Part 4
INTERRED beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run. If human things went ill or well, If changing empires rose or fell, The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple just the same. They walked and ate, good folks. What then? Why, then they walked and ate again; They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day, Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seemed just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree; Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespassed on the other’s ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded; They neither punished nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither praised nor chid; So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse; Slothful disorder filled his stable, And sluttish plenty decked her table. Their beer was strong, their wine was port; Their meal was large, their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt; For which they claimed their Sunday’s due Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man’s defects sought they to know, So never made themselves a foe. No man’s good deeds did they commend, So never raised themselves a friend. Nor cherished they relations poor, That might decrease their present store; Nor barn nor house did they repair, That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of grief or public joy. When bells were rung and bonfires made, If asked, they ne’er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was deposed or crowned. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise; Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were; Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried. And so they lived, and so they died. _Matthew Prior._
THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE
I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill, That other doctors gave me over: He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, And I was likely to recover.
But when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warm’d the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician.
_Matthew Prior._
TWELVE ARTICLES
I Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read.
II By disputing, I will never, To convince you, once endeavour.
III When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you.
IV When I talk, and you are heedless, I will show no anger needless.
V When your speeches are absurd, I will ne’er object a word.
VI When you, furious, argue wrong, I will grieve, and hold my tongue.
VII Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye. To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning.
VIII
Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose.
IX
You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget.
X
You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder.
XI
Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares.
XII
Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, ’Twill be just as I expect. Thus we both shall have our ends, And continue special friends. _Jonathan Swift._
THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN’S MIND
A SET of phrases learned by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play, to laugh or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why; Never to hold her tongue a minute, While all she prates has nothing in it; Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, And take his nonsense all for wit. Her learning mounts to read a song, But half the words pronouncing wrong; Has every repartee in store She spoke ten thousand times before; Can ready compliments supply On all occasions, cut and dry; Such hatred to a parson’s gown, The sight would put her in a swoon; For conversation well endued, She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing; Nor make a scruple to expose Your bandy leg or crooked nose; Can at her morning tea run o’er The scandal of the day before; Improving hourly in her skill, To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. In choosing lace, a critic nice, Knows to a groat the lowest price; Can in her female clubs dispute What linen best the silk will suit, What colours each complexion match, And where with art to place a patch. If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, Can finely counterfeit a fright; So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, She ravishes all hearts to hear her. Can dexterously her husband tease, By taking fits whene’er she please; By frequent practice learns the trick At proper seasons to be sick; Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, At once creating love and pity. If Molly happens to be careless, And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, She gets a cold as sure as death, And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; Admires how modest woman can Be so robustious, like a man. In party, furious to her power, A bitter Whig, or Tory sour, Her arguments directly tend Against the side she would defend; Will prove herself a Tory plain, From principles the Whigs maintain, And, to defend the Whiggish cause, Her topics from the Tories draws. _Jonathan Swift._
FROM “THE LOVE OF FAME”
BEGIN. Who first the catalogue shall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room: He stands for fame on his forefathers’ feet, By heraldry proved valiant or discreet. With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three descents less wise! If virtues at his noble hands you crave, You bid him raise his fathers from the grave. Men should press forward in fame’s glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race. Let high birth triumph! What can be more great? Nothing--but merit in a low estate. To virtue’s humblest son let none prefer Vice, though descended from the Conqueror. Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base, Slight or important, only by their place? Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave, that wears a title, lies.
* * * * *
On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, But found, at length, that it reduced his rent; His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on, A choice collection--what is to be done? He sells his last, for he the whole will buy; Sells even his house--nay, wants whereon to lie So high the generous ardor of the man For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk, Lorenzo signed the bargain--with his mark. Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
* * * * *
The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone.
* * * * *
These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men, Though satire couch them with her keenest pen) Forever will hang out a solemn face, To put off nonsense with a better grace: As perlers with some hero’s head make bold-- Illustrious mark!--where pins are to be sold. What’s the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined? The body’s wisdom to conceal the mind. A man of sense can artifice disdain, As men of wealth may venture to go plain; And be this truth eternal ne’er forgot, Solemnity’s a cover for a sot. I find the fool, when I behold the screen; For ’tis the wise man’s interest to be seen.
* * * * *
And what so foolish as the chance of fame? How vain the prize! how impotent our aim! For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, But bubbles on the rapid stream of time, That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more, Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?
