Behold a group of authors laid, Newspaper wits, and sonneteers, Gentleman bards, and rhyming peers, Biographers, whose wondrous worth Is scarce remember'd now on earth, Whom Fielding's humour led astray, And plaintive fops, debauch'd by Gray, All sit together in a ring, And laugh and prattle, write and sing. 520 On his own works, with Laurel crown'd, Neatly and elegantly bound, (For this is one of many rules, With writing lords, and laureate fools, And which for ever must succeed With other lords who cannot read, However destitute of wit, To make their works for bookcase fit) Acknowledged master of those seats, Gibber his Birth-day Odes repeats. 530 With triumph now possess that seat, With triumph now thy Odes repeat; Unrivall'd vigils proudly keep, Whilst every hearer's lull'd to sleep; But know, illustrious bard! when Fate, Which still pursues thy name with hate, The regal laurel blasts, which now Blooms on the placid Whitehead's brow, Low must descend thy pride and fame, And Cibber's be the second name.'— 540 Here Trifle cough'd, (for coughing still Bears witness of the speaker's skill, A necessary piece of art, Of rhetoric an essential part, And adepts in the speaking trade Keep a cough by them ready made, Which they successfully dispense When at a loss for words or sense) Here Trifle cough'd, here paused—but while He strove to recollect his smile, 550 That happy engine of his art, Which triumph'd o'er the female heart, Credulity, the child of Folly, Begot on cloister'd Melancholy, Who heard, with grief, the florid fool Turn sacred things to ridicule, And saw him, led by Whim away, Still further from the subject stray, Just in the happy nick, aloud, In shape of Moore[213], address'd the crowd: 560 'Were we with patience here to sit, Dupes to the impertinence of Wit, Till Trifle his harangue should end, A Greenland night we might attend, Whilst he, with fluency of speech, Would various mighty nothings teach'— (Here Trifle, sternly looking down, Gravely endeavour'd at a frown, But Nature unawares stept in, And, mocking, turn'd it to a grin)— 570 'And when, in Fancy's chariot hurl'd, We had been carried round the world, Involved in error still and doubt, He'd leave us where we first set out. Thus soldiers (in whose exercise Material use with grandeur vies) Lift up their legs with mighty pain, Only to set them down again. Believe ye not (yes, all, I see, In sound belief concur with me) 580 That Providence, for worthy ends, To us unknown, this spirit sends? Though speechless lay the trembling tongue, Your faith was on your features hung; Your faith I in your eyes could see, When all were pale and stared like me. But scruples to prevent, and root Out every shadow of dispute, Pomposo, Plausible, and I, With Fanny, have agreed to try 590 A deep concerted scheme—this night To fix or to destroy her quite. If it be true, before we've done, We'll make it glaring as the sun; If it be false, admit no doubt Ere morning's dawn we'll find it out. Into the vaulted womb of Death, Where Fanny now, deprived of breath, Lies festering, whilst her troubled sprite Adds horror to the gloom of night, 600 Will we descend, and bring from thence Proofs of such force to Common-Sense, Vain triflers shall no more deceive, And atheists tremble and believe.' He said, and ceased; the chamber rung With due applause from every tongue: The mingled sound (now let me see— Something by way of simile) Was it more like Strymonian cranes, Or winds, low murmuring, when it rains. 610 Or drowsy hum of clustering bees, Or the hoarse roar of angry seas? Or (still to heighten and explain, For else our simile is vain) Shall we declare it like all four, A scream, a murmur, hum, and roar? Let Fancy now, in awful state, Present this great triumvirate, (A method which received we find, In other cases, by mankind) 620 Elected with a joint consent, All fools in town to represent. The clock strikes twelve—Moore starts and swears. In oaths, we know, as well as prayers, Religion lies, and a church-brother May use at will, or one, or t'other; Plausible from his cassock drew A holy manual, seeming new; A book it was of private prayer, But not a pin the worse for wear: 630 For, as we by-the-bye may say, None but small saints in private pray. Religion, fairest maid on earth! As meek as good, who drew her birth From that bless'd union, when in heaven Pleasure was bride to Virtue given; Religion, ever pleased to pray, Possess'd the precious gift one day; Hypocrisy, of Cunning born, Crept in and stole it ere the morn; 640 Whitefield, that greatest of all saints, Who always prays and never faints, (Whom she to her own brothers bore, Rapine and Lust, on Severn's shore) Received it from the squinting dame; From him to Plausible it came, Who, with unusual care oppress'd, Now, trembling, pull'd it from his breast; Doubts in his boding heart arise, And fancied spectres blast his eyes, 650 Devotion springs from abject fear, And stamps his prayers for once sincere. Pomposo, (insolent and loud, Vain idol of a scribbling crowd, Whose very name inspires an awe, Whose every word is sense and law, For what his greatness hath decreed, Like laws of Persia and of Mede, Sacred through all the realm of Wit, Must never of repeal admit; 660 Who, cursing flattery, is the tool Of every fawning, flattering fool; Who wit with jealous eye surveys, And sickens at another's praise; Who, proudly seized of Learning's throne, Now damns all learning but his own; Who scorns those common wares to trade in, Reasoning, convincing, and persuading, But makes each sentence current pass With puppy, coxcomb, scoundrel, ass; 670 For 'tis with him a certain rule, The folly's proved when he calls fool; Who, to increase his native strength, Draws words six syllables in length, With which, assisted with a frown By way of club, he knocks us down; Who 'bove the vulgar dares to rise, And sense of decency defies; For this same decency is made Only for bunglers in the trade, 680 And, like the cobweb laws, is still Broke through by great ones when they will)— Pomposo, with strong sense supplied, Supported, and confirm'd by Pride, His comrades' terrors to beguile 'Grinn'd horribly a ghastly smile:' Features so horrid, were it light, Would put the Devil himself to flight. Such were the three in name and worth Whom Zeal and Judgment singled forth 690 To try the sprite on Reason's plan, Whether it was of God or man. Dark was the night; it was that hour When Terror reigns in fullest power, When, as the learn'd of old have said, The yawning Grave gives up her dead; When Murder, Rapine by her side, Stalks o'er the earth with giant stride; Our Quixotes (for that knight of old Was not in truth by half so bold, 700 Though Reason at the same time cries, 'Our Quixotes are not half so wise,' Since they, with other follies, boast An expedition 'gainst a ghost) Through the dull deep surrounding gloom, In close array, towards Fanny's tomb[214] Adventured forth; Caution before, With heedful step, the lantern bore, Pointing at graves; and in the rear, Trembling, and talking loud, went Fear. 710 The churchyard teem'd—the unsettled ground, As in an ague, shook around; While, in some dreary vault confined, Or riding on the hollow wind, Horror, which turns the heart to stone, In dreadful sounds was heard to groan. All staring, wild, and out of breath, At length they reach the place of Death. A vault it was, long time applied To hold the last remains of Pride: 720 No beggar there, of humble race, And humble fortunes, finds a place; To rest in pomp as well as ease, The only way's to pay the fees. Fools, rogues, and whores, if rich and great, Proud even in death, here rot in state. No thieves disrobe the well-dress'd dead; No plumbers steal the sacred lead; Quiet and safe the bodies lie; No sextons sell, no surgeons buy. 730 Thrice, each the ponderous key applied, And thrice to turn it vainly tried, Till taught by Prudence to unite, And straining with collected might, The stubborn wards resist no more, But open flies the growling door. Three paces back they fell amazed, Like statues stood, like madmen gazed; The frighted blood forsakes the face, And seeks the heart with quicker pace; 740 The throbbing heart its fear declares, And upright stand the bristled hairs; The head in wild distraction swims, Cold sweats bedew the trembling limbs; Nature, whilst fears her bosom chill, Suspends her powers, and life stands still. Thus had they stood till now; but Shame (An useful, though neglected dame, By Heaven design'd the friend of man, Though we degrade her all we can, 750 And strive, as our first proof of wit, Her name and nature to forget) Came to their aid in happy hour, And with a wand of mighty power Struck on their hearts; vain fears subside, And, baffled, leave the field to Pride. Shall they, (forbid it, Fame!) shall they The dictates of vile Pear obey? Shall they, the idols of the Town, To bugbears, fancy-form'd, bow down? 760 Shall they, who greatest zeal express'd, And undertook for all the rest, Whose matchless courage all admire, Inglorious from the task retire? How would the wicked ones rejoice, And infidels exalt their voice, If Moore and Plausible were found, By shadows awed, to quit their ground? How would fools laugh, should it appear Pomposo was the slave of fear? 770 'Perish the thought! Though to our eyes, In all its terrors, Hell should rise; Though thousand ghosts, in dread array, With glaring eyeballs, cross our way; Though Caution, trembling, stands aloof, Still we will on, and dare the proof.' They said; and, without further halt, Dauntless march'd onward to the vault. What mortal men, who e'er drew breath, Shall break into the house of Death, 780 With foot unhallow'd, and from thence The mysteries of that state dispense, Unless they, with due rites, prepare Their weaker sense such sights to bear, And gain permission from the state, On earth their journal to relate? Poets themselves, without a crime, Cannot attempt it e'en in rhyme, But always, on such grand occasion, Prepare a solemn invocation, 790 A posy for grim Pluto weave, And in smooth numbers ask his leave. But why this caution? why prepare Rites, needless now? for thrice in air The Spirit of the Night hath sneezed, And thrice hath clapp'd his wings, well-pleased. Descend then, Truth, and guard thy side, My Muse, my patroness, and guide! Let others at invention aim, And seek by falsities for fame; 800 Our story wants not, at this time, Flounces and furbelows in rhyme; Relate plain facts; be brief and bold; And let the poets, famed of old, Seek, whilst our artless tale we tell, In vain to find a parallel: Silent all three went in; about All three turn'd, silent, and came out.

BOOK III.

