The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry, Lords quibble, critics jest; all end in thee, All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.
THOUGH Artemisia talks, by fits,
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke:
Yet in some things methinks she fails,
'Twere well if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.
Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such nastiness, and so much pride
Are oddly joined by fate:
On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpse upon a bed,
That lies and stinks in state.
She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face;
All white and black beside:
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,
And masculine her stride.
So have I seen, in black and white
A prating thing, a magpie hight,
Majestically stalk;
A stately, worthless animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,
All flutter, pride, and talk.
PHRYNE had talents for mankind,
Open she was, and unconfined,
Like some free port of trade:
Merchants unloaded here their freight,
And agents from each foreign state,
Here first their entry made.
Her learning and good breeding such,
Whether the Italian or the Dutch,
Spaniards or French came to her:
To all obliging she'd appear :
'Twas Si Signor, 'twas Yaw Mynheer,
'Twas S'il vous plait, Monsieur.
Obscure by birth, renowned by crimes,
Still changing names, religions, climes,
At length she turns a bride :
In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of battered jades,
And flutters in her pride.
So have I known those insects fair
(Which curious Germans hold so rare)
Still very shapes and dyes;
Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,
Then painted butterflies.
THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.
PARSON, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the bishop's blessing.
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there's need:
October store, and best Virginia,
Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea:
Gazettes sent gratis down, and franked,
or which thy patron's weekly thanked:
A large Concordance, bound long since:
Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince; 10
A chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in.
The Polygot-three parts,-my text,
Howbeit, likewise-now to my next.
Lo here the Septuagint, and Paul,
To sum the whole,-the close of all.
He that has these, may pass his life,
Drink with the squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays-if he will;
Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with church-wardens about pews,
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor St.
IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.
'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you, June the third;
Changed it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores :
And what a dust in every place!
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W* and H** both in town!
"The dog-days are no more the case." 'Tis true; but winter comes apace: Then southward let your bard retire, Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire, And you shall see the first warm weather,
Me and the butterflies together.
My lord, your favours well I know;
'Tis with distinction you bestow;
And not to every one that comes,
Just as a Scotsman does his plums.
"Pray take them, sir,-enough's a feast:
Eat some, and pocket up the rest"-
What? rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
"No, sir, you'll leave them to the hogs."
Thus fools with compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;
And 'tis but just, I'll tell ye wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is or should
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a difference in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.
Now this I'll say: you'll find in me
A safe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near-
A word, pray, in your honour's ear.
I hope it is your resolution
To give me back my constitution!
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
The engaging smile, the gaiety,
That laughed down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one:
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda raised my strain.
A weasel once made shift to slink
In at a corn-loft through a chink;
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