Chapter 12

--i.e. Britain is the only place on the globe which feels not tyranny even to its very entrails. Alluding to the condemnation of criminals to the mines, one of the inflictions of civil justice in most countries--W.

VER. 11, in MS. it was thus--

To Wyndham's breast the patriot passions stole.

ROXANA, OR THE DRAWING-ROOM.

AN ECLOGUE.

Roxana, from the Court returning late, Sigh'd her soft sorrow at St James's gate: Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast, Not her own chairmen with more weight oppress'd: They curse the cruel weight they're doom'd to bear; She in more gentle sounds express'd her care.

'Was it for this, that I these roses wear? For this, new-set the jewels for my hair? Ah, Princess! with what zeal have I pursued! Almost forgot the duty of a prude. 10 This king I never could attend too soon; I miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon. For thee, ah! what for thee did I resign? My passions, pleasures, all that e'er was mine: I've sacrificed both modesty and ease; Left operas, and went to filthy plays: _Double-entendres_ shock'd my tender ear; Yet even this, for thee, I chose to bear: In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay, And every joy of life before me lay; 20 By honour prompted, and by pride restrain'd, The pleasures of the young my soul disdain'd: Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe Censured my neighbours, and said daily prayer. Alas, how changed! with this same sermon-mien, The filthy _What-d'ye-call-it_[71]--I have seen. Ah, royal Princess! for whose sake I lost The reputation, which so dear had cost; I, who avoided every public place, When bloom and beauty bid me show my face, 30 Now near thee, constant, I each night abide, With never-failing duty, by thy side; Myself and daughters standing in a row, To all the foreigners a goodly show. Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin, And merchants' wives close by your side had been, Had I not amply fill'd the empty place, And saved your Highness from the dire disgrace: Yet Cockatilla's artifice prevails, When all my duty and my merit fails: 40 That Cockatilla, whose deluding airs Corrupts our virgins, and our youth ensnares; So sunk her character, and lost her fame, Scarce visited before your Highness came: Yet for the bedchamber 'tis she you choose, Whilst zeal, and lame, and virtue you refuse. Ah, worthy choice; not one of all your train Which censures blast not, or dishonours stain. I know the Court, with all its treacherous wiles, The false caresses, and undoing smiles. 50 Ah, Princess! learn'd in all the courtly arts, To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts.'

TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.

1 In beauty or wit, No mortal as yet To question your empire has dared; But men of discerning Have thought that in learning To yield to a lady was hard.

2 Impertinent schools, With musty dull rules, Have reading to females denied: So Papists refuse The Bible to use, Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

3 'Twas a woman at first (Indeed she was cursed) In knowledge that tasted delight, And sages agree The laws should decree To the first possessor the right.

4 Then bravely, fair dame, Resume the old claim, Which to your whole sex does belong; And let men receive, From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right and of wrong.

5 But if the first Eve Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she, What a punishment new Shall be found out for you, Who, tasting, have robb'd the whole tree!

EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES

ON A PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE, PAINTED BY KNELLER.

The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, That happy air of majesty and truth, So would I draw: but, oh! 'tis vain to try, My narrow genius does the power deny; The equal lustre of the heavenly mind, Where every grace with every virtue's join'd: Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe, With greatness easy, and with wit sincere; With just description show the soul divine, And the whole princess in my work should shine.

LINES SUNG BY DURASTANTI,

WHEN SHE TOOK LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE.

1 Generous, gay, and gallant nation, Bold in arms, and bright in arts; Land secure from all invasion, All but Cupid's gentle darts! From your charms, oh! who would run? Who would leave you for the sun? Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

2 Let old charmers yield to new; In arms, in arts, be still more shining: All your joys be still increasing; All your tastes be still refining; All your jars for ever ceasing; But let old charmers yield to new: Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.

'See, sir, here's the grand approach, This way is for his Grace's coach: There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Observe the lion and the cock, The spacious court, the colonnade, And mark how wide the hall is made! The chimneys are so well design'd, They never smoke in any wind. This gallery's contrived for walking, The windows to retire and talk in; The council chamber for debate, And all the rest are rooms of state.'

'Thanks, sir,' cried I, ''tis very fine, But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine? I find by all you have been telling That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.'

VERSES LEFT BY MR POPE.

ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL, JULY 9, 1739.

1 With no poetic ardour fired, I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he loved, or here expired, Begets no numbers, grave or gay.