It was the hour, when housewife Morn With pearl and linen hangs each thorn; When happy bards, who can regale Their Muse with country air and ale, Ramble afield to brooks and bowers, To pick up sentiments and flowers; When dogs and squires from kennel fly, And hogs and farmers quit their sty; When my lord rises to the chase, And brawny chaplain takes his place. 10 These images, or bad, or good, If they are rightly understood, Sagacious readers must allow Proclaim us in the country now; For observations mostly rise From objects just before our eyes, And every lord, in critic wit, Can tell you where the piece was writ; Can point out, as he goes along, (And who shall dare to say he's wrong?) 20 Whether the warmth (for bards, we know, At present never more than glow) Was in the town or country caught, By the peculiar turn of thought. It was the hour,—though critics frown, We now declare ourselves in Town, Nor will a moment's pause allow For finding when we came, or how. The man who deals in humble prose, Tied down by rule and method goes; 30 But they who court the vigorous Muse Their carriage have a right to choose. Free as the air, and unconfined, Swift as the motions of the mind, The poet darts from place to place, And instant bounds o'er time and space: Nature (whilst blended fire and skill Inflame our passions to his will) Smiles at her violated laws, And crowns his daring with applause. 40 Should there be still some rigid few, Who keep propriety in view, Whose heads turn round, and cannot bear This whirling passage through the air, Free leave have such at home to sit, And write a regimen for wit; To clip our pinions let them try, Not having heart themselves to fly. It was the hour when devotees Breathe pious curses on their knees; 50 When they with prayers the day begin To sanctify a night of sin; When rogues of modesty, who roam Under the veil of night, sneak home, That, free from all restraint and awe, Just to the windward of the law, Less modest rogues their tricks may play, And plunder in the face of day. But hold,—whilst thus we play the fool, In bold contempt of every rule, 60 Things of no consequence expressing, Describing now, and now digressing, To the discredit of our skill, The main concern is standing still. In plays, indeed, when storms of rage Tempestuous in the soul engage, Or when the spirits, weak and low, Are sunk in deep distress and woe, With strict propriety we hear Description stealing on the ear, 70 And put off feeling half an hour To thatch a cot, or paint a flower; But in these serious works, design'd To mend the morals of mankind, We must for ever be disgraced With all the nicer sons of Taste, If once, the shadow to pursue, We let the substance out of view. Our means must uniformly tend In due proportion to their end, 80 And every passage aptly join To bring about the one design. Our friends themselves cannot admit This rambling, wild, digressive wit; No—not those very friends, who found Their credit on the self-same ground. Peace, my good grumbling sir—for once, Sunk in the solemn, formal dunce, This coxcomb shall your fears beguile— We will be dull—that you may smile. 90 Come, Method, come in all thy pride, Dulness and Whitehead by thy side; Dulness and Method still are one, And Whitehead is their darling son: Not he[215], whose pen, above control, Struck terror to the guilty soul, Made Folly tremble through her state, And villains blush at being great; Whilst he himself, with steady face, Disdaining modesty and grace, 100 Could blunder on through thick and thin, Through every mean and servile sin, Yet swear by Philip and by Paul, He nobly scorn'd to blush at all; But he who in the Laureate[216] chair, By grace, not merit, planted there, In awkward pomp is seen to sit, And by his patent proves his wit; For favours of the great, we know, Can wit as well as rank bestow; 110 And they who, without one pretension, Can get for fools a place or pension, Must able be supposed, of course, (If reason is allow'd due force) To give such qualities and grace As may equip them for the place. But he—who measures as he goes A mongrel kind of tinkling prose, And is too frugal to dispense, At once, both poetry and sense; 120 Who, from amidst his slumbering guards, Deals out a charge to subject bards, Where couplets after couplets creep Propitious to the reign of sleep; Yet every word imprints an awe, And all his dictates pass for law With beaux, who simper all around, And belles, who die ill every sound: For in all things of this relation, Men mostly judge from situation, 130 Nor in a thousand find we one Who really weighs what's said or done; They deal out censure, or give credit, Merely from him who did or said it. But he—who, happily serene, Means nothing, yet would seem to mean; Who rules and cautions can dispense With all that humble insolence Which Impudence in vain would teach, And none but modest men can reach; 140 Who adds to sentiments the grace Of always being out of place, And drawls out morals with an air A gentleman would blush to wear; Who, on the chastest, simplest plan, As chaste, as simple, as the man Without or character, or plot, Nature unknown, and Art forgot, Can, with much raking of the brains, And years consumed in letter'd pains, 150 A heap of words together lay, And, smirking, call the thing a play;[217] Who, champion sworn in Virtue's cause, 'Gainst Vice his tiny bodkin draws, But to no part of prudence stranger, First blunts the point for fear of danger. So nurses sage, as caution works, When children first use knives and forks, For fear of mischief, it is known, To others' fingers or their own, 160 To take the edge off wisely choose, Though the same stroke takes off the use. Thee, Whitehead, thee I now invoke, Sworn foe to Satire's generous stroke, Which makes unwilling Conscience feel, And wounds, but only wounds to heal. Good-natured, easy creature, mild And gentle as a new-born child, Thy heart would never once admit E'en wholesome rigour to thy wit; 170 Thy head, if Conscience should comply, Its kind assistance would deny, And lend thee neither force nor art To drive it onward to the heart. Oh, may thy sacred power control Bach fiercer working of my soul, Damp every spark of genuine fire, And languors, like thine own, inspire! Trite be each thought, and every line As moral and as dull as thine! 180 Poised in mid-air—(it matters not To ascertain the very spot, Nor yet to give you a relation How it eluded gravitation)— Hung a watch-tower, by Vulcan plann'd With such rare skill, by Jove's command, That every word which, whisper'd here, Scarce vibrates to the neighbour ear, On the still bosom of the air Is borne and heard distinctly there— 190 The palace of an ancient dame Whom men as well as gods call Fame. A prattling gossip, on whose tongue Proof of perpetual motion hung, Whose lungs in strength all lungs surpass, Like her own trumpet made of brass; Who with an hundred pair of eyes The vain attacks of sleep defies; Who with an hundred pair of wings News from the furthest quarters brings, 200 Sees, hears, and tells, untold before, All that she knows and ten times more. Not all the virtues which we find Concenter'd in a Hunter's[218] mind, Can make her spare the rancorous tale, If in one point she chance to fail; Or if, once in a thousand years, A perfect character appears, Such as of late with joy and pride My soul possess'd, ere Arrow died; 210 Or such as, Envy must allow, The world enjoys in Hunter now; This hag, who aims at all alike, At virtues e'en like theirs will strike, And make faults in the way of trade, When she can't find them ready made. All things she takes in, small and great, Talks of a toy-shop and a state; Of wits and fools, of saints and kings, Of garters, stars, and leading strings; 220 Of old lords fumbling for a clap, And young ones full of prayer and pap; Of courts, of morals, and tye-wigs, Of bears and Serjeants dancing jigs; Of grave professors at the bar Learning to thrum on the guitar, Whilst laws are slubber'd o'er in haste, And Judgment sacrificed to Taste; Of whited sepulchres, lawn sleeves, And God's house made a den of thieves: 230 Of funeral pomps,[220] where clamours hung, And fix'd disgrace on every tongue, Whilst Sense and Order blush'd to see Nobles without humanity; Of coronations,[221] where each heart, With honest raptures, bore a part; Of city feasts, where Elegance Was proud her colours to advance, And Gluttony, uncommon case, Could only get the second place; 240 Of new-raised pillars in the state, Who must be good, as being great; Of shoulders, on which honours sit Almost as clumsily as wit; Of doughty knights, whom titles please, But not the payment of the fees; Of lectures, whither every fool, In second childhood, goes to school; Of graybeards, deaf to Reason's call, From Inn of Court, or City Hall, 250 Whom youthful appetites enslave, With one foot fairly in the grave, By help of crutch, a needful brother, Learning of Hart[222] to dance with t'other; Of doctors regularly bred To fill the mansions of the dead; Of quacks, (for quacks they must be still, Who save when forms require to kill) Who life, and health, and vigour give To him, not one would wish to live; 260 Of artists who, with noblest view, Disinterested plans pursue, For trembling worth the ladder raise, And mark out the ascent to praise; Of arts and sciences, where meet, Sublime, profound, and all complete, A set[223] (whom at some fitter time The Muse shall consecrate in rhyme) Who, humble artists to out-do, A far more liberal plan pursue, 270 And let their well-judged premiums fall On those who have no worth at all; Of sign-post exhibitions, raised For laughter more than to be praised, (Though, by the way, we cannot see Why Praise and Laughter mayn't agree) Where genuine humour runs to waste, And justly chides our want of taste, Censured, like other things, though good, Because they are not understood. 