And then your poor petitioner, both night and Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain day,
Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.
§225. A Description of the Morning. 1709 Nov
ow hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing, shew'd the ruddy morn's ap-
proach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own;
The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!
Now in contiguous drops the food comes
down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
The Templar spruce, while etery spout's
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with har strides, Esides While streams run down her oild umbra's Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dextrous Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs. [airs, Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits, The youth with broomy stumps began to trace While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fit, The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the And ever and anon with frightful din place. [deep, The leather sounds, he trembles from withi The small-coal man was heard with cadence So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden sted, Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep: Duns at his Lordship's gate began to meet, And brick-dust Moll had scream'd through
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, [wings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope:
Such is that sprinkling which some careless
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, sought still for life;
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust, [dust.
"Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be free,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns
Instead of paying chairmen, tan them through
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.
Now from all parts the swelling kennels for
And bear their trophies with them as they
Filth of all hues and odours seem to tell
What street they said from by their sight
smell.
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid för
From Smithfield or St. Pulchre's shape
And, in huge confluence join'd at Snow
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn-br
Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, gis
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, drench'd in mud,
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbli down the flood.
§ 227. On the little House by the Churchof Castlenock. 1710.
WHOEVER pleaseth to enquire
Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
The grey old fellow Poet Joe*
The philosophic cause will show.
Once on a time a western blast
At least twelve inches overcast,
Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all,
Which came with a prodigious fall!
And, tumbling topsy-turvy round,
Lit with its bottom on the ground.
For, by the laws of gravitation.
It fell into its proper station.
This is a little strutting pile
You see just by the church-yard stile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the steeple got a shock
From whence the neighbouring farmer call
The steeple, Knock; the vicar, † Walls,
† Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swit
The vicar once a week creeps in,
Sits with his knee up to his chin;
Here conns his notes and takes a whet,
Till the small ragged flock is met.
A traveller, who by did pass,
Observ'd the roof behind the grass;
On tip-toe stood, and rear'd his snout,
And saw the parson creeping out;
Was much surpris'd to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low.
A school-boy ran unto 't, and thought
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forc'd for safety to alight;
And, stepping o'er the fabric roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof.
Warburton took it in his noddle,
This building was design'd a model
Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.
Then Mrs. Johnson† gave her verdict,
And every one was pleas'd that heard it:
All that you make this stir about,
Is but a still which wants a spout.
The Reverend Dr. Raymond guess'd
More probably than all the rest;
He said, that but it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.
The doctor's family came by,
And little miss began to cry;
Give me that house in my own hand!
Then madam bade the chariot stand;
Call'd to the clerk in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child:
That thing, I mean, among the kale;
And here's to buy a pot of ale.
The clerk said to her, in a heat,
What! sell my master's country seat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not sell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother;
n half an hour thou'lt make another.
Says Nancy, I can make for miss
A finer house ten times than this;
The Dean will give me willow-sticks,
And Joe my apron full of bricks.
$228. The Fable of Midas. 1711. MIDAS, we are in story told,
Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold; He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round Glitter'd like spangles on the ground: A codling, ere it went his lip in, Would straight become a golden-pippin : He cau'd for drink; you saw him sup Potable gold in golden cup: His empty paunch that he might fill, He suck his victuals through a quill; Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders, Or't had been happy for gold-finders: He cock'd his hat, you would have said Mambrino's helm adorn'd his head: . • Dr. Swift's curate at Laracer. + Stella.
Whene'er he chane'd his hands to lay
On magazines of corn or hay,
Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead
Of paltry provender and bread;
Hence by wise farmers we are told,
Old hay is equal to old gold;
And hence a critic deep maintains,
We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains.
This fool had got a lucky hit,
And people fancied he had wit:
Two gods their skill in music tried,
And both chose Midas to decide:
He against Phoebus' harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed:
The god of wit, to shew his grudge,
Clapp'd asses ears upon the judge;
A goodly pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither gild nor hide.
And now the virtue of his hands
Was lost among Pactolus' sands,
Against whose torrent while he swims,
The golden scurf peels off his limbs:
Fame spreads the news, and people travel
From far to gather golden gravel;
Midas expos'd to all their jeers,
Had lost his art, and kept his ears.
This tale inclines the gentle reader
To think upon a certain leader;
To whom from Midas down descends
That virtue in the fingers' ends.
What else by perquisites are meant,
By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.
By places and commissions sold,
And turning dung itself to gold?
