But how, my muse, canst thou resist so long.
The bright temptation of the Courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire ;-it abounds in lords.
"What lords are those saluting with a grin?"
One is just out, and one as lately in.
"How comes it then to pass we see preside
"On both their brows an equal share of pride?
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.
As in its home it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their wands so white,
Which bloom, like AARON's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign; and turn their wands,
Like MOSES', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,
With pride inverted, of their honours lost.
But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,
To boast of merely being out or in.

What numbers here, through odd ambition strive,
To seem the most transported things alive!
As if by joy, desert was understood;

And all the fortunate were wise and good.

Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,

And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.
Completely drest by * MONTEUIL, and grimace,
They take their birth-day suit, and public face:

A famous Taylor.

Their smiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night, with Lady B's hair.
What bodily fatigue is half so bad?

With anxious care they labour to be glad.

What numbers, here, would into fame advance.
Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance ;
The tavern! park! assembly! mask! and play!
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!
Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.
Fools grin on fools, and, stoic-like, support,
Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.
Courts can give nothing, to the wise and good,
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.
High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:
None think the Great unhappy, but the Great:
Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,
Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and show;
I envy none the gilding of there woe.
Give me, indulgent Gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there:
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest;
The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest;
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

But some, untaught, o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still;

Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The Squire is proud to see his coursers strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.
Say, dear HIPPOLITUS (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Chrismas-tale,

Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon his back)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And RINGWOOD opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? Let RINGWOOD's fame alone;
Just RINGWOOD leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypsey you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have said,
And then ask pardon for the jest you made.

Here breathe, my muse! and then thy task re

new:

Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords, to SCR-PE discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,

Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles, as the waters pass?

Is there a tongue, like DELIA's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?
Is there, whom his tenth Epic mounts to fame?
Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme:
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad;
For who can write so fast as men run mad?

SATIRE II.

My

muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end; Though toils and danger the bold task attend. Heroes and Gods make other poems fine;

Plain Satire calls for sense in

every

line:

Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When such the foe, a war eternal wage;

'Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage.
And if these strains some nobler muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.

So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty vanity! to thee they owe
Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the sun, all colours dost contain,
Varying, like
rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every soul finds reasons to be proud,
Tho' hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes, and renown,

* HIPPOLITUS demands the sylvan crown;
But FLORIO's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!

*This refers to the first Satire.