Part 26
Paint, patches, jewels, laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied. And Phillis is full forty-three.
_On Timothy Mum, a Tapster._
Here Tim the tapster lies, who drew good beer, But now, drawn to his end, he draws no more; Yes, still he draws from every friend a tear, Water he draws, who drew good beer before.
_On seeing an engraved Portrait of the late Dr. Cheyne ill done._
Nature and Vandergutch in this agree, Unfinished she has left him, so has he.
_On the death of Mary, Countess of Pembroke._
Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother: Death, ere thou hast killed another, Fair, and learned, good as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee.
_To a bad Fiddler._
Old Orpheus played so well he moved old Nick, Whilst thou mov’st nothing but thy fiddle-stick.
_Written on a Glass with the Earl of Chesterfield’s diamond pencil._
Accept a miracle instead of wit; See two dull lines by Stanhope’s pencil writ.
_The real Affliction._
Doris, a widow, past her prime, Her spouse long dead, her wailing doubles; Her real griefs increase by time, And what abates, improves her troubles. Those pangs her prudent hopes suppressed, Impatient now she cannot smother: How should the helpless woman rest? One’s gone―nor can she get another.
_To an old Woman who used Paint._
Leave off thy paint, perfumes, and youthful dress, And nature’s failing honestly confess; Double we see those faults which art would mend, Plain downright ugliness would less offend.
_To Flirtilla._
In church, the prayer-book and the fan displayed, And the solemn curtesies, show the wily maid; At plays, the leering looks, and wanton airs, And nods, and smiles, are fondly meant for snares. Alas! vain charmer, you no lovers get; There you seem hypocrite, and here coquet.
_On a picture of Mrs. Arabella Hunt, drawn playing on a lute, after her death._
Were there on earth another voice like thine, Another hand so blessed with skill divine, The late afflicted world some hopes might have, And harmony retrieve thee from the grave.
_On a Bursar of a certain college in Oxford cutting down the Trees near the said college for his own use._
Indulgent nature to each creature shows A secret instinct to discern its foes: The goose, a silly bird, avoids the fox; Lambs fly from wolves, and sailors steer from rocks; The thief the gallows, as his fate foresees, And bears the like antipathy to trees.
_On the death of Mrs. B―, who died soon after her marriage._
Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless’d, Three months of rapture crowned with endless rest. Merit like yours was heaven’s peculiar care, You loved,―yet tasted happiness sincere. To you the sweets of love were only shown; The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown; You had not yet the fatal change deplored, The tender lover for the imperious lord; Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings, Nor wept the coldness from possession sprung: Above your sex distinguished in your fate, You trusted―yet experienced no deceit. Soft were your hours, and winged with pleasures flew, No vain repentance gave a sigh to you; And if superior bliss heaven can bestow, With fellow angels you enjoy it now.
_The Emperor Adrian’s Death-bed Verses to his Soul imitated._
Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing To take thy flight the Lord knows whither?
Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly, Lie all neglected, all forgot; And pensive, wavering, melancholy, Thou dread’st and hopest thou know’st not what.
_To Celia, with a Snuff-box, having a Looking-Glass in the Lid._
Let others Venus and the Graces place, Or Cupid, god of love, these toys to grace; Deign, charmer, but to cast those sparkling eyes On this fair mirror, lo! with glad surprise, A fairer form than Venus shall arise. Smile but my fair, and view ten thousand loves, Cheerful as light, and soft as cooing doves: Beauty and love with thee for ever stay, Soon as thou closest the lid both fly away.
_To Oliver Cromwell._
A peaceful sway the great Augustus bore; O’er what great Julius gained by arms before; Julius was all with martial trophies crowned; Augustus for his peaceful arts renowned: Rome calls them great, and makes them deities; That, for his valour; this, his policies: You, mighty prince, than both are greater far, Who rule in peace that world you gained in war; You sure from heaven a finished hero fell, Who thus alone two Pagan Gods excel.
_Inscription for a Fountain, adorned with Queen Anne’s and the late Duke of Marlborough’s Images, and the chief Rivers of the World round the work._
Ye active streams! where’er your waters flow, Let distant climes and farthest nations know, What ye from Thames and Danube have been taught, How Anne commanded and how Marlborough fought.
