TO THE RIGHT HON. 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 asserter, 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: 20
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 quidnunck 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 Constantian 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 cann'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 unfeigned 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 Freemason with some terror names;
Omits no duty; nor can Envy say
He miss'd, these many years, the church or play: 70
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 outbow the bowing Dean:
A smile eternal on his lips 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' assembly 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?
To deck my list by Nature were design'd Such shining expletives of humankind,
Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along. Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.
To counterpoise this hero of the mode,
Some for renown are singular and odd;
What other men dislike is sure to please,
Of all mankind, these dear antipodes:
Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still;
And birth-days are their days of dressing ill.
Arb-t is a fool, and E--
------ a sage,
S---ly will fright you, E----- engage:
By Nature streams run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and S-----x is the worst of friends.
They take their rest by day, and wake by night,
And blush if you surprise them in the right;
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,
A swan is white, or Q-----y is fair.
Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out;
His passion for absurdity 's so strong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong.
Tho' wrong the mode, comply: more sense is shewn In wearing others' follies than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime
Than S-----, the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,
His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances,
And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,
Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat which Joseph never wore!
He shews, on holidays, a sacred pin
That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's chin.
"Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,
"Since the great plague that swept as many more,
"Was ever year unbless'd as this?" he'll cry,
"It has not brought us one new butterfly!"
In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,
Unhappy I------y! how came you to please?
Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game,
But in effect his chase is much the same:
Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title and estate:
Where'er their lordships go, they never find
Or Lico or their shadows lag behind;
He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,
Close at their elbows, as a morning-dun;
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