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‘Is this the thing,” you cry, “that Paris boasts?
Is this the thing renown'd among our toasts?
For such a fluttering sight we need not roam;
Our own assemblies shine with these at home.”
Let us into the field of beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warm'd my heart,
Think not, ye fair, that I the sex accuse:
How shall I spare you, prompted by the Muse?
(The Muses all are prudes 1) She rails, she frets,
Amidst this sprightly nation of coquettes:
Yet let not us their loose coquetry blame;
Women of every nation are the same.
You ask me, if Parisian danies, like ours,
With rattling dice prophane the Sunday's hours;
If they the gamester's pale-ey'd vigils keep,
And stake their honour while their husbands
sleep?
Yes, sir; like Fnglish toasts, the dames of France
Will risque their income on a single chance.
Nannette last night a tricking pharaon play'd,
The cards the Taillier's sliding hand obey'd :
To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.
Why does old Chloris an assembly hold 2
Chloris each might divides the sharper's gold.
Corinna's cheek with frequent losses burns,
And no bold Trente le va her fortune turns.
Ah, too rash virgin' where's thy virtue flown
She pawns her person for the sharper's loan.
Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid,
Whose debts of honour are so duly paid 2
But let me not forget the toilette's cares,
Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs:
This red's too pale, nor gives a distant grace;
Madame to-day puts on her opera face;
From this we scarce extract the milk-maid's bloom:
Bring the deep dye that warms across the room:
Now flames her cheek, so strong her charms pre-
vail,
That on her gown the silken rose looks pale'
Not but that France some native beauty boasts,
Clermont and Charolois might grace our toasts.
When the sweet-breathing Spring unfolds the buds,
Love flies the dusty town for shady woods.
Then Tottenham fields with roving beauty swarm,
And Hampstead balls the city virgin warm
Then Chelsea's meads o'erhear perfidious vows,
And the prest grass defrauds the grazing cows.
'Tis here the same, but in a higher sphere,
For ev'n court-ladies sin in open air.
What cit with a gallant would trust his spouse
Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs?
What peer of France would let his dutchess rove,
Where Boulogne's closest woods invite to love?
Ruthere no wife can blast her husband's fame,
Cuckold is grown an honourable name.
Stretch'd on the grass, the shepherd sighs his pain;
And on the grass what shepherd sighs in vain?
On Chloe's lap here Damon, laid along,
Melts with the languish of her amorous song;
There Iris flies Palaemon through the glade,
Nor trips by chance—till in the thickest shade;
Here Celimene defends her lips and breast,
For kisses are by struggling closer prest:
Alexis there with eager flame grows bold,
Nor can the nymph his wanton fingers hold:
He wise, Alexis; what, so near the road
Hark, a coach rolls, and husbands are abroad 1
Such were our pleasures in the days of yore,
When amorous Charles Britannia's sceptre bore;

