Who first run one another down,
And then fall foul on all the town;
Skill'd in the horse-laugh and dry rub,
And call'd by excellence "The Club;"
I mean your Butler, Dawson, Car,
All special friends, and always jar.
The mettled and the vicious steed
Differ as little in their breed;
Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Lee
As rudeness is to repartee.
If what you said I wish unspoke,
"Twill not suffice it was a joke;
Reproach not, though in jest, a friend
For those defects he cannot mend:
His lineage, calling, shape, or sense,
If nam'd with scorn, gives just offence.
What use in life to make men fret,
Part in worse humour than they met?
Thus all society is lost,
Men laugh at one another's cost;
And half the company is teaz'd,
That came together to be pleas'd;
For all buffoons have most in view
To please themselves by vexing you.
You wonder now to see me write
So gravely on a subject light.
Some part of what I here design
Regards a friend1 of yours and mine,
Who, neither void of sense nor wit,
Yet seldom judges what is fit,
But sallies oft beyond his bounds,
And takes unmeasurable rounds.
When jests are carried on too far, And the loud laugh begins the war, You keep your countenance for shame, Yet still you think your friend's to blame: For though men cry-they love a jest, "Tis but when others stand the test; And, would you have their meaning known, They love a jest that is their own.
You must, although the point be nice,
Bestow your friend some good advice:
One hint from you will set him right,
And teach him how to be polite.
Bid him, like you, observe with care
Whom to be hard on, whom to spare;
Nor, indistinctly, to suppose
All subjects like Dan Jackson's nose;
To study the obliging jest
By reading those who teach it best.
For prose I recommend Voiture's,
For verse (I speak my judgment) yours.
He'll find the secret out from thence,
To rhyme all day without offence,
And I no more shall then accuse
The flirts of his ill-manner'd muse.
If he be guilty, you must mend him;
If he be innocent, defend him.
THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn, and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn door sill,
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighbouring pool,
Nor loudly cackles at the door;
For cackling shows the goose is poor.
But when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
Hard exercise and harder fare
Soon make my dame grow lank and spare ; Her body light, she tries her wings,
And scorns the ground, and upward springs,
While all the parish, as she flies,
Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.
Such is the poet, fresh in pay,
(The third night's profits of his play)
His morning-draughts till noon can swill
Among his brethren of the quill;
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
What poet e'er could take his flight?
Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat,
What poet e'er could sing a note?
Nor Pegasus could bear the load
Along the high celestial road;
The steed, oppress'd would break his girth,
To raise the lumber from the earth.
But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale,
His two-years' coat so smooth and bare,
Through every thread it lets in air,
With hungry meals his body pin'd,
His guts and belly full of wind,
And, like a jockey for a race,
His flesh brought down to flying case;
Now his exalted spirit loathes
Incumbrances of food and clothes,
And up he rises like a vapour
Supported high on wings of paper;
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub-street rings.,
WHEN first Diana leaves her bed,
Vapours and steams her look disgrace,
A frowzy dirty-colour'd red
Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face;
But by degrees, when mounted high,
Her artificial face appears
Down from her window in the sky,
Her spots are gone, her visage clears.
"Twixt earthly females and the moon
All parallels exactly run:
If Celia should appear too soon,
Alas! the nymph would be undone.
To see her from her pillow rise,
All reeking in a cloudy steam,
Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes,
Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme.
Three colours, black, and red, and white,
So graceful in their proper place,
Remove them to a different site,
They form a frightful hideous face.
For instance, when the lily skips
Into the precincts of the rose,
And takes possession of the lips,
Leaving the purple to the nose.
So Celia went entire to bed,
All her complexion safe and sound, But when she rose, white, black, and red, Though still in sight, had chang'd their ground.
The black, which would not be confin'd
A more inferior station seeks,
Leaving the fiery red behind,
And mingles in her muddy cheeks.
But Celia can with ease reduce,
By help of pencil, paint, and brush,
Each colour to its place and use,
And teach her cheeks again to blush.
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