2 Beneath thy roof, Argyll, are bred Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed, Beneath a nobler roof--the sky.

3 Such flames as high in patriots burn, Yet stoop to bless a child or wife; And such as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life.

THE CHALLENGE, A COURT BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF 'TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.'

1 To one fair lady out of Court, And two fair ladies in, Who think the Turk[72] and Pope[73] a sport, And wit and love no sin; Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in, To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.[74] With a fa, la, la.

2 What passes in the dark third row, And what behind the scene, Couches and crippled chairs I know, And garrets hung with green; I know the swing of sinful hack, Where many damsels cry alack. With a fa, la, la.

3 Then why to Courts should I repair, Where's such ado with Townshend? To hear each mortal stamp and swear, And every speech with 'zounds!' end; To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland, And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.[75] With a fa, la, la.

4 Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun, Like Grafton court the Germans; Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown, Like Meadows[76] run to sermons; To Court ambitious men may roam, But I and Marlbro' stay at home. With a fa, la, la.

5 In truth, by what I can discern Of courtiers, 'twixt you three, Some wit you have, and more may learn From Court, than Gay or me; Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet, To sup with us on milk and quiet. With a fa, la, la.

6 At Leicester Fields, a house full high, With door all painted green, Where ribbons wave upon the tie, (A milliner I mean;) There may you meet us, three to three, For Gay can well make two of me. With a fa, la, la.

7 But should you catch the prudish itch And each become a coward, Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich, And sometimes Mistress Howard; For virgins, to keep chaste, must go Abroad with such as are not so. With a fa, la, la.

8 And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends; God send the king safe landing;[77] And make all honest ladies friends To armies that are standing; Preserve the limits of those nations, And take off ladies' limitations. With a fa, la, la.

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

Of gentle Philips[78] will I ever sing, With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring; My numbers, too, for ever will I vary, With gentle Budgell,[79] and with gentle Carey.[80] Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill, With gentle Carey, and with gentle Budgell, Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye, Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy. May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye, And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye!

EPIGRAM,

ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG WHICH I GAVE TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS.

I am His Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

THE TRANSLATOR.

Ozell, at Sanger's call, invoked his Muse, For who to sing for Sanger could refuse? His numbers such as Sanger's self might use. Reviving Perrault, murdering Boileau, he Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley; Which yet not much that old bard's anger raised, Since those were slander'd most whom Ozell praised. Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining, Had not sage Rowe pronounced it entertaining; How great must be the judgment of that writer, Who the Plain Dealer damns, and prints the Biter!

THE LOOKING-GLASS.

ON MRS PULTENEY.[81]

With scornful mien, and various toss of air, Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair, Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain, She looks ambition, and she moves disdain. Far other carriage graced her virgin life, But charming Gumley's lost in Pulteney's wife. Not greater arrogance in him we find, And this conjunction swells at least her mind: Oh could the sire, renown'd in glass, produce One faithful mirror for his daughter's use! Wherein she might her haughty errors trace, And by reflection learn to mend her face: The wonted sweetness to her form restore, Be what she was, and charm mankind once more!

A FAREWELL TO LONDON

IN THE YEAR 1715.

1 Dear, damn'd, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

2 Soft B----s and rough C----s, adieu! Earl Warwick, make your moan, The lively H----k and you May knock up whores alone.

3 To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd Till the third watchman's toll; Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde Save threepence and his soul.

4 Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery On every learned sot; And Garth, the best good Christian he, Although he knows it not.

5 Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go; Farewell, unhappy Tonson! Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe, Lean Philips and fat Johnson.

6 Why should I stay? Both parties rage; My vixen mistress squalls; The wits in envious feuds engage; And Homer (damn him!) calls.

7 The love of arts lies cold and dead In Halifax's urn; And not one Muse of all he fed Has yet the grace to mourn.

8 My friends, by turns, my friends confound, Betray, and are betray'd: Poor Y----r's sold for fifty pounds, And B----ll is a jade.

9 Why make I friendships with the great, When I no favour seek. Or follow girls seven hours in eight?-- I need but once a week.

10 Still idle, with a busy air, Deep whimsies to contrive; The gayest valetudinaire, Most thinking rake alive.

11 Solicitous for others' ends, Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends. And frolic with my foes.

12 Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober studious days! And Burlington's delicious meal, For salads, tarts, and pease!

