Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a busy man.
And what is that at best, but one whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if fome odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.
But is there any other beast that lives
Who his own harm fo wittingly contrives?
Will any dog that has his teeth and stones
Refin'dly leave his bitches and his bones
To turn a wheel, and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this fond man, to get a ftatefman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Tho' Satire, nicely writ with humour, stings 140
But those who merit praife in other things,
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for Folly Tropos' fake,
Who was too much defpis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore fcarce deferves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue
For railing fmoothly and for reas'ning wrong.
As boys, on holy-days let loose to play,
Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way,
Then fhout to fee in dirt and deep diftrefs
Some filly Cit in her flower'd foolish drefs;
So have I mighty fatisfaction found
To fee his tinfel reafon on the ground;
To fee the florid fool despis'd, and know it,
By fome who scarce have words enough to show it ;
For Senfe fits filent, and condemns for weaker
The finer, nay, fometimes the wittiest speaker.
But 't is prodigious so much eloquence
Should be acquired by such little sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, tho' this man be;
At bar abusive, on the bench unable,
Knave on the woolfack, fop at council-table.
These are the grievances of fuch fools as wou'd
Be rather wife than honest, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone;
Excefs of luxury they think can please,
And lazinefs call loving of their eafe;
To live diffolv'd in pleasures still they feign,
Tho' their whole life's but intermitting pain:
So much of furfeits, headachs, claps, are feen,
We scarce perceive the little time between:
Well-meaning men who make this grofs mistake,
And pleasure lofe only for pleasure's fake.
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we squander life away.
Thus Dorfet, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Married, but wifer pufs ne'er thought of that;
Then for one night fold all his flavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife.
Swell'd by contact of fuch a fulfome toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load
Till Fortune, blindly kind, as well as he,
Has ill-reftor'd him to his liberty,
Which he would use in his old fneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day,
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brifker times
Had fam'd for dulness in malicious rhymes.
Mulgrave had much ado to 'fcape the fnare,
'Tho' learn'd in all those arts that cheat the fair;
For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks,
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks; 195
Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes
To fee him catch his Tartar for his prize;
'Th' impatient Town waited the wish'd-for change,
And cuckolds fmil'd in hopes of fweet revenge;
Till Petworth-plot made us with forrow fee
As his eftate, his perfon, too, was free:
Him no foft thoughts, no gratitude, could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet, failing there, he keeps his freedom ftill,
Forc'd to live happily against his will.
"Tis not his fault if too much wealth and pow'r
Break not his boafted quiet ev'ry hour.
And little Sid. for fimile renown'd,
Pleasure has always fought but never found:
Tho' all his thoughts on wine'and women fall, 210
His are fo bad, fure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong;
His meat and miftreffes are kept too long.
But fure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his person all he can:
What we uncharitably take for fin,
Are only rules of this odd Capuchin;
For never hermit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common fenfe ;
And 't is a miracle, we may fuppofe,
No naftinefs offends his fkilful nofe,
Which from all stink can, with peculiar art,
Extract perfume and effence from a f―t.
Expecting fupper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night,
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Rochester I defpife for want of wit,
Tho' thought to have a tail and cloven feet;
For while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himfelf alone the ill effects does find;
And fo, like witches, justly suffers fhame,
Whofe harmless malice is so much the fame.
Falfe are his words, affected is his wit,
So often he does aim, so seldom hit:
To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks:
Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him:
A proof that Chance alone makes ev'ry creature; 240 A very Killigrew, without good nature;
For what a Beffus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd?
For, there's the folly that 's still mix'd with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear.
Of fighting sparks fome may their pleasures say,
But 't is a bolder thing to run away.
The world may well forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry fault does prove his penance ftill;
Falfely he falls into fome dang'rous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose.
A life fo infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low fubmitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry,
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has fome humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,
"Tis under fo much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinder-woman's trade,
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire
Muft toil all day in ashes and in mire.
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched texts deserve no comments here,
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