How elegant your Frenchmen! Mine, d'ye mean?
I have but one, I hope the fellow's clean.
Oh! Sir, politely fo! nay, let me die,
Your only wearing is your Paduafoy.
Not, Sir, my only; I have better still,
And this you fee is but my difhabille-
Wild to get loofe, his patience I provoke,
Miftake, confound, object at all he spoke :
But as coarfe iron, fharpen'd, mangles more,
And itch moft hurts when anger'd to a fore;
So when you plague a fcol, 'tis ftill the curse,
You only make the matter worse and worse.
He paft it o'er; affects an easy smile
At all my peevifhnefs, and turns his ftyle.
He asks, what news? I tell him of new plays,
New eunuchs, harlequins, and operas.
He hears, and as a ftill, with fimples in it,
Between each drop it gives ftays half a minute,
Loath to enrich me with too quick replies,
By little and by little drops his lies.
Mere household trash! of birthnights, balls, and shows More than ten Holinfreds, or Halls, or Stows.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you fee,
I have but one, Sir; look, he follows me.
Certes, they're neatly cloath'd. I of this mind am,
Your only wearing is your grogaram.
Not fo, Sir; I have more. Under this pitch
He would not fly. I chaf'd him; but as itch
Scratch'd into fmart, and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge hurts worfe; fo I (fool!) found
Croffing hurt me. To fit my fullennefs,
He to another key his ftile doth dress,
And asks, what news? I tell him of new plays:
He takes my hand, and as a still, which lays
A femibrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loath to inrich me, fo tells many a lye,
More than ten Holinfheds, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial household trash he knows. He knows
When the Queen frown'd or imil'd he knows, and what
A fubtle minister may make of that:
Who fins, with whom; who got his pension rug,
Or quicken'd a reverfion by a drug;
Whofe place is quarter'd out three parts in four,
And whether to a bishop or a whore:
Who having loft his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a government:
Who in the fecret deals in ftocks fecure,
And cheats th' unknowing widow and the
Who makes a truit of charity a job,
And gets an act of parliament to rob :
Why turnpikes rife, and now no cit nor clown
Can gratis lee the country or the town:
Shortly no lad fhall chuck or lady vole,
But fome excifing courtier will have toll:
He tells what trumpet places fells for life,
What 'fquire his lands, what citizen his wife :
At laft (which proves him wiser still than all)
What lady's face is not a whited wall.
As one of Woodward's patients, fick and fore, I puke, I naufeate-yet he thrufts in more; Trims Europe's balance, tops the statefiman's part, And talks Gazettes and Poftboys o'er by heart.
When the Queen frown'd or fmil'd, and he knows what
A fubtle frateiman may gather of that;
He knows who loves whom, and who by poifon
Haftes to an office's reverfion:
He knows who 'ath sold his land, and now doth beg
A licence, old iron, boots, fhoes, and egg-
Shells to transport. Shortly boys fhall not play
At fpan-counter, or blow-point, but fhall pay
Toll to fome courtier; and, wifer than all us,
He knows what lady is not painted. Thus
He with home meats cloyes me. I belch, fpue, fpit,
Look pale and fickly like a patient, yet
He thrufts on more; and as he had undertook
To fay Gallo-Belgicus without book,
Speaks of all ftates and deeds that have been fince
The Spaniards came to th' loss of Amyens,
Like a big wife at fight of loathsome meat,
Ready to caft, I yawn, I figh and sweat :
Then as a licens'd fpy, whom nothing can
Silence or hurt, he libels the great man;
Swears ev'ry place entail'd for years to come
In fure fucceffion to the day of doom:
He names the price for ev'ry office paid,
And fays our wars thrive ill because delay'd:
Nay hints 'tis by connivance of the Court
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a port.
Not more amazement feiz'd on Circe's guests,
To fee themselves fall endlong into beasts,
Than mine, to find a fubject, stay'd and wife,
Already half-turn'd traitor by furprize.
I felt th' infection flide from him to me,
As in the pox fome give it to get free;
And quick to fwallow me methought I faw
One of our giant ftatues ope its jaw.
