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Settled on him, and his heirs male; 8
So the young squire, when first he comes
From country school to Will's or Tom's:"
And equally, in truth is fit
To be a statesman or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down;
Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad;
Admits him in among the gang;
They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smeared with the colours which they lend him. 20
Thus merely, as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.
If haply he the sect pursues,
That read and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face:
He drinks his coffee without lace.
This week his mimic-tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before:
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight. 30
Or if it be his fate to meet
With folks who have more wealth than wit;
He loves cheap port, and double bub,
And settles in the hum-drum club:
He learns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation;
And says that learning spoils a nation.
But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits, 40
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses; 41
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair; prescribes the law;
And lies with those he never saw.
SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair
(At Bartholomew he did not much appear:
So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)
At Southwark therefore as his tricks he showed,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd;
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held:
His left was with a good black pudding filled.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage;
Why how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll, 10.
To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull:
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak:
Your emble—(what d'ye call't')—is heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was, which thou art now;
Desirous to correct, not knowing how:
With very good design, but little wit, 20
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit.
I for this conduct had what I deserved;
And dealing honestly, was almost starved.
Dut, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey, and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.— 28
Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.—
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much; think little; and talk less;
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate stopped his coach and six,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks.
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.
DEAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tin-man's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
(Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top?—
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs: 10
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades,
In noble songs, and lofty odes,
They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low. 20
SAY, sire of insects, mighty Sol
(A Fly upon the chariot pole
Cries out), what Blue-bottle alive
Did ever with such fury drive?
Tell Beelzebub, great father, tell,
(Says tother, perched upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal Fly
Raise such a cloud of dust as Il
My judgment turned the whole debate:
My valour saved the sinking state. 10
So talk two idle buzzing things;
Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings.
But let the truth to light be brought:
This neither spoke, nor t'other fought;
No merit in their own behaviour:
Both raised, but by their party's favour.
GREAT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire,
By native heat asserts his dreadful sire.
Nourished near shady rills and cooling streams,
He to the nymphs avows his amorous flames.
To all the brethren at the Bell and Vine,
The moral says; mix water with your wine.
FRANK carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats:
He eats more than six, and drinks more than he eats.
Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes,
And seasons his whifts with impertinent jokes.
Yet sighing, he says, we must certainly break;
And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak;
For of late I invite him—but four times a week.
To John I owed great obligation;
But John unhappily thought fit
To publish it to all the nation:
Sure John and I are more than quit.
YES, every poet is a fool:
By demonstration Ned can show it;
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.
Thy nags (the leanest things alive),
So very hard thou lovest to drive;
I heard thy anxious coachman say,
It cost thee more in whips than hay.
TO A PERSON WHO WROTE ILL, AND SPOKE WORSE AGAINST ME. 1 LIE, Philo, untouched on my peaceable shelf; Nor take it amiss, that so little I heed thee: I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself: "
Then why should I answer, since first I must read thee?
2 Drunk with Helicon's waters and double brewed bub,
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the solid delight of thy well-judging club;
To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.