תמונות בעמוד

And struts as much in ready light,
Which credit gives him upon fight,
As if the rainbow were in tail
Settled on him and his heirs male ;
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 faunters 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,
Smear'd with the colours which they lend him.

Thus, merely as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.

If haply he the feet 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.

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 champaign among the wits;
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses ;
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 Bartholmew he did not much appear,
So péevish was the edict of the mayor);
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
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 fill'd.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage.
Why how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll;
Today's conceit, methinks, is something dull: .
Come on, fir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew, Honest English let us speak :

our 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,
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit.
I for this conduct had what I deserv'd;
And, dealing honestly, was almost starv'd.
But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat ;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
0, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey, and thou control ;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.
Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.
Be of your patron's mind, włiate'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 stopt his coach and fix,
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.

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EAR Thomas, didst thou never pop

Thy head into a tinman'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 turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells at top ?-

Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs :
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 song, and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods ;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.


C A Y, fire of infects, 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 t'other, perch'd upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal Ay
Raise such a cloud of dust as I?

My judgment turn’d the whole debate:
My valour fav’d the finking state.
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 rais’d, but by their party's favour.


TN grey-hair’d Celia’s wither'd arms

As mighty Lewis lay,
She cry’d, “ If I have any charms,

My dearest, let's away!
For you, my love, is all my fear,

Hark how the drums do rattle ;
Alas, fir! what should you do here

In dreadful day of battle ?
Let little Orange stay and fight,

For danger's his diversion ;
The wise will think you in the right,

Not to expose your person :
Nor vex your thoughts how to repair

The ruins of your glory:
You ought to leave so mean a care

To those who pen your story.
Are not Boileau and Corneille paid

For panegyrick writing ?
They know how heroes may be made,

Without the help of fighting.


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