* * * * *
Thus all will judge, and with one single aim, To gain themselves, not give the writer fame. The very best ambitiously advise, Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise. Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Proclaim the glory, and augment the state; Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die. _Edward Young._
DR. DELANY’S VILLA
WOULD you that Delville I describe? Believe me, sir, I will not gibe; For who could be satirical Upon a thing so very small? You scarce upon the borders enter, Before you’re at the very centre. A single crow can make it night, When o’er your farm she takes her flight: Yet, in this narrow compass, we Observe a vast variety; Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs, And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields, And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields; All to your haggard brought so cheap in, Without the mowing or the reaping: A razor, tho’ to say’t I’m loth, Would shave you and your meadows both. Tho’ small’s the farm, yet here’s a house Full large to entertain a mouse; But where a rat is dreaded more Than savage Caledonian boar; For, if it’s enter’d by a rat, There is no room to bring a cat. A little rivulet seems to steal Down thro’ a thing you call a vale, Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, Like rain along a blade of leek: And this you call your sweet meander, Which might be suck’d up by a gander, Could he but force his nether bill To scoop the channel of the rill. For sure you’d make a mighty clutter, Were it as big as city gutter. Next come I to your kitchen garden, Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; And round this garden is a walk, No longer than a tailor’s chalk; Thus I compare what space is in it, A snail creeps round it in a minute. One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze Up thro’ a tuft you call your trees: And, once a year, a single rose Peeps from the bud, but never blows; In vain then you expect its bloom! It cannot blow for want of room. In short, in all your boasted seat, There’s nothing but yourself that’s GREAT. _Thomas Sheridan._
THE QUIDNUNCKIS
“HOW vain are mortal man’s endeavours? (Said, at Dame Elleot’s, Master Travers) Good Orleans dead! in truth ’tis hard: Oh, may all statesmen die prepar’d! I do foresee (and for foreseeing He equals any man in being) The army ne’er can be disbanded. I with the king was safely landed. Ah, friends, great changes threat the land! All France and England at a stand! There’s Meroweis--mark! strange work! And there’s the Czar, and there’s the Turk-- The Pope--” An Indian merchant by, Cut short the speech with this reply: “All at a stand? You see great changes? Ah, sir, you never saw the Ganges. There dwells the nation of Quidnunckis (So Monomotapa calls monkeys); On either bank, from bough to bough, They meet and chat (as we may now); Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug, They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug; And, just as chance or whim provoke them, They either bite their friends, or stroke them. There have I seen some active prig, To show his parts, bestride a twig. Lord, how the chatt’ring tribe admire! Not that he’s wiser, but he’s higher. All long to try the vent’rous thing (For power is but to have one’s swing); From side to side he springs, he spurns, And bangs his foes and friends by turns. Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces, Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces! Down the swift stream the wretch is borne, Never, ah, never to return! Zounds! what a fall had our dear brother! _Morbleu!_ cries one, and damme, t’other. The nation gives a general screech; None cocks his tail, none claws his breech; Each trembles for the public weal, And for awhile forgets to steal. Awhile all eyes intent and steady Pursue him whirling down the eddy: But, out of mind when out of view, Some other mounts the twig anew; And business on each monkey shore Runs the same track it ran before.” _John Gay._
THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL
Is there no hope? the Sick Man said. The silent doctor shook his head, And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow. When thus the Man with gasping breath: “I feel the chilling wound of death; Since I must bid the world adieu, Let me my former life review. I grant, my bargains well were made, But all men overreach in trade; ’Tis self-defence in each profession; Sure, self-defence is no transgression. The little portion in my hands, By good security on lands, Is well increased. If unawares, My justice to myself and heirs Hath let my debtor rot in jail, For want of good sufficient bail; If I by writ, or bond, or deed, Reduce a family to need, My will hath made the world amends; My hope on charity depends. When I am numbered with the dead, And all my pious gifts are read, By heaven and earth ’twill then be known, My charities were amply shown.” An angel came. “Ah, friend,” he cried, “No more in flattering hope confide. Can thy good deeds in former times Outweigh the balance of thy crimes? What widow or what orphan prays To crown thy life with length of days? A pious action’s in thy power; Embrace with joy the happy hour. Now, while you draw the vital air, Prove your intention is sincere: This instant give a hundred pounds; Your neighbours want, and you abound.” “But why such haste?” the Sick Man whines: “Who knows as yet what Heaven designs? Perhaps I may recover still; That sum, and more, are in my will.” “Fool,” says the Vision, “now ’tis plain, Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain; From every side, with all your might, You scraped, and scraped beyond your right; And after death would fain atone, By giving what is not your own.” “Where there is life there’s hope,” he cried; “Then why such haste?”--so groaned, and died. _John Gay._
SANDYS’ GHOST
OR A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID’S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY
YE Lords and Commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit Of books of high renown.
