To him that looks behind the scene
Statira's but some pocky queen.
When Celia all her glory shows,
If Strephon would but stop his nose,
Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, ́
Her washes, slops, and every clout,
With which he makes so foul a rout,
He soon will learn to think like me,
And bless his ravish'd eyes to see
Such order from confusion sprung;
Such gaudy tulips rais'd from dung.
TO DOCTOR DELANY'S FABLE.
OF THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK.
Written in the year 1739.,
IN ancient times the wise were able
proper terms to write a fable; Their tales would always justly suit The characters of ev'ry brute;
The ass was dull, the lion brave,
The stag was swift, the fox a knave;
The daw a thief, the ape a droll,
The hound would scent, the wolf would proul;
A pigeon would, if shown by
Fly from the hawk, or pick his pease up.
Far otherwise a great divine
Has learn'd his Fables to refine;
He jumbles men and birds together,
As if they all were of a feather:
You see him first the Peacock bring,
Against all rules, to be a king;
That in his tail he wore his eyes,
By which he grew both rich and wise.
Now, pray, observe the Doctor's choice,
A Peacock chose for flight and voice!
Did ever mortal see a Peacock
Attempt a flight above a haycock?
And for his singing, Doctor, you know
Himself complain'd of it to Juno.
He squalls in such a hellish noise,
It frightens all the village boys.
This Peacock kept a standing force
In regiments of foot and horse;
Had statesmen too of ev'ry kind,
Who waited on his eyes behind;
(And this was thought the highest post,
For rule the rump you rule the roast.)
The Doctor names but one at present,
And he of all birds was a Pheasant.
This Pheasant was a man of wit,
Could read all books were ever writ,
And when among companions privy,
Could quote you Cicero and Livy.
Birds, as he says, and I allow,
Were scholars then, as we are now,
Could read all volumes up to folios,
And feed on fricassees and olios.
This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will,
Was viceroy of a neighb'ring hill,
And as he wander'd in his park,
He chanc'd to spy a clergy Lark,
Was taken with his person outward,
So prettily he pick'd a cow-t―d;
Then in a net the Pheasant caught him,
And in his palace fed and taught him.
The moral of the tale is pleasant,
Himself the Lark, my Lord the Pheasant:
A Lark he is, and such a Lark
As never came from Noah's ark;
And tho' he had no other notion
But building, planning, and devotion;
Tho' 'tis a maxim you must know,
Who does no ill can have no foe;
Yet how shall I express in words
The strange stupidity of birds?
This Lark was hated in the wood,
Because he did his brethren good.
At last the Nightingale comes in,
To hold the Doctor by the chin;
We all can find out whom he means,
The worst of disaffected Deans,
Whose wit at best was next to none,
And now that little next is gone;
Against the court is always blabbing,
And calls the Senate-house a Cabbin;
So dull, that but for spleen and spite
We ne'er should know that he could write;
Who thinks the nation always err'd,
Because himself is not preferr'd;
His heart is thro' his Libel* seen,
Nor could his malice spare the Q-n,
O would the Senate deign to show
Resentment on this public foe!
Our Nightingale might fit a cage,
There let him starve, and vent his rage;
Or would they but in fetters bind
This enemy of human-kind.
Harmonious Coffee! shew thy zeal,
Thou champion for the common-weal!
Nor on a theme like this repine
For once to wet thy pen divine;
* Vide a Libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret.
† Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traulus.
A Dublin Garetteer.
Volume III.
Whose malice, for the worst of ends,
Would have us lose our English friends;
Who never had one public thought,
Nor ever gave the poor a groat.
One clincher more and I have done,
I end my labours with a pun.
Jove send this Nightingale may fall,
Who spends his day and night in gall.
So Nightingale and Lark, adieu!
I see the greatest owls in you
That ever screecht or ever flew.
Written in the year 1730.
If neither brass nor marble can withstand
The mortal force of Time's destructive hand;
If mountains sink to vales, if cities die,
And less'ning rivers mourn their fountains dry;
my old cassoc (said a Welsh divine)
Is out at elbows, why should I repine?
REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL.
Written in the year 1730.
FROM distant regions Fortune sends
An odd triumvirate of friends:
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