Oh! mortals, short of sight, who think the past O'erblown misfortune still shall prove the last: Alas! misfortunes travel in a train, And oft in life form one perpetual chain; Fear buries fear, and ills on ills attend, Till life and sorrow meet one common end.
She thinks that she has nought but death to fear, And death is conquer'd. Worse than death is
Her rigid trials are not yet complete ;
The news arrives of her great father's fate:
She sees his hoary head, all white with age,
A victim to th' offended monarch's rage.
How great the mercy, had she breath'd her last,
Ere the dire sentence on her father past!
A fonder parent Nature never knew ;
And as his age increas'd, his fondness grew.
A parent's love ne'er better was bestow'd;
The pious daughter in her heart o'erflow'd.
And can she from all weakness still refrain ?.
And still the firmness of her soul maintain?
Impossible! a sigh will force its way;
One patient tear her mortal birth betray;
Hic pietatis honos? sic nos in sceptra reponis? ·
HER Guilford clasps her, beautiful in death,
And with a kiss recalls her fleeting breath.
To tapers thus, which by a blast expire,
A lighted taper, touch'd, restores the fire:
She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,
And Guilford too, or she had loath'd the sight:
Her father's death she bore, despis'd her own,
But now she must, she will, have leave to groan:
"Ah! Guilford," she began, and would have spoke;
But sobs rush'd in, and every accent broke:
Reason itself, as gusts of passion blew,
Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew,
So the youth lost his image in the well,
When tears upon the yielding surface fell:
The scatter'd features slid into decay,
And spreading circles drove his face away.
To touch the soft affections, and control
The manly temper of the bravest soul,
She weeps, and weeps! but so she weeps and What with afflicted beauty can compare,
As silent dews descend, and vapours rise.
Celestial Patience! how dost thou defeat
The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate?
While Passion takes his part, betrays our peace;
To death and torture swells each slight disgrace;
By not opposing, thou dost ills destroy,
And wear thy conquer'd sorrows into joy.
Now she revolves within her anxious mind,
What woe still lingers in reserve behind.
Griefs rise on griefs, and she can see no bound,
While Nature lasts, and can receive a wound.
The sword is drawn: the queen to rage inclin'd,
By mercy, nor by piety, confin'd.
What mercy can the zealot's heart assuage,
Whose piety itself converts to rage?
She thought, and sigh'd. And now the
began
And drops of love distilling from the fair?
It melts us down; our pains delight bestow;
And we with fondness languish o'er our woe.
This Guilford prov'd; and, with excess of pain,
And pleasure too, did to his bosom strain
The weeping fair: sunk deep in soft desire,
Indulg'd his love, and nurs'd the raging fire:
Then tore himself away; and, standing wide,
As fearing a relapse of fondness, cried,.
With ill-dissembled grief; "My life, forbear!
You wound your Guilford with each cruel tear :
Did you not chide my grief?-Repress your own;
Nor want compassion for yourself alone:
Have you beheld, how, from the distant main,
The thronging waves roll on, a numerous train,
And foam, and bellow, till they reach the shore;
bloodThere burst their noisy pride, and are no more;
Thus the successive flows of human race,
Chas'd by the coming, the preceding chase;
They sound, and swell, their haughty heads they
To leave her beauteous cheek all cold and wan.
New sorrow dimm'd the lustre of her eye,
And on her cheek the fading roses die.
Alas! should Guilford too-when now she's brought
To that dire view, that precipice of thought,
While there she trembling stands, nor dares look
down,
Nor can recede, till Heaven's decrees are known;
Cure of all ills, till now her lord appears-
But not to cheer her heart and dry her tears!
Not now, as usual, like the rising day,
To chase the shadows and the damps away:
But, like a gloomy storm, at once to sweep
And plunge her to the bottom of the deep.
Black were his robes, dejected was his air,
His voice was frozen by his cold despair:
Slow, like a ghost, he mov'd with solemn pace;
A dying paleness sat upon his face.
Back she recoil'd, she smote her lovely breast,
Her eyes the anguish of her heart confess'd;
Struck to the soul, she stagger'd with the wound,
And sunk, a breathless image, to the ground.
Thus the fair lily, when the sky's o'ercast,
At first but shudders in the feeble blast;
But when the winds and weighty rains descend,
The fair and upright stem is forc'd to bend ;
Till broke at length, its snowy leaves are shed,
And strew with dying sweets their native bed.
Then fall, and flatten, break, and disappear.
Life is a forfeit we must shortly pay;
And where's the mighty lucre of a day?
