The man of fenfe his meat devours,
But only fmells the peel and flow'rs;
And he must be an idle dreamer
Who leaves the pie and gnaws the streamer.
That Cupid goes with bow and arrows,
And Venus keeps her coach and fparrows,
Is all but emblem, to acquaint one
The fon is fharp, the mother wanton.
Such images have fometimes fhown
A myftic fenfe, but oft'ner none;
For who conceives what bards devife,
That heav'n is plac'd in Celia's eyes?
Or where's the fenfe, direct and moral,
That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral?
Your Horace owns he various writ,
As wild or fober maggots bit;
And where too much the poet ranted,
The fage philofopher recanted.
His grave Epiftles may disprove
The wanton Odes he made to love.
Lucretius keeps a mighty pother
With Cupid and his fancy'd mother;
Calls her great Queen of earth and air,
Declares that winds and feas obey her,
And, while her honour he rehearses,
Implores her to infpire his verses.
Yet, free from this poetic madness,
Next page he fays, in fober sadness,
That the and all her fellow-gods
Sit idling in their high abodes,
Regardless of this world below,
Our health or hanging, weal or woe,
Nor once disturb their heav'nly fpirits
With Scapin's cheats, or Cæfar's merits.
Nor e'er can Latin poets prove
Where lies the real feat of Love.
Jecur they burn, and oor they pierce,
As either beft fupplies their verfe;
And if folks afk the reafon for't,
Say one was long and th' other short.
Thus I prefume the British Muse
May take the freedom ftrangers ufe.
In profe our property is greater?
Why fhould it then be lefs in metre?
If Cupid throws a fingle dart,
We make him wound the lover's heart;
But if he takes his bow and quiver,
'Tis fure he muft transfix the liver:
For rhyme with reafon may difpenfe,
And found has right to govern fenfe.
But let your friends in verfe fuppofe,
What ne'er shall be allow'd in profe,
Anatomifts can make it clear
The liver minds his own affair,
Kindly fupplies our public ufes,
And parts and ftrains the vital juices,
Still lays fome useful bile afide
To tinge the chyle's infipid tide,
Elfe we fhould want both gibe and fatire,
And all be burst with pure good-nature :
Now gall is bitter with a witnefs,
And love is all delight and fweetness:
My logic then has loft its aim
If fweet and bitter be the fame :
And he methinks is no great fcholar
Who can mistake defire for choler.
The like may of the heart be faid;
Courage and terror there are bred.
All thofe whofe hearts are loofe and low
Start if they hear but the tattoo:
And mighty physical their fear is,
For foon as noife of combat near is,
Their heart, defcending to their breeches,
Muft give their ftomach cruel twitches:
But heroes who o'ercome or die
Have their hearts hung extremely high,
The ftrings of which, in battle's heat,
Against their very corflets beat,
Keep time with their own trumpet's measure,
And yield 'em most exceffive pleasure.
Now, if 'tis chiefly in the heart
That courage does itself exert,
Twill be prodigious hard to prove
That this is eke the throne of Love.
A father, right to get a child?
These notions, then, I think but idle,
And love fhall ftill poffefs the middle.
This truth more plainly to discover,
Suppofe your hero were a lover;
Tho' he before had gall and rage,
Which death or conqueft muft affuage,
He grows difpirited and low,
He hates the fight and fhuns the foe.
In fcornful floth Achilles flept,
And for his wench, like Tallboy, wept,
Nor would return to war and flaughter,
Til they brought back the parfon's daughter.
Antonius fled from Actium's coaft,
Anguftus preffing Afia loft:
His fails by Cupid's hand unfurl'd,
France's Fourth Henry we may fee
A fervant to the fair d'Eftree;
When quitting Coutras' profp'rous field,
And Fortune taught at length to yield,
He, from his guards and midnight tent,
Difguis'd, o'er hills and vallies went,
To wanton with the fprightly dame,
And in his pleasure loft his fame.
Bold is the critic who dares prove
Thefe heroes were no friends to love;
And bolder he who dares aver
That they were enemies to war;
Yet when their thought fhould, now or never,
Have rais'd their heart or fir'd their liver,
Fond Alma to thofe parts was gone
Which Love more juftly calls his own.
Examples I could cite you more,
But be contented with thefe four;
For when one's proofs are aptly chofen,
Four are as valid as four dozen.
One came from Greece, and one from Rome;
OUT fhall we take the Mufe abroad,
B To drop her idly on the road,
And leave our fubject in the middle,'
As Butler did his Bear and Fiddle?
Yet he, confumwate mafter, knew
When to recede and where pursue:
His noble negligence steach
What others toils defpair to reach.
He, perfect dancer, climbs the rope,
And balances your fear and hope.
If, after fome diftinguifh'd leap,
He drops his pole, and feems to flip,
Straight gath'ring all his active strength,
He rifes higher half his length:
With wonder you approve his fleight,
And owe your pleasure to your fright:
But like poor Andrew I advance,
Falfe mimic of my mafter's dance;
Around the cord a while I fprawl,
And thence, tho' low, in earnest fall.
My preface tells you I digrefs'd;
He's half abfolv'd who has confefs'd.
I like, quoth Dick, your fimile,
And in return take two from me.
As mafters in the clare-obfcure
With various light your eyes
allure,
A flaming yellow here they fpread,
Draw off in blue, or change in red;
Yet from these colours oddly mix'd
Your fight upon the whole is fix'd:
Oras, again, your courtly dames
(Whofe clothes returning birthday claims)
By arts improve the stuffs they vary,
And things are beft as moft contrary;
The gown with ftiff embroid'ry fhining,
Looks charming with a flighter lining;
The out, if Indian figure ftain,
The in-fide must be rich and plain :
VO L. II.
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