And if unsavoury odours fly,
Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits,
By vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon, blind
To all the charms of woman-kind.
Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene,
Statira's but some pocky quean.
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.
OF THE PHEASANT AND THE LARK.
In ancient times the wise were able
In proper terms to write a fable;
Their tales would always justly suit
The characters of every 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 prowl;
A pigeon would, if shown by Æsop,
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 every 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 fricasees and olios.
This Pheasant, by the Peacock's will,
Was viceroy of a neighbouring 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 though he had no other notion
But building, planning, and devotion;
Though '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 Cabin;
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 through his libel1 seen,
Nor could his malice spare the Q-n,
Who, had she known his vile behaviour,
Would ne'er have shown him so much favour.
A noble Lord hath told his pranks,
And well deserves the nation's thanks.
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! show thy zeal,
Thou champion for the common-weal!
Nor on a theme like this repine
For once to wet thy pen divine;
Bestow that libeller a lash,
Who daily vends seditious trash;
Who dares revile the nation's wisdom,
But in the praise of virtue is dumb:
That scribbler lash, who neither knows
The turn of verse nor style of prose;
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.
1 Vide a libel on Dr. Delany and Lord Carteret. 2 Lord Allen, the same who is meant by Traalus 3 A Dublin-Garretteer.
Jove send this Nightingale may fall,
Who spends his day and night in gall.
So Nightingale and Lark, adien!
I see the greatest owls in you
That ever screecht or ever flew.
If neither brass nor marble can withstand
The mortal force of Time's destructive hand;
If mountains sink to vales, if cities die,
And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry;
'When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine)
Is out at elbows, why should I repine?
REVOLUTION AT MARKET HILL. 1730.
FROM distant regions Fortune sends
An odd triumvirate of friends :
Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,
Where never yet a codling ripend,
Hither the frantic goddess draws
Three sufferers in a ruin'd cause:
By faction banish'd, here unite
A Dean', a Spaniard2, and a Knight3;
2 Col. Harry Leslie, who served and lived long in Spain.
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