280 To higher subjects now she soars, And talks of politics and whores; (If to your nice and chaster ears That term indelicate appears, Scripture politely shall refine, And melt it into concubine) In the same breath spreads Bourbon's league;[224] And publishes the grand intrigue; In Brussels or our own Gazette[225] Makes armies fight which never met, 290 And circulates the pox or plague To London, by the way of Hague; For all the lies which there appear Stamp'd with authority come here; Borrows as freely from the gabble Of some rude leader of a rabble, Or from the quaint harangues of those Who lead a nation by the nose, As from those storms which, void of art, Burst from our honest patriot's heart,[226] 300 When Eloquence and Virtue, (late Remark'd to live in mutual hate) Fond of each other's friendship grown, Claim every sentence for their own; And with an equal joy recites Parade amours and half-pay fights, Perform'd by heroes of fair weather, Merely by dint of lace and feather, As those rare acts which Honour taught Our daring sons where Granby[227] fought, 310 Or those which, with superior skill, Sackville achieved by standing still. This hag, (the curious, if they please, May search, from earliest times to these, And poets they will always see With gods and goddesses make free, Treating them all, except the Muse, As scarcely fit to wipe their shoes) Who had beheld, from first to last, How our triumvirate had pass'd 320 Night's dreadful interval, and heard, With strict attention, every word, Soon as she saw return of light, On sounding pinions took her flight. Swift through the regions of the sky, Above the reach of human eye, Onward she drove the furious blast, And rapid as a whirlwind pass'd, O'er countries, once the seats of Taste, By Time and Ignorance laid waste; 330 O'er lands, where former ages saw Reason and Truth the only law; Where Arts and Arms, and Public Love, In generous emulation strove; Where kings were proud of legal sway, And subjects happy to obey, Though now in slavery sunk, and broke To Superstition's galling yoke; Of Arts, of Arms, no more they tell, Or Freedom, which with Science fell, 340 By tyrants awed, who never find The passage to their people's mind; To whom the joy was never known Of planting in the heart their throne; Far from all prospect of relief, Their hours in fruitless prayers and grief, For loss of blessings, they employ, Which we unthankfully enjoy. Now is the time (had we the will) To amaze the reader with our skill, 350 To pour out such a flood of knowledge As might suffice for a whole college, Whilst with a true poetic force, We traced the goddess in her course, Sweetly describing, in our flight, Each common and uncommon sight, Making our journal gay and pleasant, With things long past, and things now present. Rivers—once nymphs—(a transformation Is mighty pretty in relation) 360 From great authorities we know Will matter for a tale bestow: To make the observation clear, We give our friends an instance here. The day (that never is forgot) Was very fine, but very hot; The nymph (another general rule) Inflamed with heat, laid down to cool; Her hair (we no exceptions find) Waved careless, floating in the wind; 370 Her heaving breasts, like summer seas, Seem'd amorous of the playful breeze: Should fond Description tune our lays In choicest accents to her praise, Description we at last should find, Baffled and weak, would halt behind. Nature had form'd her to inspire In every bosom soft desire; Passions to raise, she could not feel, Wounds to inflict, she would not heal. 380 A god, (his name is no great matter, Perhaps a Jove, perhaps a Satyr) Raging with lust, a godlike flame, By chance, as usual, thither came; With gloating eye the fair one view'd, Desired her first, and then pursued: She (for what other can she do?) Must fly—or how can he pursue? The Muse (so custom hath decreed) Now proves her spirit by her speed, 390 Nor must one limping line disgrace The life and vigour of the race; She runs, and he runs, till at length, Quite destitute of breath and strength, To Heaven (for there we all apply For help, when there's no other nigh) She offers up her virgin prayer, (Can virgins pray unpitied there?) And when the god thinks he has caught her, Slips through his hands and runs to water, 400 Becomes a stream, in which the poet, If he has any wit, may show it. A city once for power renown'd Now levell'd even to the ground, Beyond all doubt is a direction To introduce some fine reflection. Ah, woeful me! ah, woeful man! Ah, woeful all, do all we can! Who can on earthly things depend From one to t'other moment's end? 410 Honour, wit, genius, wealth, and glory, Good lack! good lack! are transitory; Nothing is sure and stable found, The very earth itself turns round: Monarchs, nay ministers, must die, Must rot, must stink—ah, me! ah, why! Cities themselves in time decay; If cities thus—ah, well-a-day! If brick and mortar have an end, On what can flesh and blood depend! 420 Ah, woeful me! ah, woeful man! Ah, woeful all, do all we can! England, (for that's at last the scene, Though worlds on worlds should rise between, Whither we must our course pursue) England should call into review Times long since past indeed, but not By Englishmen to be forgot, Though England, once so dear to Fame, Sinks in Great Britain's dearer name. 430 Here could we mention chiefs of old, In plain and rugged honour bold, To Virtue kind, to Vice severe, Strangers to bribery and fear, Who kept no wretched clans in awe, Who never broke or warp'd the law; Patriots, whom, in her better days, Old Rome might have been proud to raise; Who, steady to their country's claim, Boldly stood up in Freedom's name, 440 E'en to the teeth of tyrant Pride, And when they could no more, they died. There (striking contrast!) might we place A servile, mean, degenerate race; Hirelings, who valued nought but gold, By the best bidder bought and sold; Truants from Honour's sacred laws, Betrayers of their country's cause; The dupes of party, tools of power, Slaves to the minion of an hour; 450 Lackies, who watch'd a favourite's nod, And took a puppet for their god. Sincere and honest in our rhymes, How might we praise these happier times! How might the Muse exalt her lays, And wanton in a monarch's praise! Tell of a prince, in England born, Whose virtues England's crown adorn, In youth a pattern unto age, So chaste, so pious, and so sage; 460 Who, true to all those sacred bands, Which private happiness demands, Yet never lets them rise above The stronger ties of public love. With conscious pride see England stand, Our holy Charter in her hand; She waves it round, and o'er the isle See Liberty and Courage smile. No more she mourns her treasures hurl'd In subsidies to all the world; 470 No more by foreign threats dismay'd, No more deceived with foreign aid, She deals out sums to petty states, Whom Honour scorns and Reason hates, But, wiser by experience grown, Finds safety in herself alone. 'Whilst thus,' she cries, 'my children stand An honest, valiant, native band, A train'd militia, brave and free, True to their king, and true to me, 480 No foreign hirelings shall be known, Nor need we hirelings of our own: Under a just and pious reign The statesman's sophistry is vain; Vain is each vile, corrupt pretence, These are my natural defence; Their faith I know, and they shall prove The bulwark of the king they love.' These, and a thousand things beside, Did we consult a poet's pride, 490 Some gay, some serious, might be said, But ten to one they'd not be read; Or were they by some curious few, Not even those would think them true; For, from the time that Jubal first Sweet ditties to the harp rehearsed, Poets have always been suspected Of having truth in rhyme neglected, That bard except, who from his youth Equally famed for faith and truth, 500 By Prudence taught, in courtly chime To courtly ears brought truth in rhyme.[228] But though to poets we allow, No matter when acquired or how, From truth unbounded deviation, Which custom calls Imagination, Yet can't they be supposed to lie One half so fast as Fame can fly; Therefore (to solve this Gordian knot, A point we almost had forgot) 510 To courteous readers be it known, That, fond of verse and falsehood grown, Whilst we in sweet digression sung, Fame check'd her flight, and held her tongue, And now pursues, with double force And double speed, her destined course, Nor stops till she the place[229] arrives Where Genius starves and Dulness thrives; Where riches virtue are esteem'd And craft is truest wisdom deem'd, 520 Where Commerce proudly rears her throne, In state to other lands unknown: Where, to be cheated and to cheat, Strangers from every quarter meet; Where Christians, Jews, and Turks shake hands, United in commercial bands: All of one faith, and that to own No god but Interest alone. When gods and goddesses come down To look about them here in Town, 530 (For change of air is understood By sons of Physic to be good, In due proportions, now and then, For these same gods as well as men) By custom ruled, and not a poet So very dull but he must know it, In order to remain incog. They always travel in a fog; For if we majesty expose To vulgar eyes, too cheap it grows; 540 The force is lost, and free from awe, We spy and censure every flaw; But well preserved from public view, It always breaks forth fresh and new; Fierce as the sun in all his pride It shines, and not a spot's descried. Was Jove to lay his thunder by, And with his brethren of the sky Descend to earth, and frisk about, Like chattering N——[230] from rout to rout, 550 He would be found, with all his host, A nine days' wonder at the most. Would we in trim our honours wear, We must preserve them from the air; What is familiar men neglect, However worthy of respect. Did they not find a certain friend In Novelty to recommend, (Such we, by sad experience, find The wretched folly of mankind) 560 Venus might unattractive shine, And Hunter fix no eyes but mine. But Fame, who never cared a jot Whether she was admired or not, And never blush'd to show her face At any time in any place, In her own shape, without disguise, And visible to mortal eyes, On 'Change exact at seven o'clock Alighted on the weathercock, 570 Which, planted there time out of mind To note the changes of the wind, Might no improper emblem be Of her own mutability. Thrice did she sound her trump, (the same Which from the first belong'd to Fame, An old ill-favour'd instrument, With which the goddess was content, Though under a politer race Bagpipes might well supply its place) 580 And thrice, awaken'd by the sound, A general din prevail'd around; Confusion through the city pass'd, And Fear bestrode the dreadful blast. Those fragrant currents, which we meet Distilling soft through every street, Affrighted from the usual course, Ran murmuring upwards to their source; Statues wept tears of blood, as fast As when a Caesar breathed his last; 590 Horses, which always used to go A foot-pace in my Lord Mayor's show, Impetuous from their stable broke, And aldermen and oxen spoke. Halls felt the force, towers shook around, And steeples nodded to the ground; St Paul himself (strange sight!) was seen To bow as humbly as the Dean; The Mansion House, for ever placed A monument of City taste, 600 Trembled, and seem'd aloud to groan Through all that hideous weight of stone. To still the sound, or stop her ears, Remove the cause or sense of fears, Physic, in college seated high, Would anything but medicine try. No more in Pewterer's Hall[231] was heard The proper force of every word; Those seats were desolate become, A hapless Elocution dumb. 610 Form, city-born and city-bred, By strict Decorum ever led, Who threescore years had known the grace Of one dull, stiff, unvaried pace, Terror prevailing over Pride, Was seen to take a larger stride; Worn to the bone, and clothed in rags, See Avarice closer hug his bags; With her own weight unwieldy grown, See Credit totter on her throne; 620 Virtue alone, had she been there, The mighty sound, unmoved, could bear. Up from the gorgeous bed, where Fate Dooms annual fools to sleep in state, To sleep so sound that not one gleam Of Fancy can provoke a dream, Great Dulman[232] started at the sound, Gaped, rubb'd his eyes, and stared around. Much did he wish to know, much fear, Whence sounds so horrid struck his ear, 630 So much unlike those peaceful notes, That equal harmony, which floats On the dull wing of City air, Grave prelude to a feast or fair: Much did he inly ruminate Concerning the decrees of Fate, Revolving, though to little