The nightly scene of joy the Park was made,
And Love in couples peopled every shade.
But, since at court the rural taste is lost,
What mighty sums have velvet couches cost!
Sometimes the Tuilleries' gaudy walk I love,
Where I through crowds of rustling mantuas
rove. -
As here from side to side my eyes I cast,
And gaz'd on all the glittering train that past,
Sudden a fop steps forth before the rest;
I knew the bold embroidery of his vest.
He thus accosts me with familiar air,
“Parbleu ! on a fait cet habit en Angleterre'
Quelle manche ce galonest grossièrement rangé;
Voila quelque chose de fort beau et degagé !”
This said : on his red he l he turns, and then
Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds again:
“Well; now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly
town
Your boasted London seems a country town.
Has Christianity yet reach'd your nation 2
Are churches built? Are masquerades in fashion?
Do daily soups your dinners introduce?
Are music, snuff, and coaches, yet in use 2"
“Pardon me, sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather politesse from courts abroad.
Like you, our courtiers keep a numerous train
To lead their coach, and tradesmen dun in vain.
Nor has religion left us in the lurch ;
And, as in France, our vulgar crowd the church :
Our ladies too support the masquerade;
The sex by nature love th' intriguing trade.”
Straight the vain fop in ignorant raptures cries,
“ Paris the barbarous world will civilize '''
“Pray, sir, point out among the passing band
The present beauties who the town command ”
“See youder dame; strict virtue chills her breast,
Mark in her eye demure the prude profest;
That frozen bosom native fire must want,
Which boasts of constancy to one gallaut!
This next the spoils of fifty lovers wears,
Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears;
The necklace Florio's generous flame bestow'd,
Clitander's sparkling gems her finger load;
But now her charms grow cheap by constant use,
She sins for scarfs, clock'd-stockings, knots, and
shoes.
This next, with sober gait and serious leer,
Wearies her knees with morn and evening prayer;
She scorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages,
But with three abbots in one night engages.
This with the cardinal her nights employs,
Where holy sinews consecrate her joys.
Why have I promis'd things beyond my power?
Five assignations wait me at this hour !
The sprightly cou tess first my visit claims,
To-morrow shall indulge inferior dames.
Fardon ine, sir, that thus I take my leave;
Gay Florimella slily twitch'd my sleeve.”
“Adieu, Monsieur!”—The opera hour draws near.
Not see the opera ! all the world is there ;
Where on the stage th' embroider'd youth of
France
In bright array attract the female glance;
This languishes, this struts, to show his inien,
And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen.
But hark! the full orchestra strike the strings,
The hero struts, and the whole audience sings.
Myjarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarse and coufus'd, like Babel's uningled sound.

Hard chance had plac'd me near a noisy throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd every note.
“ Pray, sir,” says I, “suspend awhile your song;
The opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous
strong ;
I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain,
While he with rooted forests strows the plain.”
Sudden he shrugs surprise, and answers quick,
“ Monsieur apparement n'aime pas la musique!”
Then turning round, he join'd th’ ungrateful noise:
And the loud chorus thunder'd with his voice.
O soothe me with some soft Italian air,
Let harmony compose my tortur'd ear!
When Anastasia's voice countmands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through every vein;
Thought stands suspense, and Silence pleas'd at-
tends,
While in her notes the heavenly choir descends.
But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So strongly with this prejudice possest,
He thinks French music and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some scraping fiddler of their ball he quotes;
Talk of the spirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives;
“Yes, sir,” says he, “in colour and design,
Rigaut and Raphael are extremely fine!”
'Tis true his country's love transports his breast
With warmer zeal than your old Greeks profest.
Ulysses lov'd his Ithaca of yore,
Yet that sage traveller left his native shore.
What stronger virtuo in the Frenchman shines !
He to dear Paris all his life confines.
I'm not so fond. There are, I must confess,
Things which might make me love my country less.
I should not think my Britain had such charins,
If lost to learnino, if enslav’d by arms.
France has her Richlieus and her Colberts known;
And then, I grant it, France in science shone.
We too, I own, without such aids may chance
In ignorance and pride to rival France.
But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's strong sense, and Moliere's humorous
scene.
Let Cambray's name be sung above the rest,
Whose maxims, Pulteney, warm thy patriot breast;
In Mentor's precepts wisdom strong and clear
Dictates sublime, and distant nations hear.
Hear, all ye princes, who the world control,
What cares, what terrours, haunt the tyrant's soul;
His constant train are, Anger, Fear, Distrust.
To be a king, is to be good and just ;
His people he protects, their rights he saves,
And scorns to rule a wretched race of slaves.
Happy, thrice happy, shall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws despotic power restrain
There shall the ploughshare break the stubborn
land,
And bending harvest tire the peasant's hand:
There Liberty her settled mansion boasts,
There Commerce plenty brings from foreign coasts.
O Britain guard thy laws, thy rights defend :
So shall these blessings to thy sons descend!
You'll think 'tis time some other thcine to choose,
And not with beaux and fops fatigue the Muse:
Should I let satire loose on Fnglish ground,
There fools of various character abound ;
But here my verse is to one race consin'd,
All Frenchmen are of petit-maitre kind.