13 Adieu to all but Gay alone, Whose soul, sincere and free, Loves all mankind, but flatters none, And so may starve with me.

SANDYS' GHOST;[82]

OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.

1 Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit Of books of high renown.

2 Beware of Latin authors all! Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a berlin:

3 For not the desk with silver nails, Nor bureau of expense, Nor standish well japann'd, avails To writing of good sense.

4 Hear how a ghost in dead of night, With saucer eyes of fire, In woeful wise did sore affright A wit and courtly squire.

5 Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! Like puppy tame that uses To fetch and carry, in his mouth, The works of all the Muses.

6 Ah! why did he write poetry, That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity To rhyming and the devil?

7 A desk he had of curious work, With glittering studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk, Though Ovid lay without.

8 Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, Forth popp'd the sprite so thin, And from the keyhole bolted out, All upright as a pin.

9 With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff composed most duly, This squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely.

10 'Ho! Master Sam,' quoth Sandys' sprite, 'Write on, nor let me scare ye! Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right, To Budgell seek, or Carey.

11 'I hear the beat of Jacob's[83] drums, Poor Ovid finds no quarter! See first the merry P----[84] comes In haste without his garter.

12 'Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers: Garth at St James's, and at White's Beats up for volunteers.

13 'What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom Burnet, or Tom D'Urfey may, John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

14 'If Justice Philips' costive head Some frigid rhymes disburses: They shall like Persian tales be read, And glad both babes and nurses.

15 'Let Warwick's Muse with Ashurst join, And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's, Tickell and Addison combine, And Pope translate with Jervas.

16 'L---- himself, that lively lord, Who bows to every lady, Shall join with F---- in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady.

17 '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.

18 'Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, Review them, and tell noses: For to poor Ovid shall befall A strange metamorphosis;

19 'A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour'-- 'To what (quoth squire) shall Ovid change?' Quoth Sandys, 'To waste paper.'

UMBRA.[85]

Close to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's wits, 'Who's here?' cries Umbra: 'Only Johnson.'[86]--'Oh! Your slave,' and exit; but returns with Rowe: 'Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies;' Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment fastens upon Steele; But cries as soon, 'Dear Dick, I must be gone, For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.' Says Addison to Steele, ''Tis time to go:' Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe. Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle, E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.

Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam; Know, sense, like charity, 'begins at home.'

SYLVIA, A FRAGMENT.

Sylvia my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd Awed without sense, and without beauty charm'd: But some odd graces and some flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad: Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes, More pert than witty, more a wit than wise: Good-nature, she declared it, was her scorn, Though 'twas by that alone she could be borne: Affronting all, yet fond of a good name; A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now coy, and studious in no point to fall, Now all agog for D----y at a ball: Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman's in her soul a rake. Frail, feverish sex; their fit now chills, now burns: Atheism and superstition rule by turns; And a mere heathen in the carnal part, Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.

IMPROMPTU TO LADY WINCHELSEA.

OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS, IN 'THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.'

In vain you boast poetic names of yore, And cite those Sapphos we admire no more: Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit; But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ. Of all examples by the world confess'd, I knew Ardelia could not quote the best; Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne, Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own. To write their praise you but in vain essay; E'en while you write, you take that praise away: Light to the stars the sun does thus restore, But shines himself till they are seen no more.

EPIGRAM.

A Bishop, by his neighbours hated, Has cause to wish himself translated: But why should Hough desire translation, Loved and esteem'd by all the nation? Yet, if it be the old man's case, I'll lay my life I know the place: 'Tis where God sent some that adore Him, And whither Enoch went before him.

EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS ABOUT HANDEL AND BONONCINI.

Strange! all this difference should be 'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

ON MRS TOFTS, A CELEBRATED OPERA SINGER.

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along: But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.

THE BALANCE OF EUROPE.

Now Europe balanced, neither side prevails; For nothing's left in either of the scales.

EPITAPH ON LORD CONINGSBY.

Here lies Lord Coningsby--be civil! The rest God knows--perhaps the Devil.

EPIGRAM.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH.

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool: But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

EPITAPH ON GAY.

Well, then, poor G---- lies under ground! So there's an end of honest Jack. So little justice here he found, 'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.

EPIGRAM ON THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB, ANNO 1716.

1 Whence deathless 'Kit-cat' took its name, Few critics can unriddle: Some say from 'pastrycook' it came, And some, from 'cat' and 'fiddle.'