end, What this same trumpet might portend. Could the French—no—that could not be, Under Bute's active ministry, 640 Too watchful to be so deceived— Have stolen hither unperceived? To Newfoundland,[233] indeed, we know Fleets of war unobserved may go; Or, if observed, may be supposed, At intervals when Reason dozed, No other point in view to bear But pleasure, health, and change of air; But Reason ne'er could sleep so sound To let an enemy be found 650 In our land's heart, ere it was known They had departed from their own. Or could his successor, (Ambition Is ever haunted with suspicion) His daring successor elect, All customs, rules, and forms reject, And aim,[234] regardless of the crime, To seize the chair before his time? Or (deeming this the lucky hour, Seeing his countrymen in power, 660 Those countrymen, who, from the first, In tumults and rebellion nursed, Howe'er they wear the mask of art, Still love a Stuart in their heart) Could Scottish Charles—— Conjecture thus, That mental ignis fatuus, Led his poor brains a weary dance From France to England, hence to France, Till Information in the shape Of chaplain learned, good Sir Crape, 670 A lazy, lounging, pamper'd priest, Well known at every city feast, For he was seen much oftener there Than in the house of God at prayer; Who, always ready in his place, Ne'er let God's creatures wait for grace, Though, as the best historians write, Less famed for faith than appetite; His disposition to reveal, The grace was short, and long the meal; 680 Who always would excess admit, If haunch or turtle came with it, And ne'er engaged in the defence Of self-denying Abstinence, When he could fortunately meet With anything he liked to eat; Who knew that wine, on Scripture plan, Was made to cheer the heart of man; Knew too, by long experience taught, That cheerfulness was kill'd by thought; 690 And from those premises collected, (Which few perhaps would have suspected) That none who, with due share of sense, Observed the ways of Providence, Could with safe conscience leave off drinking Till they had lost the power of thinking; With eyes half-closed came waddling in, And, having stroked his double chin, (That chin, whose credit to maintain Against the scoffs of the profane, 700 Had cost him more than ever state Paid for a poor electorate,[235] Which, after all the cost and rout It had been better much without) Briefly (for breakfast, you must know, Was waiting all the while below) Related, bowing to the ground, The cause of that uncommon sound; Related, too, that at the door Pomposo, Plausible, and Moore, 710 Begg'd that Fame might not be allow'd Their shame to publish to the crowd; That some new laws he would provide, (If old could not be misapplied With as much ease and safety there As they are misapplied elsewhere) By which it might be construed treason In man to exercise his reason; Which might ingeniously devise One punishment for truth and lies, 720 And fairly prove, when they had done, That truth and falsehood were but one; Which juries must indeed retain, But their effects should render vain, Making all real power to rest In one corrupted rotten breast, By whose false gloss the very Bible Might be interpreted a libel. Moore (who, his reverence to save, Pleaded the fool to screen the knave, 730 Though all who witness'd on his part Swore for his head against his heart) Had taken down, from first to last, A just account of all that pass'd; But, since the gracious will of Fate, Who mark'd the child for wealth and state E'en in the cradle, had decreed The mighty Dulman ne'er should read, That office of disgrace to bear The smooth-lipp'd Plausible[236] was there; 740 From Holborn e'en to Clerkenwell, Who knows not smooth-lipp'd Plausible? A preacher, deem'd of greatest note For preaching that which others wrote. Had Dulman now, (and fools, we see, Seldom want curiosity) Consented (but the mourning shade Of Gascoyne hasten'd to his aid, And in his hand—what could he more— Triumphant Canning's picture bore) 750 That our three heroes should advance And read their comical romance, How rich a feast, what royal fare, We for our readers might prepare! So rich and yet so safe a feast, That no one foreign blatant beast, Within the purlieus of the law, Should dare thereon to lay his paw, And, growling, cry, with surly tone, 'Keep off—this feast is all my own.' 760 Bending to earth the downcast eye, Or planting it against the sky, As one immersed in deepest thought, Or with some holy vision caught, His hands, to aid the traitor's art, Devoutly folded o'er his heart; Here Moore, in fraud well skill'd, should go, All saint, with solemn step and slow. Oh, that Religion's sacred name, Meant to inspire the purest flame, 770 A prostitute should ever be To that arch-fiend Hypocrisy, Where we find every other vice Crown'd with damn'd sneaking cowardice! Bold sin reclaim'd is often seen, Past hope that man, who dares be mean. There, full of flesh, and full of grace, With that fine round unmeaning face Which Nature gives to sons of earth Whom she designs for ease and mirth, 780 Should the prim Plausible be seen, Observe his stiff, affected mien; 'Gainst Nature, arm'd by Gravity, His features too in buckle see; See with what sanctity he reads, With what devotion tells his beads! Now, prophet, show me, by thine art, What's the religion of his heart: Show there, if truth thou canst unfold, Religion centred all in gold; 790 Show him, nor fear Correction's rod, As false to friendship, as to God. Horrid, unwieldy, without form. Savage as ocean in a storm, Of size prodigious, in the rear, That post of honour, should appear Pomposo; fame around should tell How he a slave to Interest fell; How, for integrity renown'd, Which booksellers have often found, 800 He for subscribers baits his hook,[237] And takes their cash—but where's the book? No matter where—wise fear, we know, Forbids the robbing of a foe; But what, to serve our private ends, Forbids the cheating of our friends? No man alive, who would not swear All's safe, and therefore honest there; For, spite of all the learned say, If we to truth attention pay, 810 The word dishonesty is meant For nothing else but punishment. Fame, too, should tell, nor heed the threat Of rogues, who brother rogues abet, Nor tremble at the terrors hung Aloft, to make her hold her tongue, How to all principles untrue, Not fix'd to old friends nor to new, He damns the pension which he takes And loves the Stuart he forsakes. 820 Nature (who, justly regular, Is very seldom known to err, But now and then, in sportive mood, As some rude wits have understood, Or through much work required in haste, Is with a random stroke disgraced) Pomposo, form'd on doubtful plan, Not quite a beast, nor quite a man; Like—God knows what—for never yet Could the most subtle human wit 830 Find out a monster which might be The shadow of a simile. These three, these great, these mighty three,— Nor can the poet's truth agree, Howe'er report hath done him wrong, And warp'd the purpose of his song, Amongst the refuse of their race, The sons of Infamy, to place That open, generous, manly mind, Which we, with joy, in Aldrich[238] find— 840 These three, who now are faintly shown, Just sketch'd, and scarcely to be known, If Dulman their request had heard, In stronger colours had appear'd, And friends, though partial, at first view, Shuddering, had own'd the picture true. But had their journal been display'd, And their whole process open laid, What a vast unexhausted field For mirth must such a journal yield! 850 In her own anger strongly charm'd, 'Gainst Hope, 'gainst Fear, by Conscience arm'd, Then had bold Satire made her way, Knights, lords, and dukes, her destined prey. But Prudence—ever sacred name To those who feel not Virtue's flame, Or only feel it, at the best, As the dull dupe of Interest!— Whisper'd aloud (for this we find A custom current with mankind, 860 So loud to whisper, that each word May all around be plainly heard; And Prudence, sure, would never miss A custom so contrived as this Her candour to secure, yet aim Sure death against another's fame): 'Knights, lords, and dukes!—mad wretch, forbear, Dangers unthought of ambush there; Confine thy rage to weaker slaves, Laugh at small fools, and lash small knaves; 870 But never, helpless, mean, and poor, Rush on, where laws cannot secure; Nor think thyself, mistaken youth! Secure in principles of truth: Truth! why shall every wretch of letters Dare to speak truth against his betters! Let ragged Virtue stand aloof, Nor mutter accents of reproof; Let ragged Wit a mute become, When Wealth and Power would have her dumb; 880 For who the devil doth not know That titles and estates bestow An ample stock, where'er they fall, Of graces which we mental call? Beggars, in every age and nation, Are rogues and fools by situation; The rich and great are understood To be of course both wise and good. Consult, then, Interest more than Pride, Discreetly take the stronger side; 890 Desert, in time, the simple few Who Virtue's barren path pursue; Adopt my maxims—follow me— To Baal bow the prudent knee; Deny thy God, betray thy friend, At Baal's altars hourly bend, So shalt thou rich and great be seen; To be great now, you must be mean.' Hence, Tempter, to some weaker soul, Which fear and interest control; 900 Vainly thy precepts are address'd Where Virtue steels the steady breast; Through meanness wade to boasted power, Through guilt repeated every hour; What is thy gain, when all is done, What mighty laurels hast thou won? Dull crowds, to whom the heart's unknown, Praise thee for virtues not thine own: But will, at once man's scourge and friend, Impartial Conscience too commend? 910 From her reproaches canst thou fly? Canst thou with worlds her silence buy? Believe it not—her stings shall find A passage to thy coward mind: There shall she fix her sharpest dart; There show thee truly as thou art, Unknown to those by whom thou 'rt prized, Known to thyself to be despised. The man who weds the sacred Muse, Disdains all mercenary views, 920 And he, who Virtue's throne would rear Laughs at the phantoms raised by Fear. Though Folly, robed in purple, shines, Though Vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble, and turn pale, When Satire wields her mighty flail; Or should they, of rebuke afraid, With Melcombe[239] seek hell's deepest shade, Satire, still mindful of her aim, Shall bring the cowards back to shame. 