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To The Richt now. PAUL MFTHUEN, ESQ'. That 'tis encouragement makes science spread, Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often said. When Learning droops and sickens in the land, What patron's found, to lend a saving hand? True generous spirits prosperous Vice detest, And love to cherish Virtue when distrest: But, ere our mighty lords this scheme pursue, Our mighty lords must think and act like you. Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's sides, To find the seat where Harmony resides - | Why touch we not so soft the silver lute, The cheerful hautboy, and the mellow flute * | 'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the sound; But there the patrons of her sons are found. Why flourish’d verse in great Augustus' reign? He and Maccenas lov'd the Muse's strain. But now that wight in poverty must mourn Who was (O cruel stars 1) a poet born. Yet there are ways for authors to be great; Write rancorous libels to reform the state: Or, if you choose more sure and ready ways, Spatter a minister with fulsone praise : Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough; Fear not—all men are dedication proof. Be bolder yet, you must go farther still, Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill. He, who his pen in party-quarrels draws, Lists an hir'd bravo to support the cause; i He must indulge his patron's hate and spleen, And stab the faune of those he ne'er had seen. Why then should authors unourn their desperate Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.[case? Why art thou poor? Fxert the gifts to rise. And banish timorous virtue from thy eyes. All this seems modern preface, where we're told That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold: Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar, And fancy learning starves because they're poor. Yet why should learning hope success at court? Why should our patriots virtue's cause support? Why to true merit should they have regard 2 They know that virtue is its own reward. Yet let not me of grievances complain, Who (though the uneanest of the Muses' train) Can boast subscriptions to Iny humble lays, Aud mingle profit with my little praise. Ask Painting, why she loves Hesperian air? “Go view,” she cries, “my glorious labours there; There in rich palaces I reign in state, And on the temples lofty domes create. The nobles view iny works with knowing eyes, They love the science, and the painter prize.” Why didst thou, Kent, forego thy native land, To emulate in picture Raphael's hand 2 Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home 2 Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome; There on the walls let thy just labours shine, And Raphael live again in thy design. Yet stay awhile ; call all thy genius forth, For Burlington urbi iss'd knows thy worth; His judgment in thy naster-strok's can trace Titian's strong fire, aud Guido's softer grace. But, oh! consider, cre thy works appear, Canst thou unhurt the tongue of Fnvy hear?

* Afterwards sir Paul, k. B.

Censure will blame; her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows, are condemn'd bw passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandos with a liberal hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.
Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page,
Dennis had never kindled into rage,
*Tis the sublime that hurts the critic's ease ;
Write nonsense, and he reads and sleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift, and Pope, unknown,
Poor slander-selling Curll would be undo e.
He, who would free from malice pass his days,
Must live obscure, and never merit praise,
But let this tale to valiant Virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.
A Crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain,
Just as a Lark, descending, clos'd his strain.
The Crow bespoke him thus, with solemn grace:
“ Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race!
What force of lungs' how clear ! how sweet you
And no bird soars upon a stronger wing,” [sing
The Lark, who scorn'd soft flattery, thus replies:
“True I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My song confines me to the wiry cage,
My flight provokes the falcon's fatal rage.
But, as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
“To shoot at crows is powder flung away.”

Eristi.r. v.

TO HER GRACE HENRIETTA, DUTCHESS
OF MARLBOROUGH.

1722.

Excuse me, madam, if, amidst your tears,
A Muse intrudes, a Muse who feels your cares;
Numbers, like music, can ev'n grief control,
And lull to peace the tumults of the soul.
If partners in our woes the mind relieve,
Consider for your loss ten thousands grieve;
Th’ affliction burthens not your heart alone;
When Marlborough died, a nation gave a groan.
Could I recite the dangerous toils he chose,
To bless his country with a fix' repose;
Could I recount the labours he o'ercame,
*To raise his country to the pitch of fame;
His councils, sieges, his victorious fights,
To save his country's laws and native rights;
No father (every generous heart must own)
Has stronger foudness to his darling shown.
Britannia's sighs a double loss deplore,
Her father and her hero is no more.
Does Britain only pay her debt of tears ”
Yes. Holland sighs, and for her freedom fears.
when Gallia's monarch pour'd his wasteful bands,
Like a wide desuge, o'er her level lands,
She saw her frontier towers in ruin lie,
Ev’n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly:
Then Marlborough came, defeated Gallia fled;
And shatter'd fielgia rais'd her languid head;
In him secure, as in her strongest mound
That keeps the raging sea within its bound.
O Germany' remember Hockstet's plain,
Where prostrate Galliabled at every vein:

