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If virtues at his noble hand you crave,
You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.
Men should prefs forward in fame's glorious chace,
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Let high bisth triumph! what can be more great ?
Nothing-but merit in a low estate.
To virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, tho' 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 suife;
Tie fool, or knave, that wears a title, 'lies.
They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, Produce their debt, instead of their discharge. Dorfet, let those who proudly boast their line, Like thee, in worth hereditary thine.
CHARACTER of a FOX-HUNTER.
HE squire is proud to see his courser strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.
Say, dear Hippolitus (whose drink is ale,
Whofe erudition is a Christmas-tale,
Whose mistress is faluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the 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 gipsey 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.
CHARACTER of a FLORIST.
ARM 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 iNustrious flower !
Why teems the earth? why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the sun ? to make Paul Diack rife.
From morn to night has Florio gazing ftood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good.
What shape ? what hue? was ever Nymph fo fair?:
He dotes ! he dies ! he too is rooted there.
o folid bliss ! which nothing can destroy
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.
In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious Wight;
The Tulip's dead ! see thy fair Sister's fate,,
OC-l, and be kind e'er 'tis too late.
Nor are those enemies I mention'd all ;
Beware, O Florist, thy ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame;
A Quaker serv'd him, Adam was his name.
To one lov'd Tulip oft the master went,
Hung o’er it, and whole days in rapture spent;
But came, and miss'd it one ill-fated hour.
He rag'd!'he roar'd! “What Demon cropt my flower?"
Serene, quoth Adam, “Lo! 'twas crutht by me;
“ Fall’n is the Baal to which thou bowdft thy knee.”
CHARACTER of a FOP and of a SLOVEN..
[YOUNG.] THESE all their care expend on outward show
For wealth, and fame; for fame alone the Beau..
Of late at White's was young Florello seen,
How blank his look? how discompos’d his mien ?
So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign !
Sunk were his fpirits ; for his coat was plain.
Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace,
His health was mended with a silver lace.
A curious artist long inur’d to toils
Of gentler fort, with combs, and fragrant oils,
Whether by chance, or by some God inspir’d, -
So toucht his curls, his mighty soul was fir'd.
The well-fwoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame;
His sumptuous watch-case, tho' conceal'd it liesy.
Like a good consciènce, folid joy. supplies.
He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)
Stanhope in wit, in breeding, Deloraine.
Whene'er by seeming chance he throws his eye
On mirrors Alushing with his T-yrian dye,
With how sublime a transport leaps his heart?
But fate ordains that deareft friends niuft part.
In active measures brought from France, he wheels,
And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels.
So have I feen, on some bright summer's day,
A calf of genius debonnair, and gay,
Dance on the bank, as if inspir'd by fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.
Moro, e is funk with shame, when’er surpriz'd
In Linen clean, or Peruke undisguis'd.
No sublunary chance his vestments fear,
Valu'd like Leopards, as their spots appear.
A fam'd Sur-tout he wears, which once was blue,
And his foot swims in a capacious fhoe.
One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim ?)
Leveli'd her barbarous needle at his fame;
But open force was vain; by night she went,
And, while he flept, surpriz'd the darling rent;
Where yawnd the frize is now become a doubt,
And glory at one entrance quite shut out. *
He scorns Florello, and Florello him,
This hates the filthy creature, that the prim:
Thus in each other both these fools despise
Their own dear felves, with undiscerning eyes;
Their methods various, but alike their aim :
The foven, and the fopling are the same.
CHARACTER of a LEVEE-HUNTER.
OT gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;
But, in effect, his chace is much the same.
Warm in pursuit, he levées all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title, and estate.
Where-e'er their Lordships go, they never find,
Or Lico, or their shadows lag behind :
He sets them fure, where-e'er their Lordships run,
Close at their elbows, as a morning-dun :
As * Milton,
As if their grandeur, by contagion, wrought,
And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:
But after seven years dance from place to place,
The * Dane is more familiar with his Grace.
Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer ;
Or living pendant, dangling at his ear,
For ever whisp'ring secrets, which were blown
For months before, by trumpets, thro’ the town?
Who'd be a glass, with Aattering grimace,
Still to rellect the temper of his face s
Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,
When my Lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave;
Or cushion, when his heaviness Thall please
To loll, or thump it for his better ease;
Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke,
When the peer rafhly swears he'll club his joke?
Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not find.
His Lordship's jest ; or, if his nose broke wind,
For blessings to the Gods profoundly bow,
That can cry chimney-fweep, or drive a plough?
With terms like these how mean the Tribe that close?
Scarce meaner They, who terms, like these, impofe.
AFFECTATION of DELICACY ridiculed.
HE languid lady next appears in ftate,
Who was not born to carry her own weight;
She lolls, reels, staggers, 'till some foreign aid
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom,
She, by just stages, journeys round the room :
But knowing her own weakness, the defpairs
To fcale the Alps - that is, ascend the stairs.
My fan ! let others say who laugh at toil ;
Fan! hood! glove ! scarf! is her laconick style ;
And that is spoke with such a dying fall,
That Betty rather sees than hears the call:
The motion of her lips, and meaning eye
Piece out th’ Idea her faint words deny.
O liften with attention most profound!
Her voice is but the shadow of a found:
And help! O help! her spirits are so dead,
One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.
If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er,
She pants! she sinks away! and is no more.
Let the robust, and the gigantic carve,
Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve;
But chew she must herself; ah cruel fate!
That Rosalinda can’t by proxy eat.
The EMPTINESS of RICHES.
AN gold calm paffion, or make reason thine ?
Can we dig peace, or wisdom from the mine?
Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much lefs
To make our fortune, than our happiness;
That happiness which great ones often see,
With rage and wonder, in a low degree,
Themselves unblest : the poor are only poor ;
But what are they who droop amid their store!
Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state;
The happy only are the truly great.
Peasants enjoy like appetites with Kings,
And those beit satisfied with cheapest things.
Could both our Indies buy but one new sense,
Our envy wou'd be due to large expence;
Since not, those pomps, which to the great belong,
Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng.
See, how they beg an alms of Aattery !
They languish! oh support them with a lye !
A décent competence we fully taste;
It ftrikes our sense, and gives a constant feast 2
More, we perceive by dint of thought alone.
The rich must labour to pofsess their own,
To feel their great abundance; and request
Their humble friends to help them to be blest;
To see their treasures, hear their glory told,
And aid the wretched impotence of gold.
But some great fouls, and touch'd with warmth divine,
Give gold a price, and teach its beams to fine.
All hoarded treasures they repute a load,
Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'do
Grand reservoirs of public happiness,
Thro' secret streams diffusively they bless;
And while their bounties glide conceald from view,
Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too,