930 Hated by many, loved by few, Above each little private view, Honest, though poor, (and who shall dare To disappoint my boasting there?) Hardy and resolute, though weak, The dictates of my heart to speak, Willing I bend at Satire's throne; What power I have be all her own. Nor shall yon lawyer's specious art, Conscious of a corrupted heart, 940 Create imaginary fear To damp us in our bold career. Why should we fear? and what? The laws? They all are arm'd in Virtue's cause; And aiming at the self-same end, Satire is always Virtue's friend. Nor shall that Muse, whose honest rage, In a corrupt degenerate age, (When, dead to every nicer sense, Deep sunk in vice and indolence, 950 The spirit of old Rome was broke Beneath the tyrant fiddler's yoke) Banish'd the rose from Nero's cheek, Under a Brunswick fear to speak. Drawn by Conceit from Reason's plan, How vain is that poor creature, Man! How pleased is every paltry elf To prate about that thing, himself! After my promise made in rhyme, And meant in earnest at that time, 960 To jog, according to the mode, In one dull pace, in one dull road, What but that curse of heart and head To this digression could have led? Where plunged, in vain I look about, And can't stay in, nor well get out. Could I, whilst Humour held the quill, Could I digress with half that skill; Could I with half that skill return, Which we so much admire in Sterne, 970 Where each digression, seeming vain, And only fit to entertain, Is found, on better recollection, To have a just and nice connexion, To help the whole with wondrous art, Whence it seems idly to depart; Then should our readers ne'er accuse These wild excursions of the Muse; Ne'er backward turn dull pages o'er To recollect what went before; 980 Deeply impress'd, and ever new, Each image past should start to view, And we to Dulman now come in, As if we ne'er had absent been. Have you not seen, when danger's near, The coward cheek turn white with fear? Have you not seen, when danger's fled, The self-same cheek with joy turn red? These are low symptoms which we find, Fit only for a vulgar mind, 990 Where honest features, void of art, Betray the feelings of the heart; Our Dulman with a face was bless'd, Where no one passion was express'd; His eye, in a fine stupor caught, Implied a plenteous lack of thought; Nor was one line that whole face seen in Which could be justly charged with meaning. To Avarice by birth allied, Debauch'd by marriage into Pride, 1000 In age grown fond of youthful sports, Of pomps, of vanities, and courts, And by success too mighty made To love his country or his trade; Stiff in opinion, (no rare case With blockheads in or out of place) Too weak, and insolent of soul To suffer Reason's just control, But bending, of his own accord, To that trim transient toy, my lord; 1010 The dupe of Scots, (a fatal race, Whom God in wrath contrived to place To scourge our crimes, and gall our pride, A constant thorn in England's side; Whom first, our greatness to oppose, He in his vengeance mark'd for foes; Then, more to serve his wrathful ends, And more to curse us, mark'd for friends) Deep in the state, if we give credit To him, for no one else e'er said it, 1020 Sworn friend of great ones not a few, Though he their titles only knew, And those (which, envious of his breeding, Book-worms have charged to want of reading) Merely to show himself polite He never would pronounce aright; An orator with whom a host Of those which Rome and Athens boast, In all their pride might not contend; Who, with no powers to recommend, 1030 Whilst Jackey Hume, and Billy Whitehead, And Dicky Glover,[240] sat delighted, Could speak whole days in Nature's spite, Just as those able versemen write; Great Dulman from his bed arose— Thrice did he spit—thrice wiped his nose— Thrice strove to smile—thrice strove to frown— And thrice look'd up—and thrice look'd down— Then silence broke—'Crape, who am I?' Crape bow'd, and smiled an arch reply. 1040 'Am I not, Crape? I am, you know, Above all those who are below. Hare I not knowledge? and for wit, Money will always purchase it: Nor, if it needful should be found, Will I grudge ten or twenty pound, For which the whole stock may be bought Of scoundrel wits, not worth a groat. But lest I should proceed too far, I'll feel my friend the Minister, 1050 (Great men, Crape, must not be neglected) How he in this point is affected; For, as I stand a magistrate, To serve him first, and next the state, Perhaps he may not think it fit To let his magistrates have wit. Boast I not, at this very hour, Those large effects which troop with power? Am I not mighty in the land? Do not I sit whilst others stand? 1060 Am I not with rich garments graced, In seat of honour always placed? And do not cits of chief degree, Though proud to others, bend to me? Have I not, as a Justice ought, The laws such wholesome rigour taught, That Fornication, in disgrace, Is now afraid to show her face, And not one whore these walls approaches Unless they ride in their own coaches? 1070 And shall this Fame, an old poor strumpet, Without our licence sound her trumpet, And, envious of our city's quiet, In broad daylight blow up a riot? If insolence like this we bear, Where is our state? our office where? Farewell, all honours of our reign; Farewell, the neck-ennobling chain, Freedom's known badge o'er all the globe; Farewell, the solemn-spreading robe; 1080 Farewell, the sword; farewell, the mace; Farewell, all title, pomp, and place, Removed from men of high degree, (A loss to them, Crape, not to me) Banish'd to Chippenham or to Frome, Dulman once more shall ply the loom.' Crape, lifting up his hands and eyes, 'Dulman!—the loom!—at Chippenham!'—cries; 'If there be powers which greatness love, Which rule below, but dwell above, 1090 Those powers united all shall join To contradict the rash design. Sooner shall stubborn Will[241] lay down His opposition with his gown; Sooner shall Temple leave the road Which leads to Virtue's mean abode; Sooner shall Scots this country quit, And England's foes be friends to Pitt, Than Dulman, from his grandeur thrown, Shall wander outcast and unknown. 1100 Sure as that cane,' (a cane there stood Near to a table made of wood, Of dry fine wood a table made, By some rare artist in the trade, Who had enjoy'd immortal praise If he had lived in Homer's days) 'Sure as that cane, which once was seen In pride of life all fresh and green, The banks of Indus to adorn, Then, of its leafy honours shorn, 1110 According to exactest rule, Was fashion'd by the workman's tool, And which at present we behold Curiously polish'd, crown'd with gold, With gold well wrought; sure as that cane Shall never on its native plain Strike root afresh, shall never more Flourish in tawny India's shore, So sure shall Dulman and his race To latest times this station grace.' 1120 Dulman, who all this while had kept His eyelids closed as if he slept, Now looking steadfastly on Crape, As at some god in human shape: 'Crape, I protest, you seem to me To have discharged a prophecy: Yes—from the first it doth appear Planted by Fate, the Dulmans here Have always held a quiet reign, And here shall to the last remain. 1130 'Crape, they're all wrong about this ghost— Quite on the wrong side of the post— Blockheads! to take it in their head To be a message from the dead, For that by mission they design, A word not half so good as mine. Crape—here it is—start not one doubt— A plot—a plot—I've found it out.' 'O God!' cries Crape, 'how bless'd the nation, Where one son boasts such penetration!' 1140 'Crape, I've not time to tell you now When I discover'd this, or how; To Stentor[242] go—if he's not there, His place let Bully Norton bear— Our citizens to council call— Let all meet—'tis the cause of all: Let the three witnesses attend, With allegations to befriend, To swear just so much, and no more, As we instruct them in before. 1150 'Stay, Crape, come back—what! don't you see The effects of this discovery? Dulman all care and toil endures— The profit, Crape, will all be yours. A mitre, (for, this arduous task Perform'd, they'll grant whate'er I ask) A mitre (and perhaps the best) Shall, through my interest, make thee blest: And at this time, when gracious Fate Dooms to the Scot the reins of state, 1160 Who is more fit (and for your use We could some instances produce) Of England's Church to be the head, Than you, a Presbyterian bred? But when thus mighty you are made, Unlike the brethren of thy trade, Be grateful, Crape, and let me not, Like old Newcastle,[243] be forgot. But an affair, Crape, of this size Will ask from Conduct vast supplies; 1170 It must not, as the vulgar say, Be done in hugger-mugger way: Traitors, indeed (and that's discreet) Who hatch the plot, in private meet; They should in public go, no doubt, Whose business is to find it out. To-morrow—if the day appear Likely to turn out fair and clear— Proclaim a grand processionade[244]— Be all the city-pomp display'd, 1180 Let the Train-bands'—Crape shook his head— They heard the trumpet, and were fled— 'Well,' cries the Knight, 'if that's the case, My servants shall supply their place— My servants—mine alone—no more Than what my servants did before— Dost not remember, Crape, that day, When, Dulman's grandeur to display, As all too simple and too low, Our city friends were thrust below, 1190 Whilst, as more worthy of our love, Courtiers were entertain'd above? Tell me, who waited then? and how? My servants-mine: and why not now?— In haste then, Crape, to Stentor go— But send up Hart, who waits below; With him, till you return again, (Reach me my spectacles and cane) I'll make a proof how I advance in My new accomplishment of dancing.' 1200 Not quite so fast as lightning flies, Wing'd with red anger, through the skies; Not quite so fast as, sent by Jove, Iris descends on wings of love; Not quite so fast as Terror rides When he the chasing winds bestrides, Crape hobbled; but his mind was good— Could he go faster than he could? Near to that tower, which, as we're told, The mighty Julius raised of old, 1210 Where, to the block by Justice led, The rebel Scot hath often bled; Where arms are kept so clean, so bright, 'Twere sin they should be soil'd in fight; Where brutes of foreign race are shown By brutes much greater of our own; Fast by the crowded Thames, is found An ample square of sacred ground, Where artless Eloquence presides, And Nature every sentence guides. 1220 Here female parliaments debate About religion, trade, and state; Here every Naiad's patriot soul, Disdaining foreign base control, Despising French, despising Erse, Pours forth the plain old English curse, And bears aloft, with terrors hung, The honours of the vulgar tongue. Here Stentor, always heard with awe, In thundering accents deals out law: 1230 Twelve furlongs off each dreadful word Was plainly and distinctly heard, And every neighbour hill around Return'd and swell'd the mighty sound; The loudest virgin of the stream, Compared with him would silent seem; Thames, (who, enraged to find his course Opposed, rolls down with double force, Against the bridge indignant roars, And lashes the resounding shores) 1240 Compared with him, at lowest tide, In softest whispers seems to glide. Hither, directed by the noise, Swell'd with the hope of future joys, Through too much zeal and haste made lame, The reverend slave of Dulman came. 'Stentor'—with such a serious air, With such a face of solemn care, As might import him to contain A nation's welfare in his brain— 1250 'Stentor,' cries Crape. 'I'm hither sent On business of most high intent, Great Dulman's orders to convey; Dulman commands, and I obey; Big with those throes which patriots feel, And labouring for the commonweal, Some secret, which forbids him rest, Tumbles and tosses in his breast; Tumbles and tosses to get free, And thus the Chief commands by me: 1260 'To-morrow, if the day appear Likely to turn out fair and clear, Proclaim a grand processionade— Be all the city pomp display'd— Our citizens to council call— Let all meet—'tis the cause of all!'

BOOK IV.