Think on the rescue of th' imperial throne,
Then think of Marlborough's death without a
Apollo kindly whispers me: “Be wise: [groan?
How to his glory shall thy numbers rise?
The force of verse another theme might raise,
But here the merit must transcend the praise.
Hast thou, presumptuous hard' that godlike flame,
Which with the Sun shall last, and Marlborough's
fame 2
Then sing the man. But who can boast this fire?
Resign the task, and silently admire.”
Yet shall he not in worthy lays be read?
Raise Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
But he requires not the strong glare of verse :
Let punctual history his deeds rehearse;
Let truth in native purity appear,
You'll find Achilles and Eneas there.
Is this the comfort which the Muse bestows?
I but indulge and aggravate your woes.
A prudent friend, who seeks to give relief,
Ne'er touches on the spring that mov'd the grief.
Is it not barbarous, to the sighing maid
To mention broken vows and nymphs betray'do
Would you the ruin'd merchant's soul appease,
With talk of sands, and rocks, and stormy seas *
Ev’n while I strive on Marlborough's fame to rise,
I call up sorrow in a daughter's eyes.
Think on the laurels that his temples shade,
Laurels that (spite of Time) shall never fade.
Immortal Honour has enroll'd his name;
Detraction's dumb, and Envy put to shame.
Say, who can soar beyond his eagle flight;
Has he not reach'd to glory's utmost height 2
What could he more, had Heav'n prolong'd his
All human power is limited by Fate. [date 2
Fornear. 'I is cruel further to commend;
I wake your sorrow, and again offend.
Yet sure your goodness must forgive a crime,
Which will be spread through every age and clime;
Though in vour life ten thousand summers roll,
And though you compass Farth from pole to pole,
Where'er men talk of war and martial fame,
They'll mention Marlborough's and Caesar's name.
But vain are all the counsels of the Muse;
A soul like yours could not a tear refuse:
Could you your birth and filia; love forego,
Still sighs must rise, and generous sorrow flow ;
For, when from Earth such matchless worth re-
A great mind suffers. Virtue virtue loves. [moves,

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Arbuthnot there I see, in physic's art,
As Galen learn'd, or famed Hippocrate;
Whose company drives sorrow from the heart,
As all disease his med'cines dissipate:
Kneller amid the triumph bears his part",
Who could (were mankind lost) anew create :
What can th’ extent of his vast soul confine 2
A painter, critic, engineer, divine !

Thee Jervas hails, robust and debonair,
“Now have [we] conquer'd Homer, friends!”
he cries:
Darteneuf, grave joker, joyous Ford is there”,
And wondering Maine, so fat with laughing eyes,
(Gay, Maine, and Cheney, boom companions dear,
Gay fat, Maine fatter, Cheney huge of size)
Yea Dennis, Gildon, (hearing thou hast riches)
And honest, hatless Cromwell, with red breeches.

O Wanley' whence.com'st thou with shorten’d hair,
And visage from thy shelves with dust besprent";
“Forsooth,” quoth he, “from placing Holmer there,
For ancients to compyle is myne entente :
Of ancients only hath lord Harley care;
But hither me hath my meeke lady sent:-
In manuscript of Greeke rede we thilke same,
But book yprint best plcsyth myn gude dame.”

Yonder I see, among th' expecting crowd,
Fvans with laugh jocose, and tragic Young ;
High-buskin'd Booth, grave Mawbert, wandering
Frowde,
And Titcomb's belly waddles slow along".
See Digby faints at Southern talking loud,
Yea, Steele and Tickell mingle in the throng:
Tickell, whose skiff (in partnership, they say")
Set forth for Greece, but founder'd in the way.