Why should you mourn my fate? 'Tis most unkind;
Your own you bore with an unshaken mind:
And which, can you imagine, was the dart
That drank most blood, sunk deepest in my heart?
I cannot live without you; and my doom
I meet with joy, to share one common tomb.-
And are again your tears profusely spilt!
Oh! then, my kindness blackens to my guilt;
It foils itself, if it recall your pain;
Life of my life, I beg you to refrain!
The load which Fate imposes, you increase;
And help, Maria, to destroy my peace."
But, oh! against himself his labour turn'd;
The more He comforted, the more She mourn'd:
Compassion swells our grief; words soft and kind
But sooth our weakness, and dissolve the mind:
Her sorrow flow'd in streams: nor her's alone;
While that he blam'd, he yielded to his own.
Where are the smiles she wore, when she, so late,
Hail'd him great partner of the regal state;
When orient gems around her temples blaz'd,
And bending nations on the glory gaz'd ?
And her soul trembles for the great event.
'Tis now the queen's command, they both retreat, | Life seems suspended, on his words intent;
To weep with dignity, and mourn in state :
She forms the decent misery with joy,
And loads with pomp the wretch she would destroy.
A spacious hall is hung with black; all light
Shut out, and noon-day darken'd into night.
From the mid-roof a lamp depends on high,
Like a dim crescent in a clouded sky:
It sheds a quivering melancholy gloom,
Which only shows the darkness of the room.
A shining axe is on the table laid;
A dreadful sight! and glitters through the shade.
In this sad scene the lovers are confin'd;
A scene of terrours, to a guilty mind!
A scene, that would have damp'd with rising cares,
And quite extinguish'd, every love but theirs.
What can they do? They fix their mournful eyes-
Then Guilford, thus abruptly; “I despise
An empire lost; I fling away the crown;
Numbers have laid that bright delusion down;
But where's the Charles, or Dioclesian where,
Could quit the blooming, wedded, weeping fair?
Oh! to dwell ever on thy lip! to stand
In full possession of thy snowy hand!
And, through th' unclouded crystal of thine eye,
The heavenly treasures of the mind to spy!
Till rapture reason happily destroys,
And my soul wanders through immortal joys!
Give me the world, and ask me, Where's my bliss?
I clasp thee to my breast, and answer, This.
And shall the grave"-He groans, and can no more;
But all her charms in silence traces o'er;
Her lip, her cheek, and eye, to wonder wrought;
And, wondering, sees, in sad presaging thought,
From that fair neck, that world of beauty fall,
And roll along the dust, a ghastly ball!
Oh! let those tremble, who are greatly bless'd!
For who, but Guilford, could be thus distress'd?
Come hither, all you happy, all you great,
From flowery meadows, and from rooms of state;
Nor think I call, your pleasures to destroy,
But to refine, and to exalt your joy:
Weep not; but, smiling, fix your ardent care
On nobler titles than the brave or fair.
Was ever such a mournful, moving, sight?
See, if you can, by that dull, trembling, light:
Now they embrace; and, mix'd with bitter woe,
Like Isis and her Thames, one stream they flow:
Now they start wide; fix'd in benumbing care,
They stiffen into statues of despair:
Now, tenderly severe, and fiercely kind,
They rush at once; they fling their cares behind,
And clasp, as if to death; new vows repeat;
And, quite wrapp'd up in love, forget their fate.
A short delusion! for the raging pain
Returns; and their poor hearts must bleed again.
Meantime, the queen new cruelty decreed;
But ill content that they should only bleed,
A priest is sent; who, with insidious art,
Instills his poison into Suffolk's heart;
And Guilford drank it: hanging on the breast,
He from his childhood was with Rome possest.
When now the ministers of death draw nigh,
And in her dearest lord she first must die,
The subtle priest, who long had watch'd to find
The most unguarded passes of her mind,
Fespoke her thus: "Grieve not, 'tis in your power
Your lord to rescue from this fatal hour."
Her bosom pants; she draws her breath with pain;
A sudden horrour thrills through every vein;
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The priest proceeds: “Embrace the faith of Rome,
And ward your own, your lord's, and father's doom."
Ye blessed spirits! now your charge sustain;
The past was ease; now first she suffers pain.
Must she pronounce her father's death? must she
Bid Guilford bleed?-It must not, cannot, be.
