Of minor prophets, a succession sure, The propagation of thy zeal secure.

See Commons, Peers, and Ministers of State, In solemn council met, and deep debate! What godlike enterprise is taking birth? What wonder opens on the expecting earth? "Tis done! with loud applause the council rings! Fixed is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings! Though bold these truths, thou, Muse! with truths like these

Wilt none offend whom 'tis a praise to please: Let others flatter to be flattered, thou, Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow. How terrible it were to common sense To write a satire which gave none offence? And since from life I take the draughts you see, If men dislike them, do they censure me? The fool and knave 'tis glorious to offend, And godlike an attempt the world to mend; The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall, Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all. How hard for real worth to gain its price? A man shall make his fortune in a trice, If blessed with pliant, though but slender sense, Feigned modesty, and real impudence, A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace, A curse within, a smile upon his face. A beauteous sister, or convenient wife, Are prizes in the lottery of life; Genius and virtue they will soon defeat, And lodge you in the bosom of the great. To merit is but to provide a pain, From men's refusing what you ought to gain. May, Dodington! this maxim fail in you, Whom my presaging thoughts already view, By Walpole's conduct fired, and friendship graced, Still higher in your prince's favour placed, And lending, here, those awful councils aid, Which you, abroad, with such success obeyed; Bear this from one who holds your friendship dear; What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

SATIRE IV.

TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR SPENCER COMPTON.*

Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,
The crown's assertor, and the people's friend
Nor dost thou scorn, amidst sublimer views,
To listen to the labours of the Muse;
Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,
And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

Vexed at a public fame so justly won,
The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone;
Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,
Devotes his service to the state and crown:
All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all im-
proves;

Though Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves:
But patriots differ; some may shed their blood,
He drinks his coffee, for the public good;
Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees
What storms or sunshine Providence decrees;
Knows for each day the weather of our fate:
A quidnunc is an almanack of state.

You smile, and think this statesman void of use;
Why may not time his secret worth produce?
Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut
Since steeds of genius are expert at putt,
Since half the senate Not Content can say,
Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.
What makes him model realms and counsel

kings?—

An incapacity for smaller things.

Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,
And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.

Gehenno leaves the realms to Chremes' skill,
And boldly claims a province higher still:
To raise a name, the ambitious boy has got
At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot:
Deep in the secret, he looks through the whole,
And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul:
To talk with reverence you must take good heed,
Nor shock his tender reason with the creed:
Howe'er well-bred, in public he complies,
Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

Peerage is poison; good estates are bad For this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad. Have not attainders brought unhoped relief, And falling stocks quite cured an unbelief? While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous

force;

Speaker of the House of Commons; afterwards created Viscount l'eveney, and Earl of Wilmington.

Just as their mercury is high or low.
Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark,
A fever argues better than a Clarke:
Let but the logic in his pulse decay,

The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray.
While Collins* mourns, with an unfeigned zeal,
The apostate youth who reasoned once so well
Collins, who makes so merry with the creed,
He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;

Anthony Collins, founder of the sect of Free-thinkera

But only thinks so: to give both their due,
Satan and he believe, and tremble too.
Of some for glory such the boundless rage,
That they're the blackest scandal of their age.
Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;
Nay, a free-mason with some terror names;
Omits no duty; nor can Envy say

He missed, these many years, the church or play:
He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true,
But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;
His character and gloves are ever clean,
And then he can outbow the bowing Dean:
A smile cternal on his lip he wears,
Which equally the wise and worthless shares.
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belief,
Most charitably lends the town his face,
For ornament in every public place:

As sure as cards he to the assembly comes,
And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:
When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,
And, joined to two, he fails not-to make three
Narcissus is the glory of his race,

For who does nothing with a better grace?

To deck my list by Nature were designed Such shining expletives of human kind, Who want, while through blank life they dream along,

Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.

To counterpoise this hero of the mode,
Some for renown are singular and odd;
What other men dislike is sure to please,
Of all mankind, these dear antipodes:
Through pride, not malice, they run counter still,
And birth-days are their days of dressing ill.
Arbuthnot is a fool, and Foe a sage,

Sedley will fright you, Etherege engage:
By Nature streams run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends.
They take their rest by day, and wake by night,
And blush if you surprise them in the right
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware
A swan is white, or Queensberry* is fair.

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A foul in fashion, but a fool that's out;
His passion for absurdity's so strong,
He can not bear a rival in the wrong.
Though wrong the mode, comply: more sense is
shown

In wearing others' follies than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime
Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances,

The Dutchess of Queensberry, a celebrated toast.

1 Sir Hans Sloane, whose collections enrich our Museum.

And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,
Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat which Joseph never wore!
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin

That touched the ruff that touched Queen Bess'. chin.

'Since that great dearth our chronicles de
plore,

Since the great plague that swept as many more,
Was ever year unblessed as this?' he'll cry
'It has not brought us one new butterfly!'
In times that suffer such learned men as these,
Unhappy Jersey! how came you to please?

Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game,
But in effect his chase is much the same:
Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great,
Staunch to the foot of title and estate:
Where'er their lordships go, they never find
Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind;
He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,
Close at their elbows, as a morning-dun;
As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:
And after seven years' dance from place to place,
The Danet is more familiar with his Grace.

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer,
Or living pendent dangling at his ear,
For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
For months before, by trumpets, through the
Town?

Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,
Still to reflect the temper of his face?
Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,
When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave?
Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
To loll or thump it, for his better ease?
|Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke,
When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?
Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not
find

His lordship's jest, or, if his nose broke wind,
For blessing to the gods profoundly bow?
That can cry chimney-sweep, or drive a plough?
With terms like these how mean the tribe that
close?

Scarce meaner they who terms like these im pose.

But what's the tribe most likely to comply? The men of ink, or ancient authors, lie; The writing tribe, who, shameless auctions hold Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold; All men they flatter, but themselves the most, With deathless fame their everlasting boast: For Fame no cully makes so much her jest, As her old constant spark, the bard professed.

The Ashmolean Museum at Oxford. 1A Danish dog belonging to the Duke of Argyle.

Command his prancings with a martial air,
And Fobert has the forming of the fair.
More than one steed must Delia's empire feel,
Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel.
And as she guides it through the admiring throng,
With what an air she smacks the silken thong?
Graceful as John, she moderates the reins,
And whistles sweet her diuretic strains:
Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these
May drive six harnessed monarchs if they please:
They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit,
Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit.
O'er the belle-lettres lovely Daphne reigns;
Again the god Apollo wears her chains;
With legs tossed high, on her sophée she sits,
Vouchsafing audience to contending wits:
Of each performance she's the final test;
One act read o'er, she prophecies the rest;
And then, pronouncing with decisive air,
Fully convinces all the town-she's fair.
Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face,
How would her elegance of taste decrease!
Some ladies' judgment in their features lies,
And all their genius sparkles from their eyes.
'But hold,' she cries, 'lampooner! have a care;
Must I want common sense because I'm fair?'

no; see Stella; her eyes shine as bright
As if her tongue was never in the right;
And yet what real learning, judgment, fire!
She seems inspired, and can herself inspire:
How then (if malice ruled not all the fair)
Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear?
We grant that beauty is no bar to sense,
Nor is 't a sanction for impertinence.
Sempronia liked her man, and well she might;
The youth in person and in parts was bright:
Possessed of every virtue, grace, and art,
That claims just empire o'er the female heart:
He met her passion, all her sighs returned,
And in full rage of youthful ardour burned:
Large his possessions, and beyond her own,
Their bliss the theme and envy of the town:
The day was fixed, when, with one acre more,

Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call;
He comes: but where's his patient? at the ball.
The doctor stares; her woman curtsies low,
And cries, 'My lady, sir, is always so:
Diversions put her maladies to flight;
True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night;
I've known my lady (for she loves a tune)
For fevers take an opera in June:
And though, perhaps, you'll think the practico
bold,

A midnight park is sovereign for a cold:
With cholics breakfasts of gren fruit agice,
With indigestions supper just at three.'
'A strange alternative,' replies Sir Hans;*
Must women have a doctor or a dance?
Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam,
But droop and die, in perfect health, at home.
For want-but not of health, are ladies ill,
And tickets cure beyond the doctor's bill.'

Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair
Yon lady lolls! with what a tender air?
Pale as a young dramatic author, when
O'cr darling lines fell Cibber waves his pen.
Is her lord angry, or has Venyt chid?
Dead is her father, or the mask forbid?
Late sitting up has turned her roses white.
Why went she not to bed? 'Because 'twas night.
Did she then dance or play?' Nor this nor that.'
Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.
'No, all alone her prayers she rather chose,
Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose.'
Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,
Goes with the fashionable owls to bed:
This her pride covets, this her health denies;
Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.

Others, with curious art, dim charms revive, And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five. You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite, To keep her word, a brown one comes at night; Next day she shines in glossy black, and then Revolves into her native red again:

score!

The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear.
Of pride and avarice who can cure the fair?
Man's rich with little, were his judgment true;
Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;
Those few wants answered, bring sincere delights,
But fools create themselves new appetites.
Fancy and pride seck things at vast expense,
Which relish not to reason, nor to sense.
When surfeit or unthankfulness destroys,
In Nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,
la Fancy's airy land of noise and show,
Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures grow,

⚫A celebrated riding-master.

And is her own dear rival in your arms.

But one admirer has the painted lass,
Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess,
Nor finds that one but in her looking-glass:

To deck the female cheek he only knows
That all her arts scarce makes her please us less.
Who paints less fair the lily and the rose.

How gay they smile? Such blessings Natur pours,

O'erstocked mankind enjoy but half her stores:
In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,
She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green.