MY Mufe, proceed, and reach they deftin'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 expofe!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When fuch the foe, a war eternal wage ;
'Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage:
And if these strains fome nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.
So weak are human-kind by nature made,
Or to fuch weakness by their vice betray'd.
Almighty vanity! to thee they owe
Their zeft of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the fun, all colours doft contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every foul finds reasons to be proud,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolytus demands the fylvan crown;
But Florio's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!
Why teems the earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the fun? To make † Paul Diack rise.
This refers to the first Satire.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good;
What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph so fair?
He doats! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O folid blifs! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, fnail, or idle boy.
In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a moft inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair fifter's fate,
OC! and be kind ere 'tis too late.
Nor are thofe enemies I mention'd, all;
Beware, O Florift, thy ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame
A Quaker ferv'd him, Adam was his name;
To one lov'd tulip oft the mafter went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent;
But came, and mift it one ill-fated hour:
He rag'd! he roar'd! "What dæmon cropt my flower?”
Serene, quoth Adam, “Lo! 'twas crusht by me;
"Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dft thy knee."
But all men want amusement; and what crime
In fuch a paradife to fool their time?
None: but why proud of this? To fame they soar;
We grant they're idle, if they 'll ask no more.
We smile at Florists, we despise their joy,
But are thofe wifer whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?
What's he who fighs for wealth, or fame, or power?
Another Florio doating on a flower!
A fhort-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung
From fordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.
With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit? The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.
How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy Books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard;
And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.
If not to fome peculiar end defign'd,
Study's the fpecious trifling of the mind;
Or is at best a secondary aim,
A chace for sport alone, and not for
If fo, fure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.
On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a fale comes on, 75
A choice collection! what is to be done?
He fells his laft; for he the whole will buy;
Sells ev'n his houfe; nay, wants whereon to lie :
So high the generous ardour of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk, Lorenzo fign'd the bargain—with his mark.
Unlearned men of books affume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
Not in his authors' liveries alone
Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:
Editions various, at high prices bought,
Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this coft another muft fucceed
To pay a fage, who says that he can read;
Who titles knows, and indexes has feen ;
But leaves to Chesterfield what lies between ;
Of pompous books who fhuns the proud expence,
And humbly is contented with their sense.
O Stanhope, whofe accomplishments make good 95
The promise of a long-illustrious blood,
In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
The strictest bonour! and the finest taste!
Accept this verse; if Satire can agree
With fo confummate an humanity.
By your example would Hilario mend;
How would it grace the talents of
my friend,
Who, with the charms of his own genius fmit,
Conceives all virtues are compriz'd in wit!
But time his fervent petulance may cool;
For though he is a wit, he is no fool.
In time he 'll learn to use, not wafte, his sense;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like doom's-day, all the faults of all mankind.
What though wit tickles? tickling is unfafe,
If ftill 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a fting within a brother's heart?
5
Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as feldom as your fword;
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in fmooth oil the razor best is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set :
Their want of edge from their offence is feen;
Both pain us leaft when exquifitely keen.
The fame men give is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jefter, when the joke's unkind.
Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit,
To pay my compliment, what place fo fit? /
His moft facetious letters came to hand,
Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand:
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou, a Fool, or Knave?
For all but fuch with caution I forebore;
That thou waft either, I ne'er knew before:
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No mask fo good, but Marcus must shine through:
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell; 135
Thy beft concealment had been writing well:
But thou a brave neglect of fame hast shown,
Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded; and this maxim know,
The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.
In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull
Their peevish reafon; vain of being dull;
* Letters fent to the author, figned Marcus.
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