The ftatefman tells you, with a fneer,
His fault is to be too fincere;
And, having no sinister ends,
Is apt to difoblige his friends.
The nation's good, his master's glory,
Without regard to Whig or Tory,
Were all the fchemes he had in view;
Yet he was feconded by few :
Though fome had spread a thousand lyes,
'Twas he defeated the Excife.
'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his averfion :
His practice was, in every station,'
To ferve the king, and please the nation.
Though hard to find in every cafe
The fittest man to fill a place :
His promises he ne'er forgot,
But took memorials on the spot;
His enemies, for want of charity,
Said, he affected popularity :
'Tis true, the people understood,
That all he did was for their good;
Their kind affections he has try'd;
No love is loft on either fide.
He came to court with fortune clear,
Which now he runs out every year:
Muft, at the rate that he goes on,
Inevitably be undone :
Oh! if his majesty would please
To give him but a writ of ease,
Would grant him licence to retire,
As it hath long been his defire,
By fair accounts it would be found,
He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
He owns, and hopes it is no fin,
He ne'er was partial to his kin;
He thought it base for men in stations
To crowd the court with their relations:
His country was his dearest mother,
And every virtuous man his brother;
Through modesty or aukward shame
(For which he owns himself to blame),
He found the wifeft man he could,
Without refpect to friends or blood;
Nor ever acts on private views,
When he hath liberty to chuse.
The sharper fwore, he hated play,
Except to pafs an hour away:
And well he might; for, to his cost,
By want of skill, he always loft;
He heard there was a club of cheats,
Who had contriv'd a thousand feats;
Could change the stock, or cog a dye,
And thus deceive the sharpeft eye:
Nor wonder how his fortune funk,
His brothers fleece him when he 's drunk.
I own the moral not exact;
Befides, the tale is false in fact;
And fo abfurd, that, could I raise up
From fields Elyfian, fabling Æsop
I would accufe him to his face
For libeling the four-foot race.
Creatures of every kind but ours
Well comprehend their natural powers;
While we, whom reafon ought to sway,
Midlake our talents every day.
The afs was never known fo ftupid
To act the part of Tray or Cupid;
Nor leaps upon his master's lap,
There to be stroak'd, and fed with pap,
As Efop would the world perfuade;
He better understands his trade :
Nor comes, whene'er his lady whiftles;
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles..
Our author's meaning, I prefume, is
A creature bipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralift defign'd
A compliment on human-kind :
For here he owns, that now and then
Beafts may degenerate into men.
ADVICE TO A PARSON. 1732.
WOULD you rife in the church? be stupid and dull;
Be empty of learning, of infolence full; Though lewd and immoral, be formal and grave,
In flattery an artist, in fawning a flave :
No merit, no fcience, no virtue, is wanting
In him that's accomplish'd in cringing and canting.
Be ftudious to practise true meanness of spirit ;
For who but lord Bolton * was mitred for merit?
wish to be wrapt in a rochet? in short,
Would you
Be pox'd and profane as F―n or Horte †.
friend Marcus, like a Stoick, Can wish to die in ftrains heroic,
No real fortitude implies :
Yet, all must own, thy wish is wife.
Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,
Thy bufy, drudging fcene of life,
Thy infolent, illiterate vicar,
Thy want of all-confoling liquor,
Thy thread-bare gown, thy caffock rent,
Thy credit funk, thy money spent,
Thy week made up of fafting-days,
Thy grate unconscious of a blaze,
And, to complete thy other curses,
The quarterly demands of nurses,
Are ills you wifely wish to leave,
And fly for refuge to the grave:
And, O, what virtue you exprefs,
In wishing fuch afflictions lefs!
But, now, fhould Fortune shift the scene,
And make thy Curateship a Dean;
*Then archbishop of Cashel.
† At that time bishop of Kilmore.
Or fome rich benefice provide,
To pamper luxury and pride;
With labour small, and income great ;
With chariot lefs for ufe than state;
With fwelling scarf and gloffy gown,
And licenfe to refide in town;
To fhine, where all the gay resort,
At concerts, coffee-houfe, or court,
And weekly perfecute his Grace,
With vifits, or to beg a place;
With underlings thy flock to teach,
With no defire to pray or preach;
With haughty spouse in vesture fine,
With plenteous ineals and generous wine;
Wouldst thou not wifh, in fo much ease,
Thy years as numerous as thy days?
THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES.
poor ladies! though their bufinefs be to play,
'Tis hard they must be bufy night and day:
Why should they want the privilege of men,
Nor take fome fmall diverfions now and then?
Had women been the makers of our laws
(And why they were not, can fee no caufe);
The men fhould flave at cards from morn to night;
And female pleasures be to read and write.
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