By starving in the midst of store,
As t' other Midas did before?
None e'er did modern Midas choose
Subject or patron of his muse,
But found him thus their merit scan,
That Phoebus must give place to Pan:
He values not the poet's praise,
Nor will exchange his plums for bays:
To Pan alone rich misers call;
And there's the jest, for Pan is all.
Here English wits will be to seek;
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.
Besides, it plainly now appears
Our Midas too hath asses cais;
Where every fool his mouth applies,
And whispers in a thousand lies;
Such gross delusions could not pass
Through any ears but of an ass.
But gold defiles with frequent touch; There's nothing fouls the hands so much: And scholars give it for the cause Of British Midas' dirty paws; Which while the senate strove to scour, They wash'd away the chemic pow'r. While he his utmost strength applied To swim against this poplar tide, The golden spoils flew off apace: Here fell a pension, there a place: The torrent merciless imbibes Commissions, perquisites, and bribes,
Minister of Trim. The waiting-woman.
By their own weight sunk to the bottom;
Much good may do them that have caught 'em!
And Midas now neglected stands,
With asses ears and dirty hands.
§ 229. A Dialogue between a Member of Par-
liament and his Servant. In Imitation of
Horace, Sat. II. vii. First printed in 1752
Serv.
LONG have I heard your fav`rite theme,
A general reformation-scheme,
To keep the poor from every sin,
From gaming, murther, and from gin.
And now I have no less an itch
To venture to reform the rich,
Mem. What, John! are you too turn'd pro-
jector?
Come then, for once I'll hear your lecture.
For since a member, as 'tis said,
His projects to his servants read,
And of a favourite speech a book made,
With which he tir'd each night a cook-maid:
And so it hapt that every morning
The tasteless creatures gave him warning:
Since thus we use them, 'tis but reason
We hear our servants in their season.
Serv. To you, who every day profess
T' admire the times of good Queen Bess,
But yet your heart sincerer praise
Bestows on these or Charles's days:
You still approve some absent place-
And, such your special inconsistence,
(The present's ever in disgrace!)
Make the chief merit in the distance.
If e'er you miss a supper card
(Thought all the while you think it hard,)
You're all for solitude and quiet,
Good hours and vegetable diet,
Reflection, air, and elbow-room:
No prison like a crowded drum.
But, should you meet her grace's summons,
In full committee of the Commons,
Though well you know her crowded house
Will scarce contain another mouse,
You quit the business of the nation,
And brethren of the Reformation;
Though begs you'll stay and vote,
And zealous tears your coat,
You damn your coachman, storm and stare.
And tear your throat to call a chair.
Nay, never frown, and good-now hold
Your hand awhile; I've been so bold
Begin. Serv. Like gamblers, half mankindTo paint your follies; now I'm in,
Persist in constant vice combin'd;
In races, routs, the stews, and White's,
Pass all their days and all their nights.
Others again, like Lady Prue,
Who gives the morning church its due,
At noon is painted, drest, and curl'd,
And one amongst the wicked world;
Keeps her account exactly even,
As thus: "Prue, creditor to heaven:
To sermons heard on extra-days.
"Debtor: To masquerade and plays.
"Item: to Whitfield, half an hour:
"Per contra: To the Colonel, four.“
Others, I say, pass half their time
In folly, idleness, or crime:
Then all at once their zeal grows warm,
And every throat resounds, reform.
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A Lord his youth in every vice
Indulg'd, but chiefin drabs and dice,
Till worn by age, disease, and gout,
Then nature modestly gave out.
Not so my Lord who still, by proxy,
Play'd with his darling dice and doxy.
I laud this constant wretch's state,
And pity all who fluctuate;
Prefer this slave to dear back-gammon,
To those who serve both God and inammon;
To those who take such pains to awe
The nation's vices by the law,
Yet, while they draw their bills so ample,
Neglect the influence of example.
Memb. To whom d' ye preach this senseless
Serv. To you, good Sir. Memb. To me, ye vermin!
The celebrated Orator of Clare Market.
Let's have a word or two on sin.
Last night I heard a learned poult'rer
Lay down the law against th' adulterer:
And let me tell you, Sir, that few
Hear better doctrine in a pew.
Well! you may laugh at Robin Hood:
I wish your studies were as good.
From Mandeville you take your morals;
Your faith from controversial quarrels;
But ever lean to those who scribble
Their crudities against the Bible;
Yet tell me I shall crack my brain
With hearing Henley or Romainę.
