.
Why write at all? A. Yes, filence if you keep,
The Town, the Court, the Wits, the Dunces weep.
Whe

Who to the dean and filver bell can swear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads but with a luft to misapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lyc-
A lath like mine no honeft man shall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his ftead.
Let Sporus tremble.-A. What? that thing of
Sporus, that mere white curd of afs's milk? [filk?
Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus fecl?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that ftinks and ftings;
Whole buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er taftes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred fpaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal fmiles his emptinefs betray,

As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet fqueaks;
Or at the car of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, fpits himfelf abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lyes,
Or fpite, or fmut, or rhymes, or blafphemies.
His wit all fee-faw, between that and this;
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now mifs,
And he himself one vile antithefis.
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart ;
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now ftruts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have exprefs'd;
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will truft,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the duft.
Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool,
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor fervile; be one Poet's praife,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That flatt'ry even to Kings he held a fhame,
And thought a Lye in verfe or profe the fame:
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But ftoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his fong:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the lofs of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the inad;
The diftant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lye fo oft o'erthrown,
Th'imputed trafh and dulnefs not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'fcape,
The libell'd perfon, and the pictur'd shape;
Abufe on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread;
A friend in exile, or a father dead;

The whisper that, to greatnefs ftill too near,
Perhaps yet vibrates on his Sov'reign's ear-
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the paft;
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the laft!
A. But why infult the poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave to me, in ev'ry ftate:
Alike my fcorn, if he fucceed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
A hireling fcribbler, or a hircling peer,
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire;
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's ear, or lofe his own.

Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit,*
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded Sat'rift Dennis will confefs
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door,
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for

Moor.

Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply?
Three thoufand funs went down on Welfied's lyo;
To please a Mistress, one afpers'd his life;
He lath'd him not, but let her be his wife:
Let Budgel charge low Grubftreet on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
Let the two Curls of town and Court abufe
His father, mother, body, foul, and muse.
Yet why that Father held it for a rule,
It was a fin to call our neighbour Fool:
That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this, and fpare his family, James Moor!
Unfpotted names, and memorable long!
If there be force in Virtue or in Song.

Of gentle blood (part fhed in Honour's caufe, While yet in Britain Honour had applause) Each parent fprung.-A. What fortune pray?— P. Their own;

And better got than Befia's from the throne,
Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife,
Nor marrying Difcord in a noble wife;
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious thro' his age.
No Courts he faw, no fuits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lye.
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's fubtle art;
No language but the language of the heart.
By Nature honeft, by Experience wife,
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercise;
His life, tho' long, to sickness pass'd unknown,
His death was inftant, and without a groan.
O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who fprung from Kings fhall know lefs joy
than I. t

O Friend! may each domestic blifs be thine!
Be no unpleafing Melancholy mine:
Me let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of repofing Age;

VARIATIONS.

Once, and but once. his heedlefs youth was hit,
And lik'd that dang'rous thing, a female wit:
Safe, as he thought, tho' all the prudent chid;
He writ no Libels, but my Lady did:
Great odds in am'rous or poetic game,
Where Woman's is the fin, and Man's the fhame.

And of myfelf, too, fomething must I say?
Take then this verfe, the trifle of a day :
And if it live, it lives but to commend
The man whofe heart has ne'er forgot a friend,
Or head, an Author; Critic, yet polite;
And friend to Learning, yet too wife to write.

With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath,
Make languor fmile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the fky!
On cares like these, if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to blefs thofe days, preferve my friend,
Preferve him focial, cheerful, and ferene,
And just as rich as when he serv'd a Queen.
A. Whether that bleffing be denied or given,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven.

§18. Satires and Epifiles of Horace imitated. POPE. SATIRE

To Mr. Fortefcue.

I.

P. THERE are (Ifcarce can think it, but am told)
There are to whom my Satire feems too bold;
Scarce to wife Peter complaifant enough,.
And fomething faid of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another's pleas'd to fay;
Lord Fanny fpins a thousand fuch a day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to council learned in the law:
You'll give me, like a friend both fage and free,
Advice; and (as you ufe) without a fee.
F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write? but then I think;
And for my foul I cannot fleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night;
Fools rush into my head, and fo I write.
F. You could not do a worfe thing for your life.
Why, if the nights feem tedious, take a wife:
Or rather truly, if your point be reft,
Lettuce and cowflip wine-probatum eft.
But talk with Celfus, Celfus will advife
Hartshorn, or fomething that fhall clofe your eyes.
Or, if you needs muft write, write Cæfar's praife;
You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays.
P. What! like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough,
and fierce,
[the verfe,
With arms, and George, and Brunfwick, crowd
Rend with tremendous found your ears afunder,
With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thun-
Ornobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force, [der?
Paint angels trembling round his falling horfe?

F. Then all your Mufe's fofter art display,
Let Carolina fmooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And sweetly flow thro' all the royal line.

P. Alas! few verfes touch their nicer ear;
They fcarce can bear their Laureate twice a year;
And justly Cæfar fcorns the poet's lays;
It is to biflory he trufts for praife.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, Than ridicule all tafte, blafpheme quadrille, Abuse the city's beft good men in metre, And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. Ev'n those you touch not, hate you.