Lo, the two Doncastles in Berkshire known
Lo, Bickford, Fortescue, of Devon land 1
Io, Tooker, Fckershall, Sykes, Rawlinson!
See hearty Morley" takes thee by the hand
Ayrs, Graham, Buckridge, joy thy voyage done;
But who can count the leaves, the stars, the
sand 2
Lo, Stonor, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward, and Broome!
Lo, thousands more; but I want rhyme and room

'This is no more than a compliment to the vanity of sir Godfrey, which Pope and other wits were always putting to the strongest trials. S.

* Charles Ford, esq. writer of the Gazette. S.

* So in the Dunciad, b. iii. 185. But who is he in closet close ypent, Of sober face, with learned dust be prent.

Humphrey Wanley was librarian to lord Oxford. §

* The names of the majority of persons here enumerated are in want of no illustration; and concerning a few of them, it would be difficult to supply any. Titcomb, however, is mentioned in a letter fron Pope to Congreve. “There is a grand revolution at Will's. Morrice has quitted for a coffee-house in the city; and Titcomb is restored, to the great joy of Cromwell, who was at a loss for a person to converse with on the fathers and church history.” S.

* See the first book of the Iliad among the poems ef Mr. Tickell. N.

* See Prior's ballad of Down Hall. N.

How lov’d how honour'd thou! yet be not vain:
And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say,
“All this, my friends, I owe to Hemer's strain,
On whose strong pinions l exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain? "
And what rewards his grateful country pay
None, none were paid—why then all this for me?
These honours, Homer, had been just to thee.”

Epistle vii.

To MR. THOMAS SNow,

GoldsMITH, Nean TEMPLE-san. A PANEGYRic,

occasion ED BY His suying AND selling of THE THIRD south-sea subscriptions, TAKEN IN sy. The piRECTORS At A thousand pen cent.

Disdain not, Snow, my humble verse to hear: Stick thy black pen awhile behind thy ear. Whether thy compter shine with sums untold, And thy wide-grasping hand grow black with gold; Whether thy mien erect, and sable locks, In crowds of brokers over-awe the stocks; Suspend the worldly business of the day, And, to enrich thy mind, attend my lay. O thou, whose penetrative wisdom found The South-sea rocks and shelves, where thousands drown'd When credit sunk, and commerce gasping lay, Thou stood'st : nor sent'st one bill unpaid away. When not a guinea chink'd on Martin's boards, And Atwell's self was drain'd of all his hoards, Thou stood'st, (an Indian king in size and hue) Thy unexhausted shop was our Peru. Why did 'Change-alley waste thy precious hours Among the fools, who gap'd for golden showers? No wonder if we found some poets there, Who live on fancy, and can feed on air; No wonder they were caught by South-sea schemes, Who ne'er enjoy'd a guinea, but in dreams; No wonder they their third subscriptions sold, For millions of imaginary gold; No wonder, that their fancies wild can frame Strange reasons, that a thing is still the same, Tho' chang'd throughout in substance and in name. But you (whose judgment scorns poetic flights) With contracts furnish boys with paper-kites. Let Vulture Hopkins stretch his rusty throat, Who'd ruin thousands for a single groat. I know thou spurn'st his mean, his sordid mind; Nor with ideal debts would'st plague mankind. Why strive his greedy hands to grasp at more?— The wretch was born to want, whose soul is poor. Madmen alone their empty dreams pursue, And still believe the fleeting vision true; They sell the treasure which their slumbers get, Then wake, and fancy all the world in debt. If to instruct thee all my reasons fail, Yet be diverted by this moral tale. Thro' fam'd Moorfields extends a spacious seat, Where mortals of exalted wit retreat; Where, wrapp'd in contemplation aud in straw, The wiser few from the mad world withdraw. There, in full opulence, a banker dwelt, Who all the joys and pangs of riches felt :

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