Deserves that critic most rebuke
In judging on the Pentateuch,
Who deems it, with some wild fanaties,
The only school of mathematics?
Or he, who, making grave profession,
To lay aside all prepossession,
Calls it a bookseller's edition
Of maim'd records and vagne tradition?
You covet, Sir, your neighbour's goods:
I take a piece at Peter Wood's: †
And when I've turn'd my back upon her,
Unwounded in my heart or honour,
I feel nor infamous, nor jealous
Of richer culls, or prettier fellows.
But you, the grave and sage reformer,
Must go by stealth to meet your chariner;
Must change your star and every note
Of honour for a bear-skin coat.
That legislative head so wise
Must stoop to base and mean disguise.
Some Abigail must then receive you,
Brib'd by the husband to deceive you.
This worthy a few years before fell under the displeasure of the mob, who broke into his house, near St. Clement's, and burnt all his furniture, which they threw into the strce:.
She spies Cornuto on the stairs:
Wakes you; then, melted by your prayers,
Yields, if with greater bribe you ask it,
To pack your worship in the basket.
Laid neck-and heels, true Falstaff-fashion;
There form new schemes of reformation.
Thus 'scap'd the murdering husband's fury,
Or thumping fine of cuckold jury;
Henceforth, in memory of your danger,
You'll live to all intrigues a stranger.
No; ere you've time for this reflection,
Some new debauch is in projection;
And, for the next approaching night,
Contrivance for another fright.
This makes you, though so great, so grave,
(Nay! wonder not), an abject slave;
As much a slave as I; nay, more;
I serve one master, you a score,
And, as your various passions rule, By turns are twenty tyrants' fool.
Those who † contribute to the tax On tea, and chocolate, and wax, With high ragouts their blood inflame, And nauseate what they eat for fame; Of these the Houses take no knowledge, But leave them fairly to the College. Oh! ever prosper their endeavours To aid your dropsies, gouts, and fevers! Can it be deem'd a shame or sin To pawn my livery for gin;
While bonds and mortgages at White's
Shall raise your fame with Arthur's knights?
Those worthies seem to see no shame in,
Nor strive to pass a slur on gaming;
But rather to devise each session
Some law in honour o' th' profession;
Lest sordid hands or vulgar place
The noble mystery should debase;
Lest ragged scoundrels, in an alehouse,
Should chalk their cheatings on the bellows ;
Memb. Who then is free? Serv. The wise Or boys the sacred rites profane
Who only bows to reason's throne;
Whom neither want, nor death, nor chains, Nor subtle persecutor's pains,
Nor honours, wealth, nor lust, can move
From virtue and his country's love.
Self-guarded like a globe of steel,
External insults can he feel?
Or ere present one weaker part
To Fortune's most insidious dart ?
Much-honour'd master, may you find
These wholesome symptoms in your mind!
Can you be free while passions rule you?
While women every moment fool you?
While forty mad capricious whores
Invite, then turn you out of doors;
Of every doit contrive to trick you,
Then bid their happier footman kick you ?
Convinc'd by every new disaster
You serve a more despotic master;
Say, can your pride or folly see
Such difference 'twixt yourself and me?
Shall you be struck with Titian's tints,
And mayn't I stop to stare at prints ?
Dispos'd along th' extensive glass,
They catch and hold me ere I pass.
Where Slack is made to box with Broughton,
I see the very stage they fought on:
The bruisers live, and move, and bleed,
As if they fought in very deed.
Yet I'm a loiterer, to be sure;
You a great judge and connoisseur.
Shall you prolong the midnight ball
With costly banquet at Vauxhall;
And yet prohibit earlier suppers
At Kilbourn, Sadler's-wells, or Cuper's ? •
Are these less innocent in fact,
Or only made so by the act?
With orange-barrows in a lane.
Where lies the merit of your labours
To curb the follies of your neighbours ;
Deter the gambler, and prevent his
Confederate arts to gull the 'prentice;
Unless you could yourself desist
From hazard, faro, brag, and whist?
Unless your philosophic mind
Can from within amusement find,
And give at once to use and pleasure
That truly precious time, your leisure?
In vain your busy thoughts prepare
Deceitful sepulchres of care:
The downy couch, the sparkling bowl,
And all that lulls or sooths the soul-
Memb. Where is my cane, my whip, my
hanger?
I'll teach you to provoke my anger.
Serv. Heyday! my master's brain is crackt! Or else he's making some new act.
