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To counterpoise this hero of the mode, Some for renown are singular and odd; What other men dislike is sure to please, Of all mankind, these dear antipodes : Through pride, not malice, they run counter still, And birthdays are their days of dressing ill. Arbuthnot is a fool, and Foe a sage, Sedley will fright you, Etherege engage : By Nature streams run backward, flame descends, Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends. They take their rest by day, and wake by night, And blush if you surprise them in the right; If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware, A swan is white, or Queensberry * is fair.
Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt, A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out ; His passion for absurdity's so strong, He cannot bear a rival in the wrong. Though wrong the mode, comply: more sense is
shown In wearing others' follies than your own. If what is out of fashion most you prize, Methinks you should endeavour to be wise. But what in oddness can be more sublime Than Sloane t, the foremost toyman of his time? His nice ambition lies in curious fancies, His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances, And Ashmole's baby-house # is, in his view, Britannia’s golden mine, a rich Peru! How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore That painted coat which Joseph never wore!
* The Duchess of Queensberry, a celebrated toast. + Sir Hans Sloane, whose collections enrich our Museum. The Asbmolean Museum at Oxford.
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin [chin. That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's
‘Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, Since the great plague that swept as many more, Was ever year unbless'd as this ? (he'll cry) It has not brought us one new butterfly!' In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Unhappy Jersey! how came you to please?
Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game, But in effect his chase is much the same : Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great, Stanch to the foot of title and estate: Where'er their lordships go, they never find Or Lico or their shadows lag behind ; He sets them sure where'er their lordships run, Close at their elbows, as a morning dun; As if their grandeur by contagion wrought, And Fame was, like a fever, to be caught: But after seven years' dance from place to place, The Dane* is more familiar with his Grace.
Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer, Or living pendant dangling at his ear, For ever whispering secrets, which were blown For months before by trumpets through the town? . Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace, Still to reflect the temper of his face? Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve, When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave? Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please To loll or thump it, for his better ease? Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke, When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?
* A Danish dog belonging to the Duke of Argyle.
Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not
find His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind, For blessings to the gods profoundly bow, That can cry chimneysweep, or drive a plough? With terms like these how mean the tribe that close ! Scarce meaner they who terms like these impose.
But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
Ah! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,
What foe to verse without compassion hears, What cruel proseman can refrain from tears, When the poor Muse, for less than half a crown,
prostitute on every bulk in town,
* Earl of Orrery. + Earl of Peterborough.
| Duke of Newcastle.
With other whores undone, though not in print,
All other trades demand, verse-makers beg:
alas! for having writ.
But, ah! not inspiration can obtain
* Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles Harley.
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,
That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;
Of ardent lovers the true modern band Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land. For love young, noble, rich Castalio dies; Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes. Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down, No rival can prevail,—but half a crown. He glories to late times to be convey'd, Not for the poor he has relieved, but made : Not such ambition his great fathers fired, When Harry conquer'd, and half France expired: He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain; Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain.
Who'd be a slave ? The gallant colonel cries, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes : To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right, Just is his title,-for he will not fight. All soldiers valour, all divines have grace, As maids of honour beauty-by their place: But when, indulging on the last campaign, His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain,