Then he, that could not Epic flights rehearse,
Might sweetly mourn in Elegiac verse.
But, were his Mufe for Elegy unfit,
Perhaps a distich might not ftrain his wit;
If Epigram offend, his harmless lines
Might in gold letters fwing on ale-house figns.
Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays,
And Tuttle-fields record his fimple lays;
Where rhymes like these might lure the nurses' eyes,
While gaping infants squawl for farthing pies:
"Treat here, ye fhepherds blithe, your damfels fweet,
"For pies and cheesecakes are for damfels meet."
Then Maurus in his proper sphere might shine,
And these proud numbers grace great William's fign:
"This is the man, this the Naffovian, whom
"I nam'd the brave deliverer to come
But now the driving gales fufpend the rain,
We mount our steeds, and Devon's city gain.
Hail, happy native land! but I forbear
What other counties muft with
* Blackmore's Prince Arthur, Book V.
WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ 1717.
PULTENEY, methinks you blame my breach of
What! cannot Paris one poor page afford?
Yes, I can fagely, when the times are paft,
Laugh at thofe follies which I ftrove to taste,
And each amusement, which we shar'd, review,
Pleas'd with mere talking, fince I talk to you.
But how fhall I defcribe in humble profe
Their balls, affemblies, operas, and beaux?
In profe? you cry: oh no, the Muse must aid,
And leave Parnaffus for the Tuilleries' fhade:
Shall he (who late Britannia's city trod,
And led the draggled Mufe, with pattens fhod,
Through dirty lanes, and alleys' doubtful ways)
Refuse to write, when Paris afks his lays!
Well then, I'll try. Defcend, ye beauteous Nine, In all the colours of the rainbow shine,
Let sparkling ftars your neck and ear adorn,
Lay on the blushes of the crimson morn;
So may ye
balls and gay affemblies grace,
And at the opera claim the foremost place.
Travellers fhould ever fit expreffion choose,
Nor with low phrase the lofty theme abuse.
When they describe the state of eastern lords,
Pomp and magnificence fhould fwell their words;
And, when they paint the ferpent's fcaly pride,
Their lines fhould hifs, their numbers fmoothly flide;
But they, unmindful of poetic rules,
Defcribe alike Mockaws and Great Moguls.
Dampier would thus, without ill-meaning fatire,
Dress forth in fimple style the Petit-maitre :
"In Paris, there's a race of animals
"(I've seen them at their operas and balls):
"They stand erect, they dance whene'er they walk,
*Monkeys in action, perroquets in talk;
"They're crown'd with feathers, like the cockatoo,
"And, like camelions, daily change their hue;
"From patches juftly plac'd they borrow graces,
"And with vermilion lacquer o'er their faces.
This cuftom, as we visibly difcern,
"They, by frequenting ladies' toilettes, learn."
Thus might the traveller easy truth impart.
Into the fubject let me nobly start.
How happy lives the man, how sure to charm,
Whose knot embroider'd flutters down his arm!
On him the ladies caft the yielding glance,
Sigh in his fongs, and languish in his dance:
While wretched is the wit, contemn'd, forlorn,
Whose gummy hat no fcarlet plumes adorn ;
No broider'd flowers his worfted ankle grace,
Nor cane embofs'd with gold directs his pace;
No lady's favour on his fword is hung;
What though Apollo dictate from his tongue,
His wit is spiritlefs and void of grace,
Who wants th' affurance of brocade and lace.
While the gay fop genteelly talks of weather,
The fair in raptures doat upon his feather;
Like a court-lady though he write and spell,
His minuet-step was fashion'd by Marcell *;
He dreffes, fences. What avails to know?
For women choose their men, like filks, for fhow.
Is this the thing, you cry, that Paris boasts?
Is this the thing renown'd among our toasts?
For fuch a fluttering fight we need not roam;
Our own affemblies fhine with thefe at home.
Let us into the field of beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warm'd my heart.
Think not, ye fair, that I the sex accuse:
How fhall I fpare you, prompted by the Muse?
(The Muses all are prudes!) She rails, she frets,
Amidft this sprightly nation of coquettes :
Yet let not us their loose coquetry blame;
Women of every nation are the fame.
You ask me, if Parifian dames, like ours,
With rattling dice prophane the Sunday's hours;
If they the gamester's pale-ey'd vigils keep,
And ftake their honour while their husbands sleep?
Yes, Sir; like English toasts, the dames of France
Will rifque their income on a fingle chance.
Nannette last night a tricking pharaon play'd,
The cards the Taillier's fliding hand obey'd:
* A famous dancing-master.
To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.
Why does old Chloris an affembly hold?
Chloris each night divides the sharper's gold.
Corinna's cheek with frequent loffes burns,
And no bold Trente le va her fortune turns.
Ah, too rash virgin! where's thy virtue flown?
She pawns her perfon for the fharper's loan.
Yet who with juftice can the fair upbraid,
Whofe debts of honour are fo duly paid?
But let me not forget the toilette's cares,
Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs:
This red 's too pale, nor gives a distant grace;
Madame to-day puts on her opera face;
From this we scarce extract the milk-maid's bloom :
Bring the deep dye that warms across the room :
Now flames her cheek, fo ftrong her charms prevail,
That on her gown the filken rofe looks pale!
Not but that France fome native beauty boasts,
Clermont and Charolois might grace our toasts.
When the sweet-breathing spring unfolds the buds,
Love flies the dufty town for shady woods.
Then Tottenham fields with roving beauty fwarm,
And Hampstead balls the city virgin warm?
Then Chelfea's meads o'erhear perfidious vows,
And the preft grafs defrauds the grazing cows.
'Tis here the fame; but in a higher sphere,
For ev'n court-ladies fin in open air.
What cit with a gallant would truft his spouse
Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs?
|