It cannot be! But 't is the Christian's praise,
Above impossibilities to raise
The weakness of our nature; and deride
Of vain philosophy the boasted pride,
What though our feeble sinews scarce impart
A moment's swiftness to the feather'd dart;
Though tainted air our vigorous youth can break,
And a chill blast the hardy warrior shake,
Yet are we strong: hear the loud tempest roar
From east to west, and call us weak no more;
The lightning's unresisted force proclaims
Our might; and thunders raise our humble names;
'Tis our Jehovah fills the Heavens; as long
As he shall reign Almighty, we are strong:
We, by devotion, borrow from his throne ;
And almost make Omnipotence our own :
We force the gates of Heaven by fervent prayer;
And call forth triumph out of man's despair.
Our lovely mourner, kneeling, lifts her eyes
And bleeding heart, in silence, to the skies,
Devoutly sad-Then, brightening, like the day,
When sudden winds sweep scatter'd clouds away,
Shining in majesty, till now`unknown ;
And breathing life and spirit scarce her own;
She, rising, speaks: "If these the terms-
Here, Guilford, cruel Guilford, (barbarous man!
Is this thy love?) as swift as lightning ran;
O'erwhelm'd her, with tempestuous sorrow fraught,
And stifled, in its birth, the mighty thought;
Then bursting fresh into a flood of tears,
Fierce, resolute, delirious with his fears;
His fears for her alone: he beat his breast,
And thus the fervour of his soul exprest:
"Oh! let thy thought o'er our past converse rove,
And show one moment uninflam'd with love!
Oh! if thy kindness can no longer last,
In pity to thyself, forget the past!
Else wilt thou never, void of shame and fear,
Pronounce his doom, whom thou hast held so dear:
Thou who hast took me to thy arms, and swore
Empires were vile, and Fate could give no more;
That to continue, was its utmost power,
And make the future like the present hour.
Now call a ruffian; bid his cruel sword
Lay wide the bosom of thy worthless lord;
Transfix his heart (since you its love disclaim),
And stain his honour with a traitor's name.
This might perhaps be borne without remorse ;
But sure a father's pangs will have their force!
Shall his good age, so near its journey's end,
Through cruel torment to the grave descend?
His shallow blood all issue at a wound,
Wash a slave's feet, and smoke upon the ground?
But he to you has ever been severe;
Then take your vengeance"-Suffolk now drew
near;
Bending beneath the burthen of his care;
His robes neglected, and his head was bare;
Decrepit Winter, in the yearly ring,
Thus slowly creeps, to meet the blooming Spring:
Downward he cast a melancholy look;
Thrice turn'd, to hide his grief; then faintly spoke:
"Now deep in years, and forward in decay,
That axe can only rob me of a day;
For thee, my soul's desire! I can't refrain ;
And shall my tears, my last tears, flow in vain?
When you shall know a mother's tender name,
My heart's distress no longer will you blame."
At this, afar his bursting groans were heard ;
The tears ran trickling down his silver beard:
He snatch'd her hand, which to his lips he prest,
And bid her plant a dagger in his breast;
Then, sinking, call'd her piety unjust,
And soil'd his hoary temples in the dust.
Hard-hearted men! will you no mercy know?
Has the queen brib'd you to distress her foe?
O weak deserters to misfortune's part,
By false affection thus to pierce her heart!
When she had soar'd, to let your arrows fly,
And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky!
And can her virtue, springing from the ground,
Her flight recover, and disdain the wound,
When cleaving love, and human interest, bind
The broken force of her aspiring mind;
As round the generous eagle, which in vain
Exerts her strength, the serpent wreaths his train,
Her struggling wings entangles, curling plies
His poisonous tail, and stings her as she flies!
While yet the blow's first dreadful weight she
feels,
And with its force her resolution reels;
Large doors, unfolding with a mournful sound,
To view discover, weltering on the ground.
Three headless trunks, of those whose arms main-
tain'd,
And in her wars immortal glory gain'd;
The lifted axe assur'd her ready doom,
And silent mourners sadden'd all the room.
Shall I proceed; or here break off my tale?
Nor truths, to stagger human faith, reveal.
She met this utmost malice of her fate
With Christian dignity, and pious state :
The beating storm's propitious rage she blest,
And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast:
Her lord and father, for a moment's space,
She strictly folded in her soft embrace!
