The bending shelves with pondrous scholiasts
And deep divines, to modern shops unknown:
Here, like the bee, that on industrious wing
Collects the various odours of the spring,
Walkers, at leisure, Learning's flowers may spoil,
Nor watch the wasting of the midnight oil;
May morals snatch from Plutarch's tatter'd page,
A mildew'd Bacon, or Stagira's sage:
Here sauntering 'prentices o'er Otway weep,
O'er Congreve smile, or over Durfy sleep:
Pleas'd semestresses the Lock's fam'd Rape un-
fold,
And Squirts 5 read Garth, 'till apozems grow cold.
O Lintot! let my labours obvious lie,
Rang'd on thy stall, for every curious eye;
So shall the poor these precepts gratis know,
And to my verse their future safeties owe.
What walker shall his mean ambition fix
On the false lustre of a coach and six?
Let the vain virgin, lur'd by glaring show,
Sigh for the liveries of the embroider'd beau.
See yon bright chariot on its harness swing, With Flanders mares, and on an arched spring: That wretch, to gain an equipage and place, Betray'd his sister to a lewd embrace.
5 The name of an apothecary's boy, in the Poem of 'The Dispensary.'
This coach that with the blazon'd 'scutcheon
Vain of his unknown race, the coxcomb shows.
Here the brib'd lawyer, sunk in velvet, sleeps;
The starving orphan, as he passes, weeps:
There flames a fool, begirt with tinsell'd slaves,
Who wastes the wealth of a whole race of knaves.
That other, with a clustering train behind,
Owes his new honours to a sordid mind.
This next in court-fidelity excels,
The public rifles, and his country sells.
May the proud chariot never be my fate,
If purchas❜d at so mean, so dear a rate :
Or rather give me sweet content on foot,
Wrapt in my virtue and a good surtout !
OF WALKING THE STREETS BY NIGHT.
O TRIVIA! goddess, leave these low abodes,
And traverse o'er the wide ethereal roads;
Celestial queen! put on thy robes of light,
Now Cynthia nam'd, fair regent of the night.
At sight of thee the villain sheathes his sword,
Nor scales the wall, to steal the wealthy hoard.
O may thy silver lamp from Heaven's high bower
Direct my footsteps in the midnight hour!
When night first bids the twinkling stars ap
Or with her cloudy vest inwraps the air,
Then swarms the busy street: with caution tread
Where the shop-windows falling threat thy head:
Now labourers home return, and join their strength
To bear the tottering plank or ladder's length;
Still fix thy eyes intent upon the throng,
And as the passes open, wind along.
Where the fair columns of Saint Clement stand, Whose straiten'd bounds encroach upon the
Where the low penthouse bows the walker's head, And the rough pavement wounds the yielding
Where not a post protects the narrow space,
And, strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face;
Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care,
Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware :
Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier's steeds
Drag the black load; another cart succeeds;
Team follows team, crowds heap'd on crowds
And wait impatient till the road grow clear.
Now all the pavement sounds with trampling feet,
And the mixt hurry barricades the street.
Entangled here, the wagon's lengthen❜d team
Cracks the tough harness; here a pondrous beam
Lies overturn'd athwart; for slaughter fed,
Here lowing bullocks raise their horned head.
Now oaths grow loud, with coaches coaches jar,
And the smart blow provokes the sturdy war: 36
From the high box they whirl the thong around,
And with the twining lash their shins resound:
Their rage ferments, more dangerous wounds they
try,
And the blood gushes down their painful eye. 40
And now on foot the frowning warriors light,
And with their pondrous fists renew the fight;
Blow answers blow, their cheeks are smear'd with
blood,
Till down they fall, and grappling roll in mud.
So when two boars, in wild Ytene1 bred,
Or on Westphalia's fattening chestnuts fed,
1 New Forest in Hampshire, anciently so called.
Gnash their sharp tusks, and, rous'd with equal
Dispute the reign of some luxurious mire ;
In the black flood they wallow o'er and o'er,
Till their arm'd jaws distil with foam and gore. 50
Where the mob gathers, swiftly shoot along, Nor idly mingle in the noisy throng. Lur'd by the silver hilt, amid the swarm The subtle artist will thy side disarm: Nor is thy flaxen wig with safety worn; High on the shoulder in a basket borne Lurks the sly boy, whose hand, to rapine bred, Plucks off the curling honours of thy head. Here dives the skulking thief, with practis'd sleight And unfelt fingers makes thy pocket light. Where's now thy watch? with all its trinkets,
And thy late snuff-box is no more thy own.
But, lo! his bolder thefts some tradesman spies,
Swift from his prey the scudding lurcher flies:
Dextrous he 'scapes the coach with nimble bounds,
Whilst every honest tongue 'Stop thief' resounds.
So speeds the wily fox, alarm'd by fear,
Who lately filch'd the turkey's callow care;
Hounds following hounds, grow louder as he flies,
And injur❜d tenants join the hunter's cries:
Breathless he stumbling falls. Ill-fated boy!
Why did not honest work thy youth employ?
Seiz'd by rough hands, he's dragg'd amid the rout,
And stretch'd beneath the pump's incessant spout;
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