Call for a fire, their winter cloaths they take:
Begin but you to fhiver, and they shake :
In froft and fnow, if you complain of heat,
They rub th' unfweating brow, and fwear they fweat.
We live not on the fquare with fuch as thefe,
Such are our betters, who can better please :
Who day and night are like a looking-glass
Still ready to reflect their patron's face.
The panegyric hand, and lifted eye,
Prepar'd for fome new piece of flattery.
Ev'n naftiness, occafions will afford;
They praise a belching, or well-pissing lord.
Befides, there's nothing facred, nothing free
From bold attempts of their rank letchery.
Through the whole family their labours run;
The daughter is debauch'd, the wife is won:
Nor 'fcapes the bridegroom, or the blooming fon.
If none they find for their lewd purpose fit,
They with the walls and very floors commit.
They fearch the fecrets of the house, and fo
Are worship'd there, and fear'd for what they know.
And, now we talk of Grecians, cast a view
On what, in fchools, their men of morals do;
A rigid ftoick his own pupil flew:
A friend, againft a friend of his own cloth,
Turn'd evidence, and murder'd on his oath.
What room is left for Romans in a town
Where Grecians rule, and cloaks control the gown?
Some Diphilus, or fome Protogenes,
Look sharply out, our fenators to seize :
Engrofs them wholly, by their native art,
And fear'd no rivals in their bubble's heart:
One drop of poifon in my patron's ear,
One flight fuggeftion of a senseless fear,
Infus'd with cunning, ferves to ruin me;
Difgrac'd, and banish'd from the family.
In vain forgotten fervices I boaft;
My long dependance in an hour is loft:
Look round the world, what country will appear,
Where friends are left with greater ease than here?
At Rome (nor think me partial to the poor)
All offices of ours are out of door :
In vain we rife, and to the levees run;
My lord himself is up, before, and gone :
The prætor bids his lictors mend their pace,
Left his colleague outstrip him in the race:
The childish matrons are, long fince, awake:
And, for affronts, the tardy vifits take.
'Tis frequent, here, to fee a free-born fon
On the left-hand of a rich hireling run;
Because the wealthy rogue can throw away,
For half a brace of bouts, a tribune's pay
But you, poor finner, though you love the vice,
And, like the whore, demure upon the price :
And, frighted with the wicked fum, forbear
To lend a hand, and help her from the chair.
Produce a witnefs of unblemish'd life,
Holy as Numa, or as Numa's wife,
Or him who bid th' unhallow'd flames retire,
-And fnatch'd the trembling goddefs from the fire!
The question is not put, how far extends
His piety, but what he yearly spends:
Quick to the business; how he lives, and eats;
How largely gives; how splendidly he treats :
How many thousand acres feed his sheep,
What are his rents? what fervants does he keep,
Th' account is foon caft up; the judges rate
Our credit in the court by our estate.
Swear by our gods, or thofe the Greeks adore,
Thou art as fure forfworn, as thou art poor:
The poor must gain their bread by perjury;
And ev'n the gods, that other means deny,
In confcience muft abfolve them, when they lye.
Add, that the rich have ftill a gibe in store;
And will be monftrous witty on the poor :
For the torn furtout and the tatter'd veft,
The wretch and all his wardrobe are a jeft:
The greafy gown, fully'd with often turning,
Gives a good hint, to fay, The man's in mourning:
Or if the fhoe be ript, or patches put,
He 's wounded! fee the plaifter on his foot.
Want is the fcorn of every wealthy fool;
And wit in rags is turn'd to ridicule.
Pack hence, and from the cover'd benches rife,
(The Mafter of the Ceremonies cries)
This is no place for you, whofe small eftate
Is not the value of the fettled rate:
The fons of happy punks, the pandar's heir,
Are privileg'd to fit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the theatre.
Up to the galleries, for fhame, retreat;
For, by the Rofcian law, the poor can claim no feat.
Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed,
The man that poll'd but twelve-pence for his head?
Who ever nam'd a poor man for his heir,
Or call'd him to affift the judging-chair?
The poor were wife, who, by the rich opprefs'd,
Withdrew, and fought a facred place of reft.
Once they did well, to free themfelves from fcorn;
But had done better never to return.
Rarely they rife by virtue's aid, who lie
Plung'd in the depth of helplefs poverty.
At Rome 'tis worfe; where houfe-rent by the year,
And fervants bellies coft fo devilish dear;
And tavern-bills run high for hungry chear.
To drink or eat in earthen-ware we fcorn,
Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn.
Some diftant parts of Italy are known,
Where none but only dead men wear a gown a
On theatres of turf, in homely state,
Old plays they act, old feafts they celebrate :
The fame rude fong returns upon the crowd,
And, by tradition, is for wit allow'd.
The mimic yearly gives the fame delights;
And in the mother's arms the clownish infant frights.
Their habits (undiftinguish'd by degree)
Are plain alike; the fame fimplicity,
Both on the stage, and in the pit, you fee.
In his white cloak the magistrate appears;
The country-bumkin the fame livery wears.
But here, attir'd, beyond our purse we go,
For ufelefs ornament and flaunting fhow:
We take on truft, in purple robes to shine;
And, poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are fold, and fold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that Coffus may but view
Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you;
May take your incenfe like a gracious God,
And anfwer only with a civil nod?
To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the favourite page :
Shave his first down, and when he pulls his hair,
The confecrated locks to temples bear :
Pay tributary cracknels, which he fells,
And, with our offerings, help to raise his vails.
Who fears in country-towns a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall ?
But we inhabit a weak city here;
Which buttreffes and props but scarcely bear:
And 'tis the village-mafon's daily calling,
To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close;
And, for one night, fecure his lord's repofe.
At Cuma we can fleep quite round the year,
Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear;
While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly,
And the pale citizens før buckets cry.
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