2 From no trim beaux its name it boasts, Gray statesmen, or green wits; But from this pell-mell pack of toasts Of old 'cats' and young 'kits.'

TO A LADY, WITH THE 'TEMPLE OF FAME.'

What's fame with men, by custom of the nation, Is call'd, in women, only reputation: About them both why keep we such a pother? Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other.

ON THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON CUTTING PAPER.

1 Pallas grew vapourish once, and odd; She would not do the least right thing, Either for goddess or for god, Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

2 Jove frown'd, and 'Use (he cried) those eyes So skilful, and those hands so taper; Do something exquisite and wise--' She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

3 This vexing him who gave her birth, Thought by all heaven a burning shame; What does she next, but bids, on earth, Her Burlington do just the same.

4 Pallas, you give yourself strange airs; But sure you'll find it hard to spoil The sense and taste of one that bears The name of Saville and of Boyle.

5 Alas! one bad example shown, How quickly all the sex pursue! See, madam, see the arts o'erthrown Between John Overton and you!

ON DRAWINGS OF THE STATUES OF APOLLO, VENUS, AND HERCULES,

MADE FOR POPE BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

What god, what genius did the pencil move, When Kneller painted these? 'Twas friendship, warm as Phoebus, kind as Love, And strong as Hercules.

ON BENTLEY'S 'MILTON.'

Did Milton's prose, O Charles! thy death defend? A furious foe unconscious proves a friend. On Milton's verse did Bentley comment? Know, A weak officious friend becomes a foe. While he but sought his author's fame to further, The murderous critic has avenged thy murther.

LINES

WRITTEN IN WINDSOR FOREST.

All hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade, Scene of my youthful loves, and happier hours! Where the kind Muses met me as I stray'd, And gently press'd my hand, and said, 'Be ours!-- Take all thou e'er shalt have, a constant Muse: At Court thou mayst be liked, but nothing gain; Stocks thou mayst buy and sell, but always lose; And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.'

TO ERINNA.

Though sprightly Sappho force our love and praise, A softer wonder my pleased soul surveys, The mild Erinna, blushing in her bays. So, while the sun's broad beam yet strikes the sight, All mild appears the moon's more sober light; Serene, in virgin majesty she shines, And, unobserved, the glaring sun declines.

A DIALOGUE.

POPE. Since my old friend is grown so great, As to be Minister of State, I'm told, but 'tis not true, I hope, That Craggs will be ashamed of Pope.

CRAGGS. Alas! if I am such a creature, To grow the worse for growing greater; Why, faith, in spite of all my brags, 'Tis Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.

ODE TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN,

THE MAN MOUNTAIN,[87] BY TITTY TIT, POET-LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH.

In amaze Lost I gaze! Can our eyes Reach thy size! May my lays Swell with praise, Worthy thee! Worthy me! Muse, inspire All thy fire! 10 Bards of old Of him told. When they said Atlas' head Propp'd the skies: See! and believe your eyes!

See him stride Valleys wide, Over woods, Over floods! 20 When he treads, Mountains' heads Groan and shake: Armies quake: Lest his spurn Overturn Man and steed, Troops, take heed! Left and right, Speed your flight! 30 Lest an host Beneath his foot be lost!

Turn'd aside From his hide Safe from wound, Darts rebound. From his nose Clouds he blows: When he speaks, Thunder breaks! 40 When he eats, Famine threats! When he drinks, Neptune shrinks! Nigh thy ear In mid air, On thy hand Let me stand; So shall I, Lofty poet! touch the sky. 50

THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG.

A PASTORAL.

Soon as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care, She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair: No British miss sincerer grief has known, Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown. She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread, And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed; Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall. In peals of thunder now she roars, and now She gently whimpers like a lowing cow: 10 Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears: Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears, Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain, When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.

In vain she search'd each cranny of the house, Each gaping chink impervious to a mouse. 'Was it for this (she cried) with daily care Within thy reach I set the vinegar, And fill'd the cruet with the acid tide, While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied; 20 Where twined the silver eel around thy hook, And all the little monsters of the brook? Sure in that lake he dropp'd; my Grilly's drown'd.' She dragg'd the cruet, but no Grildrig found.

'Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast! But little creatures enterprise the most. Trembling, I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw, Nay, mix with children as they play'd at taw, Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew; Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you! 30