No pleader at the bar could match
His diligence and quick dispatch;
Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast,
Above a term or two at most.
The cringing knave, who feeks a place
Without fuccefs, thus tells his cafe:
Why should he longer mince the matter?
He fail'd, because he could not flatter:
He had not learn'd to turn his coat,
Nor for a party give his vote :
His crime he quickly understood;
Too zealous for the nation's good,
He found, the minifters refent it,
Yet could not for his heart repent it.
The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn,
Though it would raise him to the lawn:
He pafs'd his Hours among his books;
You find it in his meagre looks:
He might, if he were worldly-wife
Preferment get, and fpare his eyes:
But own'd, he had a stubborn spirit,
That made him trust alone in merit:
Would rife by merit to promotion;
Alas! a meer chimerik notion.
The Doctor, if you will believe him,
Confefs'd a fin, and God forgive him:
Call'd up at midnight, ran to fave
A blind old beggar from the grave:
But, fee how Satan fpreads his fnares;
He quite forgot to fay his pray'rs
He cannot help it for his heart,
Sometimes to act the parfon's part;
Quotes from the Bible many a sentence
That moves his patients to repentance:
And, when his med'cines do no good,
Supports their minds with heav'nly food.
At which, however well intended,
He hears the clergy are offended;
And grown fo bold behind his back,
To call him Hypocrite and Quack
In his own church he keeps a feats
Says grace before, and after meat;
And calls, without affecting airs,
His houfhold twice a day to pray'rs.
He fhuns apothecary's shops;
And hates to cram the fick with flops:
He fcorns to make his art a trade;
Nor bribes my Lady's fav'rite maid.
Old nurfe -keepers would never hire
To recommend him to the fquire;
Which others, whom he will not name,
Have often practis'd to their shame.
The Statesman tells you with a fneer,
His fault is to be too fincere ;
And having no finifter ends,
Is apt to difoblige his friends.
The nations's good, his Mafter's glory,
Without regard to Whig or Tory,
Were all the fchemes he had in view;
Yet he was feconded by few;
Though fome had spread a thousand lyes,
'Twas he defeated the excife.
'Twas known, though he had borne afperfion,
That ftanding troops were his averfion:
His practice was, in ev'ry ftation
To ferve the king, and please the nation
Though hard to find in ev'ry cale
The fittest man to fill a place;
His promifes he ne'er forgot,
But took memorials on the fpot:
His enemies, for want of charity,
Said, he affected popularity:
'Tis true, the people understood
That all he did was for their good;
Their kind affections he has try'd;
No love is loft on either fide.
He came to court with fortune clear,
Which now he runs out ev'ry year;
Muft, at the rate that he goes on,.
Inevitably be undone.
Oh! if his Majefty would please
To give him but a writ of eafe,
Would grant him licence to retire,
As it hath long been his defire;
By fair accounts it would be found
He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
He owns, and hopes it is no fin,
He ne'er was partial to his kin;
He thought it bale for men in ftations,
To crowd the court with their relations
His country was his dearest mother,
And ev'ry virtuous man his brother:
Through modefty, or aukward fhame,
(For which he owns himself to blame)
He found the wifeft men he could,
Without refpect to friends, or blood
Nor ever acts on private views
When he hath liberty to chufe.
The Sharper fwore he hated play,
Except to pass an hour away:
And, well he might; for to his coft
By want of fkill, he always loft:
He heard, there was a club of cheats,
Who had contriv'd a thousand feats;
Could change the ftock, or cog a dye
And thus deceive the fharpeft eye:
No wonder how his fortune funk
His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.
I own the moral not exact;
Befides, the tale is false in fact;
And, fo abfurd, that could I raife up
From fields elyzian, fabling Esop,
I would accufe him to his face,
For libelling the four-foot race.
Creatures of ev'ry kind but ours
Well comprehend their natʼral pow'rs:
Swift. While we, whom reafon ought to fway
Miftake our talents ev'ry day:
The ass was never known so stupid
To act the part of tray or cupid;
Nor leaps upon his mafter's lap,
There to be ftroak'd and fed with Pap;
As Efop would the world perfuade;
He better understands his trade :
Nor comes when'er his lady whistles;
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles;
Our author's meaning, I prefume, is
A creature - bipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralift defign'd
A compliment on human kind:
For, here he owns, that now and then
Beafts may degen'rate into men.
(Dr. Edward Young, gebøren 1681, geftorben 1765, ein sehr würdiger englischer Geißtlicher, und als Dichter durch feine, unten anzuführenden, Llachtgedanken am meisten berühmt. Vortrefflich aber in ihrer Art sind auch seine fies ben charakteristischen Satiren auf die Ruhmbegierde, die allgemeine Leidenschaft. Von beiden dichterischen Werken ist die deutsche Uebersehung von Hrn. Hofr. Ebert, mit sehr schägbaren kritischen und erläuternden Anmerkuns gen begleitet, eine sehr vollendete Arbeit von klassischent Werth. Man hat mehrmals den Noungischen Satiren den Vorwurf eines allzu üppigen und verschwendrischen Wiges gemacht, und sie eine fortlaufende Reihe von Epigrammen genannt. Das sollten sie aber, wie Dr. Johnson bemerkt, nach der Absicht ihres Verf. sein, der sich bemühte, auffalTM lende, treffende Distichen, und scharf zugespißte Lehrsprüche zu schreiben; und jene haben volles Gewicht gründlicher Ges danken; diese, alle Schärfe unwiderstehlicher Wahrheit. Die Gattung seiner Satire hålt, nach der Bemerkung eben dies ses einsichtvollen Kunstrichters, zwischen der Horazischen und Juvenalischen das Mittel. Er hat alle Munterkeit des hos: raz, ohne seine metrische Nachläßigkeiten; alle die Moralis tåt Juvenal's, mit einer größern Abwechselung der Bilder:)
What though wit tickles; tickling is unfafe,
If fill 'tis painful, while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as feldom as your fword,
And never on the weak, or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in fmooth oil the razor beft is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set:
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