True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call ;
He's knight o'th'shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow:
His fword-knot this, his cravat that design'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prophan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
These sure he took from most of you who write.
Yet ev'ry man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
OU'VE seen a pair of faithful lovers die :
And much you care; for most of you will
"Twas a just judgment on their constancy.
For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the stage:
And e'en those martyrs are but rare in plays;
A cursed sign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent defire;
'Tis a meer metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our sex, the name examin'd well,
*Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 'tis of subtle int'reft made :
Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool prefume to prate of love.
Let honor and preferment go for gold ;
But glorious beauty is not to be fold ;
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,
That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated ware.
'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way;
And women fight, like Swissers, for their pay.
By Mrs. BΕΗΝ, 1690.
Heaven fave ye,
Eaven save ye, gallants, and this hopeful age;
Y'are welcome to the downfal of the stage :
The fools have labor'd long in their vocation;
And vice, the manufacture of the nation,
O'erstocks the town so much, and thrives so well,
That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not fell.
In vain our wares on theatres are shown,
When each has a plantation of his own.
His cause ne'er fails; for whatsoe'er he spends,
There's still God's plenty for himself and friends.
Should men be rated by poetic rules,
Lord! what a poll would there be rais'd from fools!
Mean time poor wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made some French commodity.
Fools you will have, and rais'd at vast expence ;
And yet, as foon as seen, they give offence.
Time was, when none would cry, That oaf was me;
But now you strive about your pedigree.
Bauble and cap no fooner are thrown down,
But there's a muss of more than half the town.
Each one will challenge a child's part at least;
A fign the family is well increast.
Of foreign cattle there's no longer need,
When we're fupply'd fo fast with English breed.
Well! flourish, countrymen, drink, swear, and roar;
Let ev'ry free-born subject keep his whore,
And wand'ring in the wilderness about,
At end of forty years not wear her out.
But when you fee these pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a limb or fingle share :
For where the punk is common, he's a fot,
Who needs will father what the parish got.
[By Mr. N. LEE, 1680.]
H'unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen, Lives not to please himself, but other men; Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood, Yet only eats and drinks what you think good. What praise soe'er the poetry deserve, Yet ev'ry fool can bid the poet starve. That fumbling letcher to revenge is bent, Because he thinks himself or whore is meant: Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms; From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms: Were there no fear of Antichrift or France, In the blest time poor poets live by chance. Either you come not here, or, as you grace Some old acquaintance, drop into the place, Careless and qualmish with a yawning face : You fleep o'er wit, and by my troth you may; Most of your talents lie another way. You love to hear of some prodigious tale, The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale.
|