P. What thould ail them? F. A hundred fmart in Timon and in Palaam. The fewer ftill you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

P. Each mortal has his pleafure: none deny Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye; Ridotta fips and dances, till the fee

The doubling luftres dance as faft as the;

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F- loves the fenate, Hockleyhole his brother,
Like in all elfe as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myfelf, as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montagne:
In them, as certain to be lov'd as feen,
The foul stood forth, nor kept a thought within
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glafs my Mufe intends
Fair to expofe mytelf, my foes, my friends;
Publifh the prefent age; but where my text
Is vice too high, referve it for the next :
My focs thall with my life a longer date,
And ev'ry friend the lefs lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing thro' my quill,
Verleman or Profeman, term me which you will,
Papift or Proteftant, or both between,
Like good Erafmus in an honeft mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,
While Tories cail me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too difcreet
To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;
I only wear it in a land of hectors,
Thieves, fupercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more:
But touch me, and no minifter fo fore.
Whoe'er offends, at fome unlucky time
Slides into verfe, and hitches in a thyme;
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the fad burthen of fome merry fong.

Slander or poifon dread from Delia's rage;
Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page:
From furious Sappho fcarce a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate.
Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels;
Bulls aim their horns, and affes lift their heels;
'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug;
And no man wonders he's not ftung by pug.
So drink with Waters, or with Chartres cat;
They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat.

Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at Court, Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the ev'ning of my day; Or death's black wing already be difplay'd, To wrap me in the univerfal fhade; Whether the darken'd room to mufe invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the fkew'r to write: In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print.

F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be
In flow'r of age you perifh for a long! [long;
Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife,
Will club their tefters, now, to take your life!
P. What? arm'd for virtue when I point the
pen,

Brand the bold front of fhameless guilty men;
Dath the proud gamefter in his gilded car;
Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a far;
Can there be wanting, to defend her caute,
Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws?
Could penfion'd Boileau lafh in honest strain
Flatt'rers and bigots even in Louis' reign?
Q2

Could

Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage,
Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?
And I not strip the gilding off a knave,
Unplac'd, unpenfion'd, no man's heir or flave?
I will, or perith in the gen'rous caufe :
Hear this, and tremble! you, who 'fcape the laws.
Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave
Shall walk the world in credit to his grave.
To virtue only and her friends a friend,
The world befide may inurmur or commend.
Know, all the diftant din that world can keep,
Rolls o'er my grotto, and but soothes my fleep.
There, my retreat the best companions grace,
Chiefs out of war, and ftatcfmen out of place.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
The feaft of reafon and the flow of foul:
And he, whofe lightning pierc'd th' Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines;
Or tames the genius of the ftubborn plain,
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.

Envy must own, I live among the great,
No pimp of pleafure, and no spy of state;
With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats,
Fond to fpread friendships, but to cover heats;
To help who want, to forward who excel;
This, all who know me, know; who love me, tell;
And who unknown defame me, let them be
Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me.
This is my plea, on this I reft my caufe-
What faith my council, learned in the laws?
F. Your plea is good; but ftill I fay, beware!
Laws are explain'd by men-fo have a care.
It ftands on record, that in Richard's times
A man was hang'd for very honeft rhymes!
Confult the ftatute, quart. I think it is,
Edwardi fext. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
Sce Libels, Satires-here you have it-read.
P. Libels and Satires! lawlets things indeed!
But grave Epifles, bringing vice to light,
Such as a King might read, a bishop write,
Such as Sir Robert would approve

F. Indeed?

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WHAT, and how great, the virtue and the art
To live on little with a cheerful heart,
(A doctrine fage, but truly none of mine),
Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine.
Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride
Tarns you from found philofophy afide;
Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's Sermon, one not vers'd in fchools,
But ftrong in fenfe, and wife without the rules.
Go work, hunt, exercife! (he thus began)
Then fcorn a homely dinner if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler ftroll'd abroad,
Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw'd),
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleature lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I pleafe, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheafant ftill before a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Except you eat the feathers green and gold. Of carps and mullets why prefer the great (Tho' cut in pieces ere my Lord can cat) Yet for fmall turbots fuch efteem profefs? Because God made these large, the other less. Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endued, Cries, "Send me, Gods! a whole hog barbecued!" Oh blaft it, fouth-winds, till a ftench exhale Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail. By what criterion do you eat, d'ye think, If this is priz'd for fweetnefs, that for stink? When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat, He finds no relish in the fweeteft meat; He calls for fomething bitter, fomething four, And the rich feast concludes extremely poor: Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we fee; Thus much is left of old Simplicity! The Robin-red-breaft till of late had reft, And children facred held a Martin's neft, Till Becca-ficos fold fo dev'lith dear To one that was, or would have been, a Peer. Let me extol a Cat on oyfters fed, I'll have a party at the Bedford-head; Or ev'n to crack live Crawfith recommend, I'd never doubt at Court to make a friend. 'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother About one vice, and fall into the other: Between Excefs and Famine lies a mean; Plain, but not fordid; tho' not fplendid, clean. Avidien, or his Wife (no matter which, For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch), Sell their prefented partridges and fruits, And humbly live on rabbits and on roots: One half-pint bottle ferves them both to dine, And is at once their vinegar and wine. But on fome lucky day (as when they found A loft Bank bill, or heard their fon was drown'd) At fuch a feaft, old vinegar to fpare, Is what two fouls fo gen'rous cannot bear : Oil, tho' it ftink, they drop by drop impart; But foufe the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live who keeps the middle state, And neither leans on this fide nor on that; Nor ftops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay; Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away; Nor lets, like Nævius, ev'ry error pass; The mufty wine, foul cloth, or greafy glafs.

Now hear what bleflings Temperance can bring: (Thus faid our friend, and what he faid I fing) First Health: the ftomach (cramm'd from ev'ry difh,

A tomb of boil'd and roaft, and flesh and fish,
Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the man is one inteftine war)
Remembers oft the fchool-boy's fimple fare,
The temp'rate fleeps, and fpirits light as air.

How pale each worshipful and rev'rend gueft
Rife from a Clergy or a City feast!
What life in all that ample body, fay?
What heavenly particle infpires the clay?
The foul fubfides, and wickedly inclines
To feem but mortal, even in found Divines.

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