_On Blood’s stealing the Crown._
When daring Blood, his rent to have regained, Upon the English diadem distrained; He chose the cassock, surcingle, and gown, The fittest mark for one who robs the crown: But his Lay Pity underneath prevailed, And while he saved the keeper’s life, he failed. With the priest’s vestment, had he but put on The prelate’s cruelty, the crown had gone.
_A Declaration of Love._
You I love, nor think I joke, More than ivy does the oak; More than fishes do the flood; More than savage beasts the wood; More than merchants do their gain; More than misers to complain; More than widows do their weeds; More than friars do their beads; More than Cynthia to be praised; More than courtiers to be raised; More than lawyers do the bar; More than ’prentice boys a fair; More than topers t’other bottle; More than women tittle-tattle; More than jailors do a fee; More than all things I love thee.
_Written in the ‘Nouveaux Intérêts des Princes de l’Europe.’_
Blest be the princes who have fought For pompous names, or wide dominion; Since by their error we are taught, That happiness is but opinion.
_On Snuff._
Jove once resolved, the females to degrade, To propagate their sex without their aid; His brain conceived, and soon the pangs and throes He felt, nor could th’ unnatural birth disclose; At last, when tried, no remedy would do, The god took snuff, and out the goddess flew.
_On a Fan, in which was painted the story of Cephalus and Procris, with this motto_, Aura veni.
Come, gentle air, th’Æolian shepherd said, While Procris panted in the sacred shade; Come, gentle air, the fairer Delia cries, While at her feet her swain expiring lies. Lo! the glad gales do o’er her beauties stray, Breathe in her lips, and in her bosom play; In Delia’s hand this toy is faithful found, Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound; Both gifts destructive to the givers prove, Alike both lovers fall, by those they love: Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives, At random wounds, nor knows the wounds she gives: She views the story with attentive eyes, And pities Procris, while her lover dies.
_The advantage of having two Physicians._
One prompt physician like a sculler plies, And all his art and all his skill applies: But two physicians, like a pair of oars, Convey you soonest to the Stygian shores.
_The following Lines were found among_ MR. POPE’S _Papers in his own Hand-writing._
Argyll, his praise when Southerne wrote, First struck out this, and then that thought; Said this was flattery, that a fault. How shall your bard contrive? My lord, consider what you do, He’ll lose his pains and verses too; For if these praises fit not you, They’ll fit no man alive.
_On an old Miser._
Here lies father Sparges, Who died to save charges.
_On a Grave-stone in Cirencester Church-Yard._
God takes the good, too good on earth to stay, And leaves the bad, too bad to take away.
_Dean Swift being sent for by the Lord Carteret, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and being made to wait in the Council Chamber alone, wrote with a Diamond on the Window―_
My very good lord, ’tis a very hard task For a man to wait here who has nothing to ask.
_My Lord coming soon after into the room, wrote under it thus:_
My very good dean, there are few who come here But have something to ask, or something to fear.
_Epitaph on Mr. Fenton._
This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say,―Here lies an honest man! A poet blessed beyond a poet’s fate, Whom heaven kept sacred from the proud and great! Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, Content with science in the vale of peace; Calmly he looked on either life, and here Saw nothing to regret, nor there to fear; From nature’s temperate feast rose satisfied, Thanked heaven that he had lived, and that he died.
_The Petition of Justice B―ns’s Horse, to his Grace the Duke of N―._
Quite worn to the stumps, in a piteous condition, I present to your grace this my humble petition; Full twenty-eight stone, as all the world says, (To me it seems more) my plump master weighs. A load for a team this, yet I alone To Claremont must draw him, for help I have none; O’er Esher’s hot sands, in a dry summer’s day, How I sweat and I chafe, and I pant all the way But when I return, and the draft is increased By what he has crammed―a stone at the least― No single horse can be, in conscience thought able To draw both the justice, and eke half your table. This, my case, gracious duke, to your tender compassion I submit, and O! take it in consideration. To draw with a pair, put the squire in a way, Your petitioner then, bound in duty, shall neigh.
_Epitaph on Cardinal Richelieu._
Stay, traveller―for all you want is near: Wisdom and power I seek―they both lie here. Nay, but I look for more, and raise my aim, To wit, taste, learning, elegance, and fame. Here ends your journey, then; for there the store Of Richelieu lies―Alas! repent no more: Shame on my pride! what hope is left for me, When here death treads on all that man can be?