Beware of Latin authors all! Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin;
For not the desk with silver nails, Nor bureau of expense, Nor standish well japanned avails To writing of good sense.
Hear how a ghost in dead of night, With saucer eyes of fire, In woful wise did sore affright A wit and courtly squire.
Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth, Like puppy tame that uses To fetch and carry, in his mouth, The works of all the Muses.
Ah, why did he write poetry, That hereto was so civil, And sell his soul for vanity, To rhyming and the devil?
A desk he had of curious work, With glittering studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk, Though Ovid lay without.
Now, as he scratched to fetch up thought, Forth popped the sprite so thin, And from the key-hole bolted out, All upright as a pin,
With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff composed most duly. The squire he dropped his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely.
“Ho! Master Sam,” quoth Sandys’ sprite, “Write on, nor let me scare ye; Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right, To Budgell seek, or Carey.
“I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums; Poor Ovid finds no quarter. See first the merry P---- comes In haste, without his garter.
“Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers; Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s, Beat up for volunteers.
“What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom Burnett or Tom D’Urfey may, John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.
“If Justice Philips’ costive head Some frigid rhymes disburses, They shall like Persian tales be read, And glad both babes and nurses.
“Let Warwick’s muse with Ashurst join, And Ozell’s with Lord Hervey’s; Tickell and Addison combine, And Pope translate with Jervas.
“Lansdowne himself, that lively lord, Who bows to every lady, Shall join with Frowde in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady.
“Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; I pray where can the hurt lie? Since you have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley.
“Now, Tonson, ’list thy forces all, Review them, and tell noses; For to poor Ovid shall befall A strange metamorphosis;
“A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour.” “To what” (quoth squire) “shall Ovid change?” Quoth Sandys, “To waste paper.” _Alexander Pope._
FROM “THE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT”
“SHUT, shut the door, good John!” fatigued I said; Tie up the knocker; say I’m sick, I’m dead. The dog-star rages! nay, ’tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out; Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free; Ev’n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me--just at dinner-time. Is there a parson much bemus’d in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk foredoom’d his father’s soul to cross, Who pens a stanza when he should engross? Is there, who, lock’d from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darken’d walls? All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn’d works the cause; Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life (which did you not prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song), What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool’s wrath or love? A dire dilemma--either way I’m sped; If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seiz’d and ty’d down to judge, how wretched I, Who can’t be silent, and who will not lie. To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility; I read With honest anguish, and an aching head, And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years.” “Nine years!” cries he, who high in Drury Lane, Lull’d by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Oblig’d by hunger, and request of friends: “The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why take it; I’m all submission; what you’d have it, make it.” Three things another’s modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me: “You know his grace. I want a patron: ask him for a place.” Pitholeon libell’d me. “But here’s a letter Informs you, sir, ’twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine; He’ll write a journal, or he’ll turn divine.” Bless me! a packet. “’Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.” If I dislike it, “Juries, death, and rage!” If I approve, “Commend it to the stage.” There (thank my stars!), my whole commission ends; The players and I are luckily no friends. Fir’d that the house reject him, “’Sdeath! I’ll print it, And shame the fools. Your interest, sir, with Lintot.” “Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much.” “Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.” All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, “Do, and we go snacks.” Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door: “Sir, let me see your works and you no more!” _Alexander Pope._
THE THREE BLACK CROWS
Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand; “Hark-ye,” said he, “’tis an odd story, this, About the crows!” “I don’t know what it is,” Replied his friend. “No! I’m surprised at that; Where I came from it is the common chat; But you shall hear--an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from ’Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.” “Impossible!” “Nay, but it’s really true; I have it from good hands, and so may you.” “From whose, I pray?” So, having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. “Sir, did you tell”--relating the affair. “Yes, sir, I did; and, if it’s worth your care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me. But, by the bye, ’twas two black crows--not three.” Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went; “Sir”--and so forth. “Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though, in regard to number, not exact; It was not two black crows--’twas only one; The truth of that you may depend upon; The gentleman himself told me the case.” “Where may I find him?” “Why, in such a place.” Away goes he, and, having found him out, “Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.” Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. “Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?” “Not I.” “Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none. Did you say nothing of a crow at all?” “Crow--crow--perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over.” “And pray, sir, what was’t?” “Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was--as black, sir, as a crow.” _John Byrom._
AN EPITAPH