Then thus she spoke, while angels heard on high,
And sudden gladness smil'd along the sky:
"Your over-fondness has not mov'd my hate; I am well pleas'd you make my death so great; I joy I cannot save you; and have given Two lives, much dearer than my own to Heaven, If so the queen decrees:-But I have cause To hope my blood will satisfy the laws; And there is mercy still, for you, in store: With me the bitterness of death is o'er. He shot his sting in that farewell-embrace; And all, that is to come, is joy and peace. Then let mistaken sorrow be supprest, Nor seem to envy my approaching rest.” Then, turning to the ministers of Fate, She, smiling, says, "My victory's complete: And tell your queen, I thank her for the blow, And grieve my gratitude I cannot show : A poor return I leave in England's crown, For everlasting pleasure, and renown: Her guilt alone allays this happy hour; Her guilt the only vengeance in her power." Not Rome, untouch'd with sorrow, heard her fate; And fierce Maria pitied her too late.
SEVEN CHARACTERISTICAL SATIRES.
-Fulgente trahit constrictos gloria curru Non minus ignotos generosis. HOR.
THESE Satires have been favourably received at home and abroad. I am not conscious of the least malevolence to any particular person through all the characters; though some persons may be so selfish as to engross a general application to themselves. A writer in polite letters should be content with reputation; the private amusement he finds in his compositions; the good influence they have on his severer studies; that admission they give him to his superiors; and the possible good effect they may have on the public; or else he should join to his politeness some more lucrative qualification.
But it is possible, that satire may not do much good men may rise in their affections to their follies, as they do to their friends, when they are abused by others. It is much to be feared, that misconduct will never be chased out of the world by satire; all therefore that is to be said for it, is, that misconduct will certainly never be chased out of the world by satire, if no satires are written: nor is that term unapplicable to the graver compositions. Ethics, Heathen and Christian, and the Scriptures themselves, are, in a great measure, a satire on the weakness and iniquity of men; and some part of that satire is in verse too: nay, in the first ages, philosophy and poetry were the same thing; wisdom wore no other dress: so that, I hope, these satires will be the more easily pardoned that misfortune by the severe. If they like not the fashion, let them take them by the weight; for some weight they have, or the author has failed in his aim. Nay, historians themselves may be considered as satirists, and satirists most severe; since such are most human actions, that to relate is to expose them.
No man can converse much in the world, but, at what he meets with, he must either be insensible, or grieve, or be angry, or smile. Some passion (if we are not impassive) must be moved; for the general conduct of mankind is by no means a thing indifferent to a reasonable and virtuous man. to smile at it, and turn it into ridicule, I think most eligible; as it hurts ourselves least, and gives vice and folly the greatest offence: and that for this reason; because what men aim at by them, is, generally, public opinion and esteem; which truth is the subject of the following satires; and joins them together, as several branches from the same root; an unity of design, which has not, I think, in a set of satires, been attempted before.
Laughing at the misconduct of the world, will, in a great measure, ease us of any more disagreeable passion about it. One passion is more effectually driven out by another, than by reason; what
ever some may teach: for to reason we owe our passions; had we not reason, we should not be offended at what we find amiss: and the cause seems not to be the natural cure of any effect.
that are for lessening the true dignity of mankind, are not sure of being successful, but with regard to one individual in it. It is this conduct that justly makes a wit a term of reproach.
Which puts me in mind of Plato's fable of The Birth of Love: one of the prettiest fables of all antiquity; which will hold likewise with regard to modern poetry. Love, says he, is the son of the goddess of Poverty, and the god of Riches: he has from his father his daring genius; his elevation of thought; his building casties in the air; his prodigality; his neglect of things serious and useful; his vain opinion of his own merit; and his affecta
Moreover, laughing satire bids the fairest for success: the world is too proud to be fond of a serious tutor; and when an author is in a passion, the laugh, generally, as in conversation, turns against him. This kind of satire only has any delicacy in it. Of this delicacy Horace is the best inaster: he appears in good humour while he censures; and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment, not from passion. Juvenal is ever in a passion: he has little valuabletion of preference and distinction: from his mother but bis eloquence and morality: the last of which I have had in my eye, but rather for emulation than imitation, through my whole work.
he inherits his indigence, which makes him a constant beggar of favours; that importunity with which he begs; his flattery; his servility; his fear But though I comparatively condemn Juvenal, of being despised, which is inseparable from him. in part of the sixth Satire (where the occasion most This addition may be made; viz. that Poetry, like required it), I endeavoured to touch on his manner; Love, is a little subject to blindness, which makes but was forced to quit it soon, as disagreeable to her mistake her way to preferments and honours; the writer, and reader too. Boileau has joined both that she has her satirical quiver; and, lastly, that the Roman satirists with great success; but has too she retains a dutiful admiration of her father's famuch of Juvenal in his very serious Satire on Wo-mily; but divides her favours, and generally lives man, which should have been the gayest of all. An excellent critic of our own comments Boileau's closeness, or, as he calls it, pressness, particularly; whereas, it appears to me, that repetition is his fault, if any fault should be imputed to him.