Memb. To set such rogues as you to work, Perhaps, or send you to the Turk. I
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Places of entertainment at that time. Two of them have been since shut up.
It was urged in the petitions of some of the houses of public entertainment, that the suppres sion of them might greatly diminish the duties on tea, chocolate, a d wax-lights.
I Among the many projects for the punishment of rogues, it has been frequently proposed to send them in exchange for English slaves in Algiers.
"Were there the least regard for merit !—
"The rich in purse are poor in spirit.
"You know Sir Pagode' (here I'll give ye
"A front I've drawn him for a privy)—
"This winter, Sir, as I'm a sinner,
"He has not ask'd me once to dinner."
Quite overpower d with this intrusion,
I stood in silence and confusion.
He took the advantage, and pursu'd:
"Perhaps, Sir, you may think me rude;
"But sure I may suppose my talk
"Will less disturb you while you walk.
"And yet I now may spoil a thought:
"But that's indeed a venial fault:-
"I only mean to such, d'ye see,
"Who write with ease like you and me.
"I write a sounet in a minute:
Egad, I'm puzzled what to do,
"To save him will be losing you:
"Yet we must save him if we can,
For he's a staunch one, a DEAD MAN."
By your account he's SO indeed,
Unless you make some better speed.
This moment fly to save your friend—
Or else prepare him for his end.
Upon my soul, there's nothing in it. "Bat you to all your friends are partial : "You reckon *** another Martial"He'd think a fortnight well bestow'd To write an epigram or ode. *****'s no poet to my knowledge; "I knew him very well at college: "I've writ more verses in an hour "Than he could ever do in four. "You'll find me better worth your knowing-I "But tell me; which way are you going?"
What various tumults swell'd my breast, With passion, shame, disgust opprest! This courtship from my Brother Poet! Sure no similitude can show it: Not young Adonis when pursu'd By amorous antiquated prude; Nor Gulliver's distressful face, When in the Yahoo's loath'd embrace. In rage, confusion, and dismay, Not knowing what to do or say; And, having no resource but lyingA friend at Lambeth lies a-dying"Lambeth!" (he re-assumes his talk) "Across the bridge-the finest walk. "Don't you admire the Chinese bridges, "That wave in furrows and in ridges? "They've finish'd such an one at Hampton :
'Faith, 'twas a plan I never dreamt on"The prettiest thing that e'er was seen"Tis printed in the Magazine.-"
This wild farrago who could bear?
Sometimes I run; then stop and stare:
Vex'd and tormented to the quick,
By turns grow choleric and sick;
And glare my eye, and shew the white,
Like vicious horses when they bite.
Regardless of my eye or ear,
His jargon he renews." D'ye hear
"Who 'twas compos'd the taylor's dance ?
"I practis'd fifteen months in France.
"I wrote a play-'twas done iu haste-
"I know the present want of taste,
"And dare not trust it on the town-
"No tragedy will e'er go down.
• A cant term for a sure vote.
Hang him, he's but a single vote;
"I wish the halter round his throat.
"To Lambeth I attend you, Sir"
Upon my soul! you shall not stir:
Preserve your voter from the gallows:
Can human nature be so callous ?
So negligent when life's at stake?
"I'd hang a hundred for your sake."
wish you'd do as much by me—
Or any thing to set me free.
Deaf to my words, he talks along
Still louder than the buzzing throng.
"Are you, he cries, as well as ever
"With Lady Grace? she's vastly clever!"
Her merit all the world declare :
Few, very few, her friendship share.
"If you'd contrive to introduce "Your friend here, you might find an useSir, in that house there's no such doing, And the attempt would be one's ruin. No art, no project, no designing, No rivalship, and no outshining.
"Indeed! you make me long the more "To get admittance. Is the door "Kept by so rude, so hard a clown, "As will not melt at half-a-crown? "Can't I cajole the female tribe, "And gain her woman with a bribe? "Refus'd to-day, suck up my sorrow, "And take my chance again to-morrow? "Is there no shell-work to be seen, "Or Chinese chair or Indian screen? "6 No cockatoo nor marmozet,
Lap-dog, gold-fish, nor paroquet? "No French embroidery on a quilt? And no bow-window to be built? "Can't I contrive, at times, to meet My lady in the park or street? "At opera, play, or morning prayer, To hand her to her coach or chair?" But now his voice, though late so loud, Was lost in the contentious crowd Of fish-wives newly corporate, A colony from Billingsgate.
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