_A Caveat to the Fair Sex._
Wife and servant are the same, But only differ in the name; For when that fatal knot is tied Which nothing, nothing can divide; When she the word “obey” has said, And man by law supreme is made, Then all that’s kind is laid aside, And nothing left but state and pride; Fierce as an eastern prince he grows, And all his innate rigour shows: Then but to look, or laugh, or speak, Will the nuptial contract break. Like mutes, she signs alone must make, And never any freedom take; But still be governed by a nod, And fear her husband as her god; Him still must serve, him still obey, And nothing act, and nothing say, But what her haughty lord thinks fit, Who with the power, has all the wit. Then shun, Oh! shun that wretched state, And all the fawning flatterers hate; Value yourselves, and men despise, You must be proud, if you’ll be wise.
_Fast and Loose._
Colin was married in all haste, And now to rack doth run; So knitting of himself too fast He hath himself undone.
_Marriage._
Were I, who am not of the Romish tribe, The number of their sacraments to fix, I speak sincerely, without fee, or bribe, Instead of seven, there should be but six. All men of sense tautology disclaim, Marriage and penance always were the same.
* * * * *
Frank carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats; He eats more than six, and drinks more than he eats. Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes; And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes. Yet sighing, he says, we must certainly break, And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak: For of late I invite him―but four times a week.
* * * * *
Yes, every poet is a fool: By demonstration Ned can show it: Happy, could Ned’s inverted rule Prove every fool to be a poet.
_Rhymes given by Miss ― and filled up by the_ HON. AND REV. MR. A―N.
Thou bright inspirer of untainted Love, Gay as the lark, and peaceful as the Dove, Thou whose calm breast no struggling passions Heat, May still thy life be, as thy temper, Sweet, By flatterers wearied, when thou seek’st the Shade, May peace attend thee through the silent Glade, May all those powers that heavenly virtue Bless, Improve thy mind, nor make thy beauty Less, But if impatience for sublimer Joy, Prompt thee to call on death, may death be Coy.
_Epitaph in Stepney Church-Yard._
Here lies the body of John Saul, Spital-fields weaver, and that’s all.
_On Wine._
I was last night a god. How! Can’t you divine? I was raised up to heaven by bumpers of wine.
_A Drunken Man._
How can I forbear from dancing? See the stars above me prancing, Moon and planets to my thinking, Just have had a bout of drinking And are setting at defiance All the laws of musty science. Yonder poplar, tall and taper, Round and round me cuts a caper; Oaks and elms, and firs and birches, Hedges, houses, steeples, churches, All to-night are drunk together, And dance as lightly as a feather. I will dance, none dare refuse me, The world’s example must excuse me.
_To a Lady that Painted._
Best of all things sure is water. So says Pindar; you say, nay― But detest it worse than slaughter, For your rouge t’would wash away.
_To the Painter of a Lady’s Portrait._
Much hast thou done with talents rare, But more is left behind; I see the body of the fair, But where’s her fairer mind?
_Take care of the Pence._
Nancy this doctrine early learned, Small savings make great profit; So she the smallest small-coal burned, And very little of it.
Her stove and chimney-piece Ned sees, And each provokes his ire! He calleth this―her marble freeze, And that―her small cold fire.
Indeed, the very child [query, chill’d] who’d been One winter’s evening by her grate Would learn the difference between A great fire and a fire-grate.
_A new Fire Escape._
The house was on fire; Zeno, circled in flame, In vain called for aid,―sure no case e’er was sadder; He escaped. Tell me how? Why, Antimachus came And lent him the use of his nose for a ladder.
_On a Miser._
A poor man went to hang himself, But treasure chanced to find; He pocketed the miser’s pelf, And left the rope behind.
His money gone, the miser tied Himself up in despair; Thus each the other’s wants supplied, And that was only fair.
* * * * *
Have you read Shakespeare’s works, my friend? Ned says. His works! no never―but I have his plays.
_Lines written in a Lady’s Album._
Yes, I shall live! the voice of fame Will not be lost to me and mine, Since, lady, I may write my name Upon this spotless leaf of thine.
The eager hands of future ages Will catch the volume left by thee; And those who dwell within its pages Will gain an immortality.
_Lines written under the foregoing._
And is it thus you hope for fame? Fame like this! alas! what is it? To give some idle thought a name, That some good-natured friend may quiz it.