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence To something of exalted sense 'Bove other men, and, gravely wise, Affect those pleasures to despise, Which, merely to the eye confined, Bring no improvement to the mind, Rail at all pomp; they would not go For millions to a puppet-show, Nor can forgive the mighty crime Of countenancing pantomime; 10 No, not at Covent Garden, where, Without a head for play or player, Or, could a head be found most fit, Without one player to second it, They must, obeying Folly's call, Thrive by mere show, or not at all With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!) Most cruel to themselves, take pains For wretchedness, and would be thought Much wiser than a wise man ought, 20 For his own happiness, to be; Who what they hear, and what they see, And what they smell, and taste, and feel, Distrust, till Reason sets her seal, And, by long trains of consequences Insured, gives sanction to the senses; Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste One hour in what the world calls Taste, Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry, Unless they know some reason why; 30 With these grave fops, whose system seems To give up certainty for dreams, The eye of man is understood As for no other purpose good Than as a door, through which, of course, Their passage crowding, objects force, A downright usher, to admit New-comers to the court of Wit: (Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen; When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean) 40 Where (such the practice of the court, Which legal precedents support) Not one idea is allow'd To pass unquestion'd in the crowd, But ere it can obtain the grace Of holding in the brain a place, Before the chief in congregation Must stand a strict examination. Not such as those, who physic twirl, Full fraught with death, from every curl; 50 Who prove, with all becoming state, Their voice to be the voice of Fate; Prepared with essence, drop, and pill, To be another Ward or Hill,[245] Before they can obtain their ends, To sign death-warrants for their friends, And talents vast as theirs employ, Secundum artem to destroy, Must pass (or laws their rage restrain) Before the chiefs of Warwick Lane:[246] 60 Thrice happy Lane! where, uncontroll'd, In power and lethargy grown old, Most fit to take, in this bless'd land, The reins—which fell from Wyndham's hand,[247] Her lawful throne great Dulness rears, Still more herself, as more in years; Where she, (and who shall dare deny Her right, when Reeves[248] and Chauncy's[249] by?) Calling to mind, in ancient time, One Garth,[250] who err'd in wit and rhyme, 70 Ordains, from henceforth, to admit None of the rebel sons of Wit, And makes it her peculiar care That Schomberg[251] never shall be there. Not such as those, whom Polly trains To letters, though unbless'd with brains, Who, destitute of power and will To learn, are kept to learning still; Whose heads, when other methods fail, Receive instruction from the tail, 80 Because their sires,—a common case Which brings the children to disgrace,— Imagine it a certain rule They never could beget a fool, Must pass, or must compound for, ere The chaplain, full of beef and prayer, Will give his reverend permit, Announcing them for orders fit; So that the prelate (what's a name? All prelates now are much the same) 90 May, with a conscience safe and quiet, With holy hands lay on that fiat Which doth all faculties dispense, All sanctity, all faith, all sense; Makes Madan[252] quite a saint appear, And makes an oracle of Cheere. Not such as in that solemn seat, Where the Nine Ladies hold retreat,— The Ladies Nine, who, as we're told, Scorning those haunts they loved of old, 100 The banks of Isis now prefer, Nor will one hour from Oxford stir,— Are held for form, which Balaam's ass As well as Balaam's self might pass, And with his master take degrees, Could he contrive to pay the fees. Men of sound parts, who, deeply read, O'erload the storehouse of the head With furniture they ne'er can use, Cannot forgive our rambling Muse 110 This wild excursion; cannot see Why Physic and Divinity, To the surprise of all beholders, Are lugg'd in by the head and shoulders; Or how, in any point of view, Oxford hath any thing to do. But men of nice and subtle learning, Remarkable for quick discerning, Through spectacles of critic mould, Without instruction, will behold 120 That we a method here have got To show what is, by what is not; And that our drift (parenthesis For once apart) is briefly this: Within the brain's most secret cells A certain Lord Chief-Justice dwells, Of sovereign power, whom, one and all, With common voice, we Reason call; Though, for the purposes of satire, A name, in truth, is no great matter; 130 Jefferies or Mansfield, which you will— It means a Lord Chief-Justice still. Here, so our great projectors say, The Senses all must homage pay; Hither they all must tribute bring, And prostrate fall before their king; Whatever unto them is brought, Is carried on the wings of Thought Before his throne, where, in full state, He on their merits holds debate, 140 Examines, cross-examines, weighs Their right to censure or to praise: Nor doth his equal voice depend On narrow views of foe and friend, Nor can, or flattery, or force Divert him from his steady course; The channel of Inquiry's clear, No sham examination's here. He, upright justicer, no doubt, Ad libitum puts in and out, 150 Adjusts and settles in a trice What virtue is, and what is vice; What is perfection, what defect; What we must choose, and what reject; He takes upon him to explain What pleasure is, and what is pain; Whilst we, obedient to the whim, And resting all our faith on him, True members of the Stoic Weal, Must learn to think, and cease to feel. 160 This glorious system, form'd for man To practise when and how he can, If the five Senses, in alliance, To Reason hurl a proud defiance, And, though oft conquer'd, yet unbroke, Endeavour to throw off that yoke, Which they a greater slavery hold Than Jewish bondage was of old; Or if they, something touch'd with shame, Allow him to retain the name 170 Of Royalty, and, as in sport, To hold a mimic formal court; Permitted—no uncommon thing— To be a kind of puppet king, And suffer'd, by the way of toy, To hold a globe, but not employ; Our system-mongers, struck with fear, Prognosticate destruction near; All things to anarchy must run; The little world of man's undone. 180 Nay, should the Eye, that nicest sense, Neglect to send intelligence Unto the Brain, distinct and clear, Of all that passes in her sphere; Should she, presumptuous, joy receive Without the Understanding's leave, They deem it rank and daring treason Against the monarchy of Reason, Not thinking, though they're wondrous wise, That few have reason, most have eyes; 190 So that the pleasures of the mind To a small circle are confined, Whilst those which to the senses fall Become the property of all. Besides, (and this is sure a case Not much at present out of place) Where Nature reason doth deny, No art can that defect supply; But if (for it is our intent Fairly to state the argument) 200 A man should want an eye or two, The remedy is sure, though new: The cure's at hand—no need of fear— For proof—behold the Chevalier![253]— As well prepared, beyond all doubt, To put eyes in, as put them out. But, argument apart, which tends To embitter foes and separate friends, (Nor, turn'd apostate from the Nine, Would I, though bred up a divine, 210 And foe, of course, to Reason's Weal, Widen that breach I cannot heal) By his own sense and feelings taught, In speech as liberal as in thought, Let every man enjoy his whim; What's he to me, or I to him? Might I, though never robed in ermine, A matter of this weight determine, No penalties should settled be To force men to hypocrisy, 220 To make them ape an awkward zeal, And, feeling not, pretend to feel. I would not have, might sentence rest Finally fix'd within my breast, E'en Annet[254] censured and confined, Because we're of a different mind. Nature, who, in her act most free, Herself delights in liberty, Profuse in love, and without bound, Pours joy on every creature round; 230 Whom yet, was every bounty shed In double portions on our head, We could not truly bounteous call, If Freedom did not crown them all. By Providence forbid to stray, Brutes never can mistake their way; Determined still, they plod along By instinct, neither right nor wrong; But man, had he the heart to use His freedom, hath a right to choose; 240 Whether he acts, or well, or ill, Depends entirely on his will. To her last work, her favourite Man, Is given, on Nature's better plan, A privilege in power to err. Nor let this phrase resentment stir Amongst the grave ones, since indeed The little merit man can plead In doing well, dependeth still Upon his power of doing ill. 250 Opinions should be free as air; No man, whate'er his rank, whate'er His qualities, a claim can found That my opinion must be bound, And square with his; such slavish chains From foes the liberal soul disdains; Nor can, though true to friendship, bend To wear them even from a friend. Let those, who rigid judgment own, Submissive bow at Judgment's throne, 260 And if they of no value hold Pleasure, till pleasure is grown cold, Pall'd and insipid, forced to wait For Judgment's regular debate To give it warrant, let them find Dull subjects suited to their mind. Theirs be slow wisdom; be my plan, To live as merry as I can, Regardless, as the fashions go, Whether there's reason for't or no: 270 Be my employment here on earth To give a liberal scope to mirth, Life's barren vale with flowers to adorn, And pluck a rose from every thorn. But if, by Error led astray, I chance to wander from my way, Let no blind guide observe, in spite, I'm wrong, who cannot set me right. That doctor could I ne'er endure Who found disease, and not a cure; 280 Nor can I hold that man a friend Whose zeal a helping hand shall lend To open happy Folly's eyes, And, making wretched, make me wise: For next (a truth which can't admit Reproof from Wisdom or from Wit) To being happy here below, Is to believe that we are so. Some few in knowledge find relief; I place my comfort in belief. 290 Some for reality may call; Fancy to me is all in all. Imagination, through the trick Of doctors, often makes us sick; And why, let any sophist tell, May it not likewise make us well? This I am sure, whate'er our view, Whatever shadows we pursue, For our pursuits, be what they will, Are little more than shadows still; 300 Too swift they fly, too swift and strong, For man to catch or hold them long; But joys which in the fancy live, Each moment to each man may give: True to himself, and true to ease, He softens Fate's severe decrees, And (can a mortal wish for more?) Creates, and makes himself new o'er, Mocks boasted vain reality, And is, whate'er he wants to be. 310 Hail, Fancy!