And ftruts 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 'fquire, when firft 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 fome acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad,
Admits him in among the gang;
They jeft, 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 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 wifdom fets 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 fettles in the Hum-drum club:
He learns how ftocks will fall or rife;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of converfation;
And fays that learning spoils a nation.
But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champaign among the wits;
Five deep he toafts the towering laffes;
Repeats you verses wrote on glaffes;
Is in the chair; prefcribes the law;
And lies with those he never faw.
LY Merry Andrew, the laft Southwark fair (At Barthol'mew he did not much appear, So peevish was the edict of the mayor);
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he fhow'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;
To-day's conceit, methinks, is fomething dull:
Come on, fir, 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 haft no pretence :
Learning thy talent is, but mine is fenfe.
That bufy fool I was, which thou art now;
Defirous to correct, not knowing how;
With very good defign, but little wit,
Blaming or praifing things, as I thought fit.
I for this conduct had what I deferv'd;
And, dealing honeftly, was almoft ftarv'd.
But, thanks to my indulgent ftars, I eat;
Since I have found the fecret to be great.
O, deareft Andrew, fays the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey, and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.-
Bow then, fays Andrew; and, for once, I will.-
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he fays;
Sleep very much; think little; and talk lefs:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong;
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate ftopt 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.
EAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of fimile)
A fquirrel fpend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage;
The cage, as either fide 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' fhades.
In noble fong, and lofty odes,
They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleas'd with their own verfes' found;
Brought back, how faft foe'er they go,.
Always afpiring, always low.
AY, fire of infects, mighty Sol,
(A fly upon the chariot-pole
Cries out) what blue-bottle alive
Did ever with fuch fury drive?
Tell, Beelzebub, great father, tell,
(Says t'other, perch'd upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal fly
Raife fuch a cloud of duft as I?
My judgment turn'd the whole debate: My valour fav'd the finking state.
So talk two idle buzzing things;
Tofs up their heads, and ftretch 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.
PARAPHRASE FROM THE FRENCH.
'N grey-hair'd Celia's wither'd arms
As mighty Lewis lay,
She cry'd, "If I have any charms,
My deareft, 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 diverfion;
The wife will think you in the right,
Not to expofe 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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