For 'tis profane when sexes mingle:
And every nymph must enter single,
And when she feels an inward motion,
Come fill'd with reverence and devotion.
The bashful maid, to hide her blush,
Shall creep no more behind a bush;
Here unobserv'd she boldly goes,
As who should say, to pluck a rose.
Ye who frequent this hallow'd scene.
Be not ungrateful to the Dean,
But duly, ere you leave your station,
Offer to him a pure libation,
Or of his own or Smedley's lay,
Or billet-doux, or lock of hay:
And, O! may all who hither come
Return with unpolluted thumb.
Yet when your lofty domes I praise,
I sigh to think of ancient days.
Permit me then to raise my style,
And sweetly moralize awhile.
Thee, bounteous goddess Cloacine!
To temples why do we confine ?
Forbid in open air to breathe,
Why are thine altars fix'd beneath?
When Saturn rul'd the skies alone,
(That Golden Age to gold unknown)
This earthly globe, to thee assign'd,
Receiv'd the gifts of all mankind :
Ten thousand altars, smoking round,
Were built to thee, with offerings crown'd;
And here thy daily votaries plac'd
Their sacrifice with zeal and haste;
The margin of a purling stream
Sent up to thee a grateful steam;
(Though, sometimes thou wert pleas'd to wink
If Naiads swept them from the brink)
Or where appointing lovers rove,
The shelter of a shady grove;
Or offer'd in some flowery vale,
Were wafted by a gentle gale.
There many a flower abstersive grew,
Thy favourite flowers of yellow hue!
The crocus and the daffodil,
The cowslip soft, and sweet jonquil.
But when at last usurping Jove
Old Saturn from his empire drove,
Then Gluttony with greasy paws
Her napkin pin'd up to her jaws,
With watery chaps, and wagging chin,
Brac'd like a drum her oily skin;
Wedg'd in a spacious elbow-chair,
And on her plate a treble share,
As if she ne'er could have enough
Taught harmless man to cram and stuff.
She sent her priest in wooden shoes
From haughty Gaul to make ragouts;
Instead of wholesome bread and cheese,
To dress their soups and fricasees;
And, for our home-bred British cheer,
Botargo, catsup, and caveer.
This bloated harpy, sprung from hell,
Confin'd thee, goddess! to a cell;
Sprung from her womb that impious line,
Contemners of thy rites divine.
First lolling Sloth, in woollen cap,
Taking her after-dinner nap;
Pale Dropsy, with a sallow face,
Her belly burst, and slow her pace;
And lordly Gout, wrapt up in fur;
And wheezing Asthma, loth to stir;
Voluptuous Ease, the child of Wealth,
Infecting thus our hearts by stealth:
None seek thee now in open air;
To thee no verdant altars rear;
But in their cells and vaults obscene
Present a sacrifice unclean,
From whence unsavoury vapours rose,
Offensive to thy nicer nose.
Ah! who in our degenerate days,
As Nature prompts, his offering pays?
Here Nature never difference made
Between the sceptre and the spade.
Ye great ones! why will ye disdain
To pay your tribute on the plain?
Why will you place, in lazy pride,
Your altars near your couches' side?
When from the homeliest earthen ware
Are sent up offerings more sincere,
Than where the haughty dutchess locks
Her silver vase in cedar-box.
Yet some devotion still remains
Among our harmless northern swains,
Whose offerings, plac'd in golden ranks,
Adorn our crystal rivers' banks,
Nor seldom grace the flowery downs
With spiral tops and copple crowns;
Or gilding in a sunny morn
The humble branches of a thorn;
So, poets sing, with golden bough
The Trojan hero paid his vow.
Hither by luckless error led,
The crude consistence oft I tread;
Here, when my shoes are out of case,
Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace;
Here by the sacred bramble ting'd,
My petticoat is doubly fring'd.
Be witness for me, nymph divine!
I never robb'd thee with design;
Nor will the zealous Hannah pout
To wash thy injur'd offerings out.
But stop, ambitions Muse! in time,
Nor dwell on subjects too sublime.
In vain on lofty heels I tread.
Aspiring to exalt my head;
With hoop expanded wide and light
In vain I'tempt too high a flight.
Me Phœbus in a midnight dream
Accosting, said 'Go shake your cream;
Be humbly minded, know your post;
Sweeten your tea, and watch your toast.
Thee best befits a lowly style;
Teach Dennis how to stir the guile;
With Peggy Dixon16 thoughtful sit,
Contriving for the pot and spit:
Take down thy proudly-swelling sails,
And rub thy teeth, and pare thy nails:
At nicely carving show thy wit,
But ne'er presume to eat a bit:
Turn every way thy watchful eye,
And every guest be sure to ply:
Let never at your board be known
An empty plate, except your own.
Be these thy arts, nor higher aim
Than what befits a rural dame.'
But Cloacina, goddess bright,
claims her as his right;
And Smedley17, flower of all divines,
Shall sing the Dean in Smedley's lines.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT;
READING THE FOLLOWING MAXIN IN ROCHEFOUCAULT.
Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas.
In the adversity of our best friends we always find something that doth not displease us.'
As Rochefoucault his Maxims drew
From Nature, I believe them true;
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast,
'In all distresses of our friends
We first consult our private ends,
While Nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.'
. If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.
17 A very stupid, insolent, factious, deformed, conceited parson, a vile pretender to poetry, preferred by the Duke of Grafton for his wit.
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