Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,
Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs,
In his own palace forced to ask his bread,
Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed,
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;
The faithful dog alone his master knew:
Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay,
Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw-he rose, and crawl'd to meet,
('Twas all he could) and fawn'd, and kiss'd his feet,
Seized with dumb joy-then falling by his side,
Own'd his returning lord, look'd up, and died!
WHEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a poet's fortune in the town,
'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these, he ventured on the town,
And with a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown:
There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little ;
Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
This first appeared in the 'Miscellanies,' A. D. 1774. Warton thinks Macer' means James Moore Smith; but Bowles, with more probability, believes Philips to be intended.
So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid: Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a day; Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree; And strangely liked for her simplicity: In a translated suit, then tries the town, With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own : But just endured the winter she began, And in four months a batter'd harridan :
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.
CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits,
The constant index to old Button's wits.
'Who's here?' cries Umbra: 'Only Johnson.'+ -'0!
Your slave,' and exit; but returns with Rowe :
'Dear Rowe, let's sit, and talk of tragedies :'
Ere long, Pope enters, and to Pope he flies:
Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,
And in a moment fastens upon Steele;
But cries as soon, 'Dear Dick, I must be gone ;
For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.'
Says Addison to Steele, "Tis time to go :'
Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell. Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam;
Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
* Probably Ambrose Philips.
+ Charles Johnson, a second-rate dramatist, and great frequenter of Button's.
SYLVIA my heart in wondrous wise alarmn'd;
Awed without sense, and without beauty charm'd :
But some odd graces and some flights she had ;
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad:
Her tongue still rau on credit from her eyes,
More pert than witty, more a wit than wise:
Good nature, she declared it, was her scorn,
Though 'twas by that alone she could be borne:
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame :
Now coy, and studious in no point to fall,
Now all agog for D-y at a ball:
Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres.
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;
But every woman's in her soul a rake.
Frail, feverish sex! their fit now chills, now burns
Atheism and superstition rule by turns;
And, a mere heathen in the carnal part,
Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.
TUNE-To all you ladies now at land,' &c.
To one fair lady out of court,
And two fair ladies in,
Who think the Turkt and Pope‡ a sport,
And wit and love no sin;
* This character is said to have been designed for the Duchess of Hamilton.
Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in,
To Bellenden,* Lepell,+ and Griffin.
With a fa, la, la.
What passes in the dark third row,
And what behind the scene,
Couches and crippled chairs, I know,
And garrets hung with green :
I know the swing of sinful hack,
Where many damsels cry alack!
With a fa, la, la.
Then why to courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend?
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And every speech with Zounds' end;
To hear them rail at honest Sunderland,
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.
With a fa, la, la.
Alas! like Schutz, I cannot pun;
Like Grafton, court the Germans ;
Tell Pickenburg how slim she's grown ;
Like Meadows, § run to sermons:
To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and Marlborough stay at home.
With a fa, la, la.
* Mary Bellenden, the most beautiful woman of her time, was the daughter of Lord Bellenden, and Maid of Honour to Caroline, Princess of Wales.
+ Maid of Honour to Queen Caroline, and afterwards Lady Hervey. ↑ Ireland.
§ See Answer to the following Question of Mrs. Howe,'
In truth, by what I can discern
Of courtiers, 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From court, than Gay or me:
Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
To sup with us on milk and quiet.
With a fa, la, la.
At Leicester-fields, a house full high,
With door all painted green,
Where ribbons wave upon the tie
(A milliner's, I mean) ;—
There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of me.
With a fa, la, la.
But should you catch the prudish itch,
And each become a coward,
Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich,
And sometimes Mistress Howard;
For virgins, to keep chaste, must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa, la, la.
And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends :
God send the king safe landing;
And make all honest ladies friends
To armies that are standing:
Preserve the limits of those nations,
And take off ladies' limitations.
With a fa, la, la.†
* Mrs. Howard, mistress to George II. and afterwards Countess of Suffolk.
This ballad was written in the year 1717.
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