There are some prose satirists of the greatest delicacy and wit; the last of which can never, or should never, succeed without the former. An author without it, betrays too great a contempt for mankind, and opinion of himself; which are bad advocates for reputation and success. What a difference is there between the merit, if not the wit, of Cervantes and Rabelais! The last has a particular art of throwing a great deal of genius and learning into frolic and jest; but the genius and the scholar is all you can admire; you want the gentleman to converse with in him: he is like a criminal who receives his life for some services; you commend, but you pardon too. Indecency offends our pride, as men; and our unaffected taste, as judges of composition: Nature has wisely formed us with an aversion to it; and he that succeeds in spite of it is, aliena venia, quam sua providentia tutior1.
Such wits, like false oracles of old (which were wits and cheats), shonld set up for reputation among the weak, in some Boeotia, which was the land of oracles; for the wise will hold them in contempt. Some wits too, like oracles, deal in ambiguities; but not with equal success: for though ambiguities are the first excellence of an impostor, they are the last of a wit.
Some satirical wits and humourists, like their father Lucian, laugh at every thing indiscriminately; which betrays such a poverty of wit, as cannot afford to part with any thing; and such a want of virtue, as to postpone it to a jest. Such writers encourage vice and folly, which they pretend to combat, by setting them on an equal foot with better things: and while they labour to bring every thing into contempt, how can they expect their own parts should escape? Some French writers particularly, are guilty of this in matters of the last consequence; and some of our own. They
with her mother's relations.
However, this is not necessity, but choice: were Wisdom her governess, she might have much more of the father than the mother; especially in such an age as this, which shows a due passion for her charms.
HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF DORSET.
GRACE
-Tanto major Famæ sitis est, quam
Virtutis.
Juv. Sat. x.
My verse is Satire; Dorset, lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear.
To poets sacred is a Dorset's name;
Their wonted passport through the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays:
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can
see,
And gives applause to Blackmore, or to me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue:
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.
Instructive Satire, true to virtue's cause!
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the Law shows her teeth, but dares not bite,
And South-sea treasures are not brought to light;
When churchmen Scripture for the classics quit,
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying sinners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore ;
To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase,
Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?
Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wash an Ethiop white,
Set up each senseless wretch for Nature's boast,
On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral eloquence her colours spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirise with nothing-but their praise?
Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,
Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,
And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is fled;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,
Sits smiling at the goal, while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking still!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will,
Doubly distrest, what author shall we find,
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise.
What will not men attempt for sacred praise?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.
Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.
What is not proud? The pimp is proud to see
So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue and the marriage-bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.
Some go to church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they steer, Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear; And when their sins they set sincerely down, They'll find that their religion has been one. Others with wistful eyes on glory look, When they have got their picture towards a book: Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign, Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine. If at his title T
might have pass'd for a great genius still.
But T
alas! (excuse him, if you can)
Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.
Imperious some a classic fame demand,
For heaping up, with a laborious hand,
A waggon load of meanings for one word,
While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restor'd.
Some, for renown, on scraps of learning doat,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.
On glass how witty is a noble peer!
Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?
Polite diseases make some idiots vain;
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see ; And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery; Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean, By spitting on your face, to make it clean.
Nor is 't enough all hearts are swoln with pride, Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can she not perform? The Love of Fame Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame: Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep: And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep. Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed, Though her lov'd lord has four half-months beendead. This passion with a pimple have I seen Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen, By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!) Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot. It makes Globose a speaker in the house; He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.
It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.
Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin?
My growing subject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, 1 kindle as I run.
Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line ; ·
Though for the first all Westminster should plead,
And for the last all Gresham intercede.
Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room : He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet, By heraldry, prov'd valiant or discreet : With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three descents less wise! If virtues at his noble hands you crave, You bid him raise his father's from the grave. Men should press foward in Fame's glorious chace? Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Let high birth triumph! What can be more great; Nothing-but merit in a low estate.
To virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lyes.
They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.
Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone.
Mean sons of earth, who on a South-sea tide
Of full success, swam into wealth and pride.
Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,
And beg to be descended from the great.
When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause!
And a rich knave's a hitel on our laws.
Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!
In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll out-do;
And Burlington, thy taste is not so true.
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