A Satire Anthology - Carolyn Wells 5 стр.

A   SET of phrases learned by rote;
A passion for a scarlet coat;
When at a play, to laugh or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reason why;
Never to hold her tongue a minute,
While all she prates has nothing in it;
Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,
And take his nonsense all for wit.
Her learning mounts to read a song,
But half the words pronouncing wrong;
Has every repartee in store
She spoke ten thousand times before;
Can ready compliments supply
On all occasions, cut and dry;
Such hatred to a parsons gown,
The sight would put her in a swoon;
For conversation well endued,
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
Nor make a scruple to expose
Your bandy leg or crooked nose;
Can at her morning tea run oer
The scandal of the day before;
Improving hourly in her skill,
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.
In choosing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs dispute
What linen best the silk will suit,
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,
Can finely counterfeit a fright;
So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
Can dexterously her husband tease,
By taking fits wheneer she please;
By frequent practice learns the trick
At proper seasons to be sick;
Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
At once creating love and pity.
If Molly happens to be careless,
And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,
She gets a cold as sure as death,
And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modest woman can
Be so robustious, like a man.
In party, furious to her power,
A bitter Whig, or Tory sour,
Her arguments directly tend
Against the side she would defend;
Will prove herself a Tory plain,
From principles the Whigs maintain,
And, to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topics from the Tories draws.

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 proved 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 fathers from the grave.
Men should press forward in fames glorious chase;
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 virtues 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, lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found, at length, that it reduced his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection what is to be done?
He sells his last, for he the whole will buy;
Sells even his house nay, wants whereon to lie
So high the generous ardor of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,
Lorenzo signed the bargain with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

The booby father craves a booby son,
And by Heavens blessing thinks himself undone.

These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
Though satire couch them with her keenest pen)
Forever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better grace:
As perlers with some heros head make bold
Illustrious mark!  where pins are to be sold.
Whats the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined?
The bodys wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal neer forgot,
Solemnitys a cover for a sot.
I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For tis the wise mans interest to be seen.

And what so foolish as the chance of fame?
How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!
For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,
But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,
That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,
Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,
To gain themselves, not give the writer fame.
The very best ambitiously advise,
Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.

WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, sir, I will not gibe;
For who could be satirical
Upon a thing so very small?
You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before youre at the very centre.
A single crow can make it night,
When oer your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Observe a vast variety;
Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs,
And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields,
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;
All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razor, tho to sayt Im loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.
Tho smalls the farm, yet heres a house
Full large to entertain a mouse;
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than savage Caledonian boar;
For, if its enterd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
A little rivulet seems to steal
Down thro a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek:
And this you call your sweet meander,
Which might be suckd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To scoop the channel of the rill.
For sure youd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city gutter.
Next come I to your kitchen garden,
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;
And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a tailors chalk;
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A snail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
Up thro a tuft you call your trees:
And, once a year, a single rose
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow for want of room.
In short, in all your boasted seat,
Theres nothing but yourself thats GREAT.

HOW vain are mortal mans endeavours?
(Said, at Dame Elleots, Master Travers)
Good Orleans dead! in truth tis hard:
Oh, may all statesmen die prepard!
I do foresee (and for foreseeing
He equals any man in being)
The army neer can be disbanded.
I with the king was safely landed.
Ah, friends, great changes threat the land!
All France and England at a stand!
Theres Meroweis mark! strange work!
And theres the Czar, and theres the Turk
The Pope An Indian merchant by,
Cut short the speech with this reply:
All at a stand? You see great changes?
Ah, sir, you never saw the Ganges.
There dwells the nation of Quidnunckis
(So Monomotapa calls monkeys);
On either bank, from bough to bough,
They meet and chat (as we may now);
Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,
They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug;
And, just as chance or whim provoke them,
They either bite their friends, or stroke them.
There have I seen some active prig,
To show his parts, bestride a twig.
Lord, how the chattring tribe admire!
Not that hes wiser, but hes higher.
All long to try the ventrous thing
(For power is but to have ones swing);
From side to side he springs, he spurns,
And bangs his foes and friends by turns.
Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces,
Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces!
Down the swift stream the wretch is borne,
Never, ah, never to return!
Zounds! what a fall had our dear brother!
Morbleu! cries one, and damme, tother.
The nation gives a general screech;
None cocks his tail, none claws his breech;
Each trembles for the public weal,
And for awhile forgets to steal.
Awhile all eyes intent and steady
Pursue him whirling down the eddy:
But, out of mind when out of view,
Some other mounts the twig anew;
And business on each monkey shore
Runs the same track it ran before.

Is there no hope? the Sick Man said.
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
When thus the Man with gasping breath:
I feel the chilling wound of death;
Since I must bid the world adieu,
Let me my former life review.
I grant, my bargains well were made,
But all men overreach in trade;
Tis self-defence in each profession;
Sure, self-defence is no transgression.
The little portion in my hands,
By good security on lands,
Is well increased. If unawares,
My justice to myself and heirs
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good sufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed,
Reduce a family to need,
My will hath made the world amends;
My hope on charity depends.
When I am numbered with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,
By heaven and earth twill then be known,
My charities were amply shown.
An angel came. Ah, friend, he cried,
No more in flattering hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?
What widow or what orphan prays
To crown thy life with length of days?
A pious actions in thy power;
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now, while you draw the vital air,
Prove your intention is sincere:
This instant give a hundred pounds;
Your neighbours want, and you abound.
But why such haste? the Sick Man whines:
Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?
Perhaps I may recover still;
That sum, and more, are in my will.
Fool, says the Vision, now tis plain,
Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain;
From every side, with all your might,
You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;
And after death would fain atone,
By giving what is not your own.
Where there is life theres hope, he cried;
Then why such haste? so groaned, and died.

YE Lords and Commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all!
Nor think your verses sterling,
Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin;

For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japanned avails
To writing of good sense.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A wit and courtly squire.

Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth,
Like puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his mouth,
The works of all the Muses.

Ah, why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil,
And sell his soul for vanity,
To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratched to fetch up thought,
Forth popped the sprite so thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out,
All upright as a pin,

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff composed most duly.
The squire he dropped his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.
Ho! Master Sam, quoth Sandys sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgell seek, or Carey.

I hear the beat of Jacobs drums;
Poor Ovid finds no quarter.
See first the merry P comes
In haste, without his garter.

Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights,
Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers;
Garth at St. Jamess, and at Whites,
Beat up for volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnett or Tom DUrfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.

If Justice Philips costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses,
They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

Let Warwicks muse with Ashurst join,
And Ozells with Lord Herveys;
Tickell and Addison combine,
And Pope translate with Jervas.
Lansdowne himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,
Shall join with Frowde in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
I pray where can the hurt lie?
Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.

Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
Review them, and tell noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befall
A strange metamorphosis;

A metamorphosis more strange
Than all his books can vapour.
To what (quoth squire) shall Ovid change?
Quoth Sandys, To waste paper.