This constant craving―itch of soul― For praise and fame makes those who catch it Like parrots―who still stretch a pole, That passers-by may kindly scratch it.
_From a Tombstone in Ballyporeen Church-yard._
Here, at length I repose― And my spirit at aise is― With the tips of my toes, And the point of my nose, Turned up to the roots of the daisies.
* * * * *
Where spades grow bright, and idle swords grow dull; Where gaols are empty, and where barns are full; Where church-paths are with frequent feet outworn, Law court-yards weedy, silent, and forlorn; Where doctors foot it, and where farmers ride; Where age abounds, and youth is multiplied; Where these signs are, they clearly indicate A happy people, a well-governed state.
_A Cure for Love._
Hunger and time will quench the flame That burns on Cupid’s altar; But if both fail its strength to tame, The certain cure’s the halter.
_The Cynic’s Home._
No single land my country call, No single house my home; But home and country, name them all That shield me when I come.
_On a Flatterer._
You attack me when absent with slanderous tongue, But thus fail to injure my name; Your flattery, when present, I feel is the wrong, For your praise is my grief and my shame.
John’s wife complains, that John discourses And thinks of nothing else but horses. Whilst John, a caustic wag, Says, it is wonderful to see How thoroughly their tastes agree, For, that his wife, as well as he, Most dearly loves a (k)nag.
_On the Gout._
Venus and Bacchus both combine To weaken man with love and wine; But worse than them we find, no doubt, Their still more weakening son, the gout.
_To a Man with a long Nose._
Should you e’er stand with open mouth, And turn your face exactly south, The shadow your huge nose must throw On your wide teeth, the hour will show.
* * * * *
Said Sam, Although my body weigh Full sixteen stone, I swear, Whatever people think or say, My heart is light as air.
It is a likely thing enough, That such result should follow: The body he takes care to stuff, Whereas the heart―is hollow.
_On a Morose Man._
So stern in death was Timon’s ghost, Pluto ran off for fear he’d fight him; And even Cerberus left his post, In mortal terror lest he’d bite him.
_On the Statue of an Ox._
So wondrous Myron’s art is shown, That, by the gods, we vow, The statue harness wants alone, To quit its base, and plough.
_On Bentley, Milton’s Critic._
Did Milton’s prose, O Charles! thy death defend? A furious foe, unconscious, proves a friend; On Milton’s verse does Bentley comment? know, A weak officious friend becomes a foe. While he would seem his author’s fame to further, The murderous critic has avenged thy murder.
_On the inimitable Miss Steele, eldest daughter of Sir Richard Steele, afterwards the Right Hon. Lady Trevor._
BY MR. PHILLIPS.
Oh! for ever could I dwell upon the name. Fair nymph, on whom kind nature has dispensed The mother’s beauty, and the father’s sense The piercing dart this moment do I feel, For sure the wound is mortal that’s from Steele.
_Franconian Proverbs_―(_From the German._)
Nor linen, maid, or money try, Unless there’s daylight in the sky.
Mishap rides up in spur and boot, And always slinks away on foot.
Be the diamond e’er so fine, It may not without tinsel shine.
In culprit’s house, thou shalt not hope To win thy suit, by talk of rope.
Much cumbers us a flowing dress; Much cumbers wealth our happiness.
Who far away for wife shall roam, Or starts a cheat, or brings one home.
He that’s a good roof o’er his head, Is a sad fool to leave his bed.
He that is prompt to pay a bill, Shall find his coffers promptly fill.
Break not your egg, and you are wise, Before your salt beside it lies.
If you would gently sink to rest, Mount guard on tongue, and eye, and breast.
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Transcriber’s Notes:
Italics are denoted by _underscores_.
Original spelling has been retained, unless it’s clearly a printer’s error. The following changes have been made:
Jest 76: or causing any beacon to be fired (be added);
Jest 351 was numbered 451―this is corrected.
Jest 632: in sending him a message (original: messuage)
Jest 674: if we fight, according to all appearances (original: apearances)
Jest 714: Look if there be not a hole in the bottom (original: whole).
In the Preface, some text is not visible. This text has been replaced by a long em-dash: “those youngsters who now collect ― and our knees”.
Inconsistent spelling of words has been retained (e.g. ale-house and alehouse, behind-hand and behindhand).
Mismatched quotes are not fixed if it’s not sufficiently clear where the missing quote should be placed.