« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
A decent competence we fully taste;
It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast :
More, we perceive by dint of thought alone;
The rich must labour to possess 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. [divine,
But some, great souls ! and touch'd with warmth
Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine.
All hoarded treasures they repute a load;
Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'd.
Grand reservoirs of public happiness,
Through secret streams diffusively they bless;
And, while their bounties glide, conceal'd from view,
Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes tou.
But Satire is my task; and these destroy
Her gloomy province, and malignant joy.
Help me, ye misers! help me to complain,
And blast our common enemy,
Germain : But our invectives must despair success; For, next to praise, she values nothing less.
What picture 's yonder, loosen'd from its frame ? Or is 't Asturia, that affected dame? The brightest forms, through affectation, fade To strange new things, which Naturę never made. Frown not, ye fair! so much your sex we prize, We, hate those arts that take you from our eyes. In Albucinda's native grace is seen What you, who labour at perfection, mean. Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease, Retain your gentle selves, and you must please.
Here might I sing of Memmia's mincing mien,
And all the movements of the soft machine :
How two red lips affected Zephyrs blow,
To cool the bohea, and inflame the beau :
While one white finger and a thumb conspire
To lift the cup, and make the world admire.
Tea! how I tremble at thy fatal stream!
As Lethe, dreadful to the Love of Fame.
What devastations on thy banks are seen !
What shades of mighty names which once have been !
A hecatomb of characters supplies
Thy painted altars' daily sacrifice.
H-, P-, B-, aspers’d by thee, decay,
As grains of finest sugars
And recommend thee more to mortal taste;
Scandal 's the sweetener of a female feast.
But this inhuman triumph shall decline,
And thy revolting Naiads call for wine ;
Spirits no longer shall serve under thee;
But reign in thy own cup, exploded tea!
Citronia's nose declares thy ruin nigh,
And who dares give Citronia's nose the lie?
The ladies long at men of drink exclaim'd,
And what impair'd both health and virtue, blam’d;
At length, to rescue man, the generous lass
Stole from her consort the pernicious glass;
As glorious as the British queen renown'd,
Who suck'd the poison from her husband's wound.
Nor to the glass alone are nymphs inclin'd, But every bolder vice of bold mankind.
O Juvenal! for thy severer rage ! To lash the ranker follies of our age.
Are there, among the females of our isle, Such faults, at which it is a fault to smile ? There are. Vice, once by modest nature chain'd And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd; Without thin decency held up to view, Naked she stalks o'er Law and Gospel too. Our matrons lead such exemplary lives, Men sigh in vain for none but for their wives ; Who marry to be free, to range the more, And wed one man, to wanton with a score. Abroad too kind, at home 't is stedfast hate, And one eternal tempest of debate. What foul eruptions, from a look most meek! What thunders bursting, from a dimpled cheek !. Their passions bear it with a lofty hand ! But then, their reason is at due command. Is there whom you detest, and seek his life? Trust no soul with the secret -- but his wife. Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn, And ask, what kindred is a spouse to them ?
What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see ! And misses, ancient in iniquity! What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming ! What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaining ! Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence; Such griping avarice, such profuse expense ; Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes ; Such licens’d ill, such masquerading times ; Such venal faith, such misapplied applause ; Such flatter'd guilt, and such inverted laws!
Such dissolution through the whole I find, 'T is not a world, but chaos of mankind.
Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dress d belle
Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of Hell ;*
And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all
Who listen less to Collins than St. Paul.
Atheists have been but rare; since Nature's birth,
Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on Earth.
Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs
This daring character, in timorous things?
Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,
A match for nothing - but the Deity.
But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must own
In this pursuit they court not fame alone ;
But join to that a more substantial view,
“ From thinking free, to be free agents too."
They strive with their own hearts, and keep them
In complaisance to all the fools in town.
O how they tremble at the name of prude!
And die with shame at thought of being good!
For what will Artimis, the rich and gay,
What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs, say?
They Heaven defy, to Earth's vile dregs a slave;
Through cowardice, most execrably brave.
With our own judgments durst we to comply,
In virtue should we live, in glory die.
Rise then, my Muse, in honest fury rise ;
They dread a satire, who defy the skies.
Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own; And nothing but his attributes dethrone. From atheists far, they stedfastly believe God is, and is Almighty - to forgive,
His other excellence they 'll not dispute ;
But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.
Shall pleasures of a short duration chain
A lady's soul in everlasting pain ?
Will the great Author us poor worms destroy,
For now and then a sip of transient joy?
No, he 's for ever in a smiling mood;
He's like themselves; or how could he be good ?
And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.
Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose,
The pure ! the just! and set up, in his stead,
A deity, that 's perfectly well-bred.
“ Dear Tillotson ! be sure the best of men;
Nor thought he more, than thought great Origen.
Though once upon a time he misbehav'd;
Poor Satan! doubtless, he 'll at length be sav'd.
Let priests do something for their one in ten ;
It is their trade; so far they ’re honest men.
Let them cant on, since they have got the knack,
And dress their notions, like themselves, in black ;
Fright us with terrours of a world unknown,
From joys of this, to keep them all their own.
Of Earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee;
But then they leave our untith'd virtue free.
Virtue 's a pretty thing to make a show :
Did ever mortal write like Rouchefoucault ?"
Thus pleads the Devil's fair apologist,
And, pleading, safely enters on his list.
Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain ;
Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane.
For what 's true beauty, but fair virtue's face?
Virtue made visible in outward grace ?