The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 8

Not all on books their criticism waste: The genius of a dish some justly taste, And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.

Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay, And bids December yield the fruits of May; Their various cares in one great point combine The business of their lives, that is-to dine.

Half of their precious day they give the feast; And to a kind digestion spare the rest.

Apicius, here, the taster of the town, Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

These worthies of the palate guard with care The sacred annals of their bills of fare; In those choice books their panegyrics read, And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.

If man by feeding well commences great, Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.

To glory some advance a lying claim, Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame: Their front supplies what their ambition lacks; They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.

Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer, When turn'd away, with a familiar leer; And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen, Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen.

Niger adopts stray libels; wisely p.r.o.ne To covet shame still greater than his own.

Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore, Belies his innocence, and keeps a wh.o.r.e.

Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame, Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name; Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set, And takes a memorandum to forget.

Thus vain, not knowing what adorns, or blots, Men forge the patents, that create them sots.

As love of pleasure into pain betrays, So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.

But whence for praise can such an ardour rise, When those, who bring that incense, we despise?

For such the vanity of great and small, Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.

Nor can ev'n satire blame them; for, 'tis true, They have most ample cause for what they do.

O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant A nurse of fools, to stock the continent.

Tho' Phbus and the Nine for ever mow, Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.

The plenteous harvest calls me forward still, Till I surpa.s.s in length my lawyer's bill; A Welsh descent, which well paid heralds d.a.m.n; Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.

When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen, In comes a c.o.xcomb, and I write again.

See t.i.tyrus, with merriment possest, Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest: What need he stay? for when the joke is o'er, His teeth will be no whiter than before.

Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth, That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?

Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire; Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire: Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife; And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.

Sometimes, thro' pride, the s.e.xes change their airs; My lord has vapours, and my lady swears; Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind, My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.

To show the strength, and infamy of pride, By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.

What numbers are there, which at once pursue Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!

Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame, And therefore lays a stratagem for fame; Makes his approach in modesty's disguise, To win applause; and takes it by surprise.

"To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate."

You know your answer, he's exact in great.

"My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults."

But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!

That he wants algebra, he must confess; But not a soul to give our arms success.

"Ah; that's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries; "But who in heat of blood was ever wise?

I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back, To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd attack; All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny; Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."

Could this deceive in others, to be free, It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee; Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue, So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.

Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear; And haunt the court, without a prospect there.

Are these expedients for renown? Confess Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.

Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake; Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make.

Ev'n men of merit, ere their point they gain, In hardy service make a long campaign; Most manfully besiege their patron's gate, And oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great With painful art, and application warm, And take, at last, some little place by storm; Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean, And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer Lane.

Already this thy fortune can afford; Then starve without the favour of my lord.

'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer; But often, ev'n in doing right, they err: From caprice, not from choice, their favours come; They give, but think it toil to know to whom: The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance: 'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.

If merit sues, and greatness is so loth To break its downy trance, I pity both.

I grant at court, Philander, at his need, (Thanks to his lovely wife) finds friends indeed.

Of every charm and virtue she's possest: Philander! thou art exquisitely blest; The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd, The man is found, who may be justly proud: But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!

Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast; For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid, In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.

Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy; And love a market where the rates run high: Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear; Their vanity is tickled, not their ear: Their taste would lessen, if the prices fell, And Shakespeare's wretched stuff do quite as well; Away the disenchanted fair would throng, And own that English is their mother tongue.

To show how much our northern tastes refine, Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine; While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay; For generous lords had rather give than pay.

Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!

The legislature join'd with Drury Lane!

When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run, And serve their country-if the dance is done.

"Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"

Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right.

Worth, of politeness, is the needful ground; Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.

Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel; 'Tis solid bodies only polish well.

Great, chosen prophet! For these latter days, To turn a willing world from righteous ways!

Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve; Well has he seen his servant should not starve.

Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd; In various forms of worship seen him prais'd, Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown, And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.

Inferior off'rings to thy G.o.d of vice Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice; Thy sacrifice supreme, a hundred maids!

That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!

If maids the quite exhausted town denies, A hundred heads of cuckolds may suffice.

Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land, To see the fifty churches at a stand.

And that thy minister may never fail, But what thy hand has planted still prevail, Of minor prophets a succession sure The propagation of thy zeal secure.

See commons, peers, and ministers of state, In solemn council met, and deep debate!

What G.o.dlike enterprise is taking birth?

What wonder opens on th' expecting earth?

'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings!

Fix'd is the fate of wh.o.r.es and fiddle-strings!

Tho' bold these truths, thou, muse, with truths like these, Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please: Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou, Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.

How terrible it were to common sense, To write a satire, which gave none offence!

And, since from life I take the draughts you see, If men dislike them, do they censure me?

The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend, And G.o.dlike an attempt the world to mend; The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall, Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.

How hard for real worth to gain its price!

A man shall make his fortune in a trice, If blest with pliant, tho' but slender, sense, Feign'd modesty, and real impudence: A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace, A curse within, a smile upon his face; A beauteous sister, or convenient wife, Are prizes in the lottery of life; Genius and virtue they will soon defeat, And lodge you in the bosom of the great.

To merit, is but to provide a pain For men's refusing what you ought to gain.

May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you, Whom my presaging thoughts already view By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd, Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd; And lending, here, those awful councils aid, Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd: Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear; What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

Satire IV.

To the Right Honourable Sir Spencer Compton.

Round some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows, And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs; So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be, (O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee; Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside, Their dignity to raise, their councils guide; Deep to discern, and widely to survey, And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh; Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend, The crown's a.s.serter, and the people's friend: Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views, To listen to the labours of the muse; Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire, And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

Vex'd at a public fame, so justly won, The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone; Chremes, for airy pensions of renown, Devotes his service to the state and crown; All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves, Tho' Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves: But patriots differ; some may shed their blood, He drinks his coffee, for the public good; Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees What storms, or sunshine, Providence decrees; Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate; A quid nunc is an almanack of state.

You smile, and think this statesman void of use: Why may not time his secret worth produce?

Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut, Since steeds of genius are expert at put; Since half the senate not content can say, Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.

What makes him model realms, and counsel kings?

An incapacity for smaller things: Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate, And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.

Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill, And boldly claims a province higher still: To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got, At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot; Deep in the secret, he looks thro' the whole, And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul; To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed, Nor shock his tender reason with the creed: Howe'er well bred, in public he complies, Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

Peerage is poison, good estates are bad For this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.

Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief, And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?

While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous force; But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse.

Such useful instruments the weather show, Just as their mercury is high or low: Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark; A fever argues better than a Clarke: Let but the logic in his pulse decay, The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray, While C-- mourns, with an unfeign'd zeal, Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well.

C--, who makes so merry with the creed; He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed; But only thinks so; to give both their due, Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.

Of some for glory such the boundless rage, That they're the blackest scandal of their age.

Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims; Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names; Omits no duty; nor can envy say, He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play: He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true; But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due; His character and gloves are ever clean, And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean; A smile eternal on his lip he wears, Which equally the wise and worthless shares.

In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief, Patient of idleness beyond belief, Most charitably lends the town his face, For ornament, in ev'ry public place; As sure as cards, he to th' a.s.sembly comes, And is the furniture of drawing-rooms: When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free, And, join'd to two, he fails not-to make three: Narcissus is the glory of his race; For who does nothing with a better grace?