Like a big wife, at fight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail, fo I figh and fweat
To hear this makaron talk in vain; for yet,
Either my humour or his own to fit,
He, like a privileg'd spy, whom nothing can
Difcredit, libels now 'gainft each great man.
He names a price for ev'ry office paid:
He faith, our wars thrive ill, because delay'd;
That offices are in tail, and that there are
Perpetuities of them lafting as far
As the laft day, and that great officers
Do with the Spaniards fhare and Dunkirkers.
Who waftes in meat, in cloaths, in horfe he notes;
Who loves whores.
I, more amaz'd than Circe's prifoners, when
They felt themselves turn beafts, felt myself then
Becoming traitor, and methought I faw
One of our giant ftatues ope his jaw
To fuck me in for hearing him: I found,
That as burnt venomous leachers do grow
By giving others their fores, I might grow
Guilty, and he free: therefore I did fhow
On life's vaft ocean diverfely we fail;
Reafon the card, but paffion is the gale;
Nor God alone in the ftill calm we find,
He mounts the ftorm, and walks upon the wind. 110 Paffions like elements, tho' born to fight,
Yet mix'd and foften'd in his work unite:
Thefe 'tis enough to temper and employ;
But what compofes Man can Man destroy?
Suffice, that Reafon keep to Nature's road;
Subject, compound them, follow her and God.
Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleafure's fmiling train,
Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain,
Thefe mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd,
Make and maintain the balance of the mind;
The lights and fhades, whofe well-accorded ftrife
Gives all the strength and colour of our life.
Pleafures are ever in our hands or eyes, And when in act they ceafe, in prospect rife; Prefent to grafp, and future ftill to find; The whole employ of body and of mind. All fpread their charms, but charm not all alike On diff'rent fenfes diff'rent objects ftrike: Hence diff'rent paffions more or less inflame, As ftrong or weak the organs of the frame; And hence one master-paffion in the breast, Like Aaron's ferpent, fwallows up the rest. As Man, perhaps, the moment of his breath Receives the lurking principle of death, The young difeafe, that muft fubdue at length, Grows with his growth, and ftrengthens with his So, caft and mingled with his very frame,
The mind's difeafe, its ruling paffion came.
Each vital humour which should feed the whole,
Soon flows to this in body and in foul;
Whatever warms the heart or fills the head,
As the mind opens and its functions spread,
Imagination plies her dang'rous art,
And pours
it all upon the peccant part.
Nature its mother, Habit is its nurfe;
Wit, fpirit, faculties, but make it worle;
Reafon itself but gives it edge and pow'r,
As Heav'n's bless'd beam turns vinegar more four.
We, wretched fubjects, tho' to lawful fway,
In this weak queen some fav'rite still obey :
Ah! if the lend not arms as well as rules,
What can fhe more than tell us we are fools?
Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend ;
A fharp accufer, but a helpless friend!
Or from a judge turn pleader, to perfuade
The choice we make, or juftify it made;
Proud of an eafy conqueft all along,
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She but removes weak paffions for the frong:
So when small humours gather to a gout,
The doctor fancies he has driv'n them out.
Yes, Nature's road must ever be preferr❜d;
Reason is here no guide, but still a guard:
'Tis her's to rectify, not overthrow
And treat this paffion more as friend than foe:
A mightier Pow'r the ftrong direction fends,
And fev'ral Men impels to fev'ral ends :
Like varying winds, by other paffions toft,
This drives them conftant to a certain coaít.
Let pow'r or knowledge, gold or glory, please,
Or (oft' more ftrong than all) the love of eafe;
Thro' life 'tis follow'd, ev'n at life's expence,
The merchant's toil, the fage's indolence,
The monk's humility, the hero's pride;
All, all alike, find Reafon on their fide.
Th' eternal Art educing good from ill,
Grafts on this paffion our beft principle:
'Tis thus the mercury of Man is fix'd,
Strongs grows the virtue with his nature mix'd;
The drois cements what else were too refin'd,
And in one int'reft body acts with mind.
As fruits ungrateful to the planter's çare,
On favage ftocks inferted learn to bear,
The fureft virtues thus from paffions fhoot,
Wild Nature's vigour working at the root.
What crops of wit and honefty appear
From fpleen, from obftinacy, hate, or fear!
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