—to thy power I owe Deliverance from the gripe of Woe; To thee I owe a mighty debt, Which Gratitude shall ne'er forget, Whilst Memory can her force employ, A large increase of every joy. When at my doors, too strongly barr'd, Authority had placed a guard,[255] A knavish guard, ordain'd by law To keep poor Honesty in awe; 320 Authority, severe and stern, To intercept my wish'd return; When foes grew proud, and friends grew cool, And laughter seized each sober fool; When Candour started in amaze, And, meaning censure, hinted praise; When Prudence, lifting up her eyes And hands, thank'd Heaven that she was wise; When all around me, with an air Of hopeless sorrow, look'd despair; 330 When they, or said, or seem'd to say, There is but one, one only way Better, and be advised by us, Not be at all, than to be thus; When Virtue shunn'd the shock, and Pride, Disabled, lay by Virtue's side, Too weak my ruffled soul to cheer, Which could not hope, yet would not fear; Health in her motion, the wild grace Of pleasure speaking in her face, 340 Dull regularity thrown by, And comfort beaming from her eye, Fancy, in richest robes array'd, Came smiling forth, and brought me aid; Came smiling o'er that dreadful time, And, more to bless me, came in rhyme. Nor is her power to me confined; It spreads, it comprehends mankind. When (to the spirit-stirring sound Of trumpets breathing courage round, 350 And fifes well-mingled, to restrain And bring that courage down again; Or to the melancholy knell Of the dull, deep, and doleful bell, Such as of late the good Saint Bride[256] Muffled, to mortify the pride Of those who, England quite forgot, Paid their vile homage to the Scot; Where Asgill held the foremost place, Whilst my lord figured at a race) 360 Processions ('tis not worth debate Whether they are of stage or state) Move on, so very, very slow, Tis doubtful if they move, or no; When the performers all the while Mechanically frown or smile, Or, with a dull and stupid stare, A vacancy of sense declare, Or, with down-bending eye, seem wrought Into a labyrinth of thought, 370 Where Reason wanders still in doubt, And, once got in, cannot get out; What cause sufficient can we find, To satisfy a thinking mind, Why, duped by such vain farces, man Descends to act on such a plan? Why they, who hold themselves divine, Can in such wretched follies join, Strutting like peacocks, or like crows, Themselves and Nature to expose? 380 What cause, but that (you'll understand We have our remedy at hand, That if perchance we start a doubt, Ere it is fix'd, we wipe it out; As surgeons, when they lop a limb, Whether for profit, fame, or whim, Or mere experiment to try, Must always have a styptic by) Fancy steps in, and stamps that real, Which, ipso facto, is ideal. 390 Can none remember?—yes, I know, All must remember that rare show When to the country Sense went down, And fools came flocking up to town; When knights (a work which all admit To be for knighthood much unfit) Built booths for hire; when parsons play'd, In robes canonical array'd, And, fiddling, join'd the Smithfield dance, The price of tickets to advance: 400 Or, unto tapsters turn'd, dealt out, Running from booth to booth about, To every scoundrel, by retail, True pennyworths of beef and ale, Then first prepared, by bringing beer in, For present grand electioneering; When heralds, running all about To bring in Order, turn'd it out; When, by the prudent Marshal's care, Lest the rude populace should stare, 410 And with unhallow'd eyes profane Gay puppets of Patrician strain, The whole procession, as in spite, Unheard, unseen, stole off by night; When our loved monarch, nothing both, Solemnly took that sacred oath, Whence mutual firm agreements spring Betwixt the subject and the king, By which, in usual manner crown'd, His head, his heart, his hands, he bound, 420 Against himself, should passion stir The least propensity to err, Against all slaves, who might prepare, Or open force, or hidden snare, That glorious Charter to maintain, By which we serve, and he must reign; Then Fancy, with unbounded sway, Revell'd sole mistress of the day, And wrought such wonders, as might make Egyptian sorcerers forsake 430 Their baffled mockeries, and own The palm of magic hers alone. A knight, (who, in the silken lap Of lazy Peace, had lived on pap; Who never yet had dared to roam 'Bove ten or twenty miles from home, Nor even that, unless a guide Was placed to amble by his side, And troops of slaves were spread around To keep his Honour safe and sound; 440 Who could not suffer, for his life, A point to sword, or edge to knife; And always fainted at the sight Of blood, though 'twas not shed in fight; Who disinherited one son For firing off an alder gun, And whipt another, six years old, Because the boy, presumptuous, bold To madness, likely to become A very Swiss, had beat a drum, 450 Though it appear'd an instrument Most peaceable and innocent, Having, from first, been in the hands And service of the City bands) Graced with those ensigns, which were meant To further Honour's dread intent, The minds of warriors to inflame, And spur them on to deeds of fame; With little sword, large spurs, high feather, Fearless of every thing but weather, 460 (And all must own, who pay regard To charity, it had been hard That in his very first campaign His honours should be soil'd with rain) A hero all at once became, And (seeing others much the same In point of valour as himself, Who leave their courage on a shelf From year to year, till some such rout In proper season calls it out) 470 Strutted, look'd big, and swagger'd more Than ever hero did before; Look'd up, look'd down, look'd all around, Like Mavors, grimly smiled and frown'd; Seem'd Heaven, and Earth, and Hell to call To fight, that he might rout them all, And personated Valour's style So long, spectators to beguile, That, passing strange, and wondrous true, Himself at last believed it too; 480 Nor for a time could he discern, Till Truth and Darkness took their turn, So well did Fancy play her part, That coward still was at the heart. Whiffle (who knows not Whiffle's name, By the impartial voice of Fame Recorded first through all this land In Vanity's illustrious band?) Who, by all-bounteous Nature meant For offices of hardiment, 490 A modern Hercules at least, To rid the world of each wild beast, Of each wild beast which came in view, Whether on four legs or on two, Degenerate, delights to prove His force on the parade of Love, Disclaims the joys which camps afford, And for the distaff quits the sword; Who fond of women would appear To public eye and public ear, 500 But, when in private, lets them know How little they can trust to show; Who sports a woman, as of course, Just as a jockey shows a horse, And then returns her to the stable, Or vainly plants her at his table, Where he would rather Venus find (So pall'd, and so depraved his mind) Than, by some great occasion led, To seize her panting in her bed, 510 Burning with more than mortal fires, And melting in her own desires; Who, ripe in years, is yet a child, Through fashion, not through feeling, wild; Whate'er in others, who proceed As Sense and Nature have decreed, From real passion flows, in him Is mere effect of mode and whim; Who laughs, a very common way, Because he nothing has to say, 520 As your choice spirits oaths dispense To fill up vacancies of sense; Who, having some small sense, defies it, Or, using, always misapplies it; Who now and then brings something forth Which seems indeed of sterling worth; Something, by sudden start and fit, Which at a distance looks like wit, But, on examination near, To his confusion will appear, 530 By Truth's fair glass, to be at best A threadbare jester's threadbare jest; Who frisks and dances through the street, Sings without voice, rides without seat, Plays o'er his tricks, like Aesop's ass, A gratis fool to all who pass; Who riots, though he loves not waste, Whores without lust, drinks without taste, Acts without sense, talks without thought, Does every thing but what he ought; 540 Who, led by forms, without the power Of vice, is vicious; who one hour, Proud without pride, the next will be Humble without humility: Whose vanity we all discern, The spring on which his actions turn; Whose aim in erring, is to err, So that he may be singular, And all his utmost wishes mean Is, though he's laugh'd at, to be seen: 550 Such, (for when Flattery's soothing strain Had robb'd the Muse of her disdain, And found a method to persuade Her art to soften every shade, Justice, enraged, the pencil snatch'd From her degenerate hand, and scratch'd Out every trace; then, quick as thought, From life this striking likeness caught) In mind, in manners, and in mien, Such Whiffle came, and such was seen 560 In the world's eye; but (strange to tell!) Misled by Fancy's magic spell, Deceived, not dreaming of deceit, Cheated, but happy in the cheat, Was more than human in his own. Oh, bow, bow all at Fancy's throne, Whose power could make so vile an elf With patience bear that thing, himself. But, mistress of each art to please, Creative Fancy, what are these, 570 These pageants of a trifler's pen, To what thy power effected then? Familiar with the human mind, And swift and subtle as the wind, Which we all feel, yet no one knows, Or whence it comes, or where it goes, Fancy at once in every part Possess'd the eye, the head, the heart, And in a thousand forms array'd, A thousand various gambols play'd. 580 Here, in a face which well might ask The privilege to wear a mask In spite of law, and Justice teach For public good to excuse the breach, Within the furrow of a wrinkle 'Twixt eyes, which could not shine but twinkle, Like sentinels i' th' starry way, Who wait for the return of day, Almost burnt out, and seem to keep Their watch, like soldiers, in their sleep; 590 Or like those lamps, which, by the power Of law,[257] must burn from hour to hour, (Else they, without redemption, fall Under the terrors of that Hall,[258] Which, once notorious for a hop, Is now become a justice shop) Which are so managed, to go out Just when the time comes round about, Which yet, through emulation, strive To keep their dying light alive, 600 And (not uncommon, as we find, Amongst the children of mankind) As they grow weaker, would seem stronger, And burn a little, little longer: Fancy, betwixt such eyes enshrined, No brush to daub, no mill to grind, Thrice waved her wand around, whose force Changed in an instant Nature's course, And, hardly credible in rhyme, Not only stopp'd, but call'd back Time; 610 The face of every wrinkle clear'd, Smooth as the floating stream appear'd, Down the neck ringlets spread their flame, The neck admiring whence they came; On the arch'd brow the Graces play'd; On the full bosom Cupid laid; Suns, from their proper orbits sent, Became for eyes a supplement; Teeth, white as ever teeth were seen, Deliver'd from the hand of Green, 620 Started, in regular array, Like train-bands on a grand field day, Into the gums, which would have fled, But, wondering, turn'd from white to red; Quite alter'd was the whole machine, And Lady —— —— was fifteen. Here she made lordly temples rise Before the pious Dashwood's eyes, Temples which, built aloft in air, May serve for show, if not for prayer; 630 In solemn form herself, before, Array'd like Faith, the Bible bore. There over Melcombe's feather'd head— Who, quite a man of gingerbread, Savour'd in talk, in dress, and phiz, More of another world than this, To a dwarf Muse a giant page, The last grave fop of the last age— In a superb and feather'd hearse, Bescutcheon'd and betagg'd with verse, 640 Which, to beholders from afar, Appear'd like a triumphal car, She rode, in a cast rainbow clad; There, throwing off the hallow'd plaid, Naked, as when (in those drear cells Where, self-bless'd, self-cursed, Madness dwells) Pleasure, on whom, in Laughter's shape, Frenzy had perfected a rape, First brought her forth, before her time, Wild witness of her shame and crime, 650 Driving before an idol band Of drivelling Stuarts, hand in hand; Some who, to curse mankind, had wore A crown they ne'er must think of more; Others, whose baby brows were graced With paper crowns, and toys of paste, She jigg'd, and, playing on the flute, Spread raptures o'er the soul of Bute. Big with vast hopes, some mighty plan, Which wrought the busy soul of man 660 To her full bent; the Civil Law, Fit code to keep a world in awe, Bound o'er his brows, fair to behold, As Jewish frontlets were of old; The famous Charter of our land Defaced, and mangled in his hand; As one whom deepest thoughts employ, But deepest thoughts of truest joy, Serious and slow he strode, he stalk'd; Before him troops of heroes walk'd, 670 Whom best he loved, of heroes crown'd, By Tories guarded all around; Dull solemn pleasure in his face, He saw the honours of his race, He saw their lineal glories rise, And touch'd, or seem'd to touch, the skies: Not the most distant mark of fear, No sign of axe or scaffold near, Not one cursed thought to cross his will Of such a place as Tower Hill. 680 Curse on this Muse, a flippant jade, A shrew, like every other maid Who turns the corner of nineteen, Devour'd with peevishness and spleen; Her tongue (for as, when bound for life, The husband suffers for the wife, So if in any works of rhyme Perchance there blunders out a crime, Poor culprit bards must always rue it, Although 'tis plain the Muses do it) 690 Sooner or later cannot fail To send me headlong to a jail. Whate'er my theme, (our themes we choose, In modern days, without a Muse; Just as a father will provide To join a bridegroom and a bride, As if, though they must be the players, The game was wholly his, not theirs) Whate'er my theme, the Muse, who still Owns no direction but her will, 700 Plies off, and ere I could expect, By ways oblique and indirect, At once quite over head and ears In fatal politics appears. Time was, and, if I aught discern Of fate, that time shall soon return, When, decent and demure at least, As grave and dull as any priest, I could see Vice in robes array'd, Could see the game of Folly play'd 710 Successfully in Fortune's school, Without exclaiming rogue or fool. Time was, when, nothing both or proud, I lackey'd with the fawning crowd, Scoundrels in office, and would bow To cyphers great in place; but now Upright I stand, as if wise Fate, To compliment a shatter'd state, Had me, like Atlas, hither sent To shoulder up the firmament, 720 And if I stoop'd, with general crack, The heavens would tumble from my back. Time was, when rank and situation Secured the great ones of the nation From all control; satire and law Kept only little knaves in awe; But now, Decorum lost, I stand Bemused, a pencil in my hand, And, dead to every sense of shame, Careless of safety and of fame, 730 The names of scoundrels minute down, And libel more than half the town. How can a statesman be secure In all his villanies, if poor And dirty authors thus shall dare To lay his rotten bosom bare? Muses should pass away their time In dressing out the poet's rhyme With bills, and ribands, and array Each line in harmless taste, though gay; 740 When the hot burning fit is on, They should regale their restless son With something to allay his rage, Some cool Castalian beverage, Or some such draught (though they, 'tis plain, Taking the Muse's name in vain, Know nothing of their real court, And only fable from report) As makes a Whitehead's Ode go down, Or slakes the Feverette of Brown:[259] 750 But who would in his senses think, Of Muses giving gall to drink, Or that their folly should afford To raving poets gun or sword? Poets were ne'er designed by Fate To meddle with affairs of state, Nor should (if we may speak our thought Truly as men of honour ought) Sound policy their rage admit, To launch the thunderbolts of Wit 760 About those heads, which, when they're shot, Can't tell if 'twas by Wit or not. These things well known, what devil, in spite, Can have seduced me thus to write Out of that road, which must have led To riches, without heart or head, Into that road, which, had I more Than ever poet had before Of wit and virtue, in disgrace Would keep me still, and out of place; 770 Which, if some judge (you'll understand One famous, famous through the land For making law[260]) should stand my friend, At last may in a pillory end; And all this, I myself admit, Without one cause to lead to it? For instance, now—this book—the Ghost— Methinks I hear some critic Post Remark most gravely—'The first word Which we about the Ghost have heard.' 780 Peace, my good sir!—not quite so fast— What is the first, may be the last, Which is a point, all must agree, Cannot depend on you or me. Fanny, no ghost of common mould, Is not by forms to be controll'd; To keep her state, and show her skill, She never comes but when she will. I wrote and wrote, (perhaps you doubt, And shrewdly, what I wrote about; 790 Believe me, much to my disgrace, I, too, am in the self-same case;) But still I wrote, till Fanny came Impatient, nor could any shame On me with equal justice fall If she had never come at all. An underling, I could not stir Without the cue thrown out by her, Nor from the subject aid receive Until she came and gave me leave. 800 So that, (ye sons of Erudition Mark, this is but a supposition, Nor would I to so wise a nation Suggest it as a revelation) If henceforth, dully turning o'er Page after page, ye read no more Of Fanny, who, in sea or air, May be departed God knows where, Rail at jilt Fortune; but agree No censure can be laid on me; 810 For sure (the cause let Mansfield try) Fanny is in the fault, not I. But, to return—and this I hold A secret worth its weight in gold To those who write, as I write now, Not to mind where they go, or how, Through ditch, through bog, o'er hedge and stile, Make it but worth the reader's while, And keep a passage fair and plain Always to bring him back again. 820 Through dirt, who scruples to approach, At Pleasure's call, to take a coach? But we should think the man a clown, Who in the dirt should set us down. But to return—if Wit, who ne'er The shackles of restraint could bear, In wayward humour should refuse Her timely succour to the Muse, And, to no rules and orders tied, Roughly deny to be her guide, 830 She must renounce Decorum's plan, And get back when, and how she can; As parsons, who, without pretext, As soon as mention'd, quit their text, And, to promote sleep's genial power, Grope in the dark for half an hour, Give no more reason (for we know Reason is vulgar, mean, and low) Why they come back (should it befall That ever they come back at all) 840 Into the road, to end their rout, Than they can give why they went out. But to return—this book—the Ghost— A mere amusement at the most; A trifle, fit to wear away The horrors of a rainy day; A slight shot-silk, for summer wear, Just as our modern statesmen are, If rigid honesty permit That I for once purloin the wit 850 Of him, who, were we all to steal, Is much too rich the theft to feel: Yet in this book, where Base should join With Mirth to sugar every line; Where it should all be mere chit-chat, Lively, good-humour'd, and all that; Where honest Satire, in disgrace, Should not so much as show her face, The shrew, o'erleaping all due bounds, Breaks into Laughter's sacred grounds, 860 And, in contempt, plays o'er her tricks In science, trade, and politics. By why should the distemper'd scold Attempt to blacken men enroll'd In Power's dread book, whose mighty skill Can twist an empire to their will; Whose voice is fate, and on their tongue Law, liberty, and life are hung; Whom, on inquiry, Truth shall find With Stuarts link'd, time out of mind, 870 Superior to their country's laws, Defenders of a tyrant's cause; Men, who the same damn'd maxims hold Darkly, which they avow'd of old; Who, though by different means, pursue The end which they had first in view, And, force found vain, now play their part With much less honour, much more art? Why, at the corners of the streets, To every patriot drudge she meets, 880 Known or unknown, with furious cry Should she wild clamours vent? or why, The minds of groundlings to inflame, A Dashwood, Bute, and Wyndham name? Why, having not, to our surprise, The fear of death before her eyes, Bearing, and that but now and then, No other weapon but her pen, Should she an argument afford For blood to men who wear a sword? 890 Men, who can nicely trim and pare A point of honour to a hair— (Honour!—a word of nice import, A pretty trinket in a court, Which my lord, quite in rapture, feels Dangling and rattling with his seals— Honour!—a word which all the Nine Would be much puzzled to define— Honour!—a word which torture mocks, And might confound a thousand Lockes— 900 Which—for I leave to wiser heads, Who fields of death prefer to beds Of down, to find out, if they can, What honour is, on their wild plan— Is not, to take it in their way, And this we sure may dare to say Without incurring an offence, Courage, law, honesty, or sense): Men, who, all spirit, life, and soul Neat butchers of a button-hole, 910 Having more skill, believe it true That they must have more courage too: Men who, without a place or name, Their fortunes speechless as their fame, Would by the sword new fortunes carve, And rather die in fight than starve At coronations, a vast field, Which food of every kind might yield; Of good sound food, at once most fit For purposes of health and wit, 920 Could not ambitious Satire rest, Content with what she might digest? Could she not feast on things of course, A champion, or a champion's horse? A champion's horse—no, better say, Though better figured on that day,[261] A horse, which might appear to us, Who deal in rhyme, a Pegasus; A rider, who, when once got on, Might pass for a Bellerophon, 930 Dropt on a sudden from the skies, To catch and fix our wondering eyes, To witch, with wand instead of whip, The world with noble horsemanship, To twist and twine, both horse and man, On such a well-concerted plan, That, Centaur-like, when all was done, We scarce could think they were not one? Could she not to our itching ears Bring the new names of new-coin'd peers, 940 Who walk'd, nobility forgot, With shoulders fitter for a knot Than robes of honour; for whose sake Heralds in form were forced to make, To make, because they could not find, Great predecessors to their mind? Could she not (though 'tis doubtful since Whether he plumber is, or prince) Tell of a simple knight's advance To be a doughty peer of France? 950 Tell how he did a dukedom gain, And Robinson was Aquitain? Tell how her city chiefs, disgraced, Were at an empty table placed,— A gross neglect, which, whilst they live, They can't forget, and won't forgive; A gross neglect of all those rights Which march with city appetites, Of all those canons, which we find By Gluttony, time out of mind, 960 Established, which they ever hold Dearer than any thing but gold? Thanks to my stars—I now see shore— Of courtiers, and of courts no more— Thus stumbling on my city friends, Blind Chance my guide, my purpose bends In line direct, and shall pursue The point which I had first in view, Nor more shall with the reader sport Till I have seen him safe in port. 970 Hush'd be each fear—no more I bear Through the wide regions of the air The reader terrified, no more Wild ocean's horrid paths explore. Be the plain track from henceforth mine— Cross roads to Allen I resign; Allen, the honor of this nation; Allen, himself a corporation; Allen, of late notorious grown For writings, none, or all, his own; 980 Allen, the first of letter'd men, Since the good Bishop[262] holds his pen, And at his elbow takes his stand, To mend his head, and guide his hand. But hold—once more, Digression hence— Let us return to Common Sense; The car of Phoebus I discharge, My carriage now a Lord Mayor's barge. Suppose we now—we may suppose In verse, what would be sin in prose— 990 The sky with darkness overspread, And every star retired to bed; The gewgaw robes