The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 13

O Juvenal! for thy severer rage!

To lash the ranker follies of our age.

Are there, among the females of our isle, Such faults, at which it is a fault to smile?

There are. Vice, once by modest nature chain'd And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd; Without thin decency held up to view, Naked she stalks o'er law and gospel too.

Our matrons lead such exemplary lives, Men sigh in vain for none, but for their wives; Who marry to be free, to range the more, And wed one man to wanton with a score.

Abroad too kind, at home 'tis steadfast hate, And one eternal tempest of debate.

What foul eruptions, from a look most meek!

What thunders bursting, from a dimpled cheek!

Their pa.s.sions bear it with a lofty hand!

But then, their reason is at due command.

Is there whom you detest, and seek his life?

Trust no soul with the secret-but his wife.

Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn, And ask, what kindred is a spouse to them?

What swarms of am'rous grandmothers I see!

And misses, ancient in iniquity?

What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming!

What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming!

Friends.h.i.+p so cold, such warm incontinence; Such griping av'rice, such profuse expense; Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes; Such licens'd ill, such masquerading times; Such venal faith, such misapplied applause; Such flatter'd guilt, and such inverted laws; Such dissolution through the whole I find, 'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind.

Since Sundays have no b.a.l.l.s, the well-dress'd belle s.h.i.+nes in the pew, but smiles to hear of h.e.l.l; And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all, Who listens less to Collins than St. Paul.

Atheists have been but rare; since nature's birth, Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth.

Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs This daring character, in timorous things?

Who start at feathers, from an insect fly, A match for nothing-but the Deity.

But, not to wrong the fair, the muse must own In this pursuit they court not fame alone; But join to that a more substantial view, "From thinking free, to be free agents too."

They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down, In complaisance to all the fools in town.

O how they tremble at the name of prude!

And die with shame at thought of being good!

For what will Artimis, the rich and gay, What will the wits, that is, the c.o.xcombs say?

They heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave; Thro' cowardice, most execrably brave.

With our own judgments durst we to comply, In virtue should we live, in glory die.

Rise then, my muse, in honest fury rise; They dread a satire, who defy the skies.

Atheists are few: most nymphs a G.o.dhead own; And nothing but his attributes dethrone.

From Atheists far, they steadfastly believe G.o.d is, and is Almighty--to forgive.

His other excellence they'll not dispute; But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.

Shall pleasures of a short duration chain A lady's soul in everlasting pain?

Will the great Author us poor worms destroy, For now and then a sip of transient joy?

No, he's for ever in a smiling mood; He's like themselves, or how could he be good?

And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.- Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose, The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead, A deity, that's perfectly well bred.

"Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men; Nor thought he more, than thought great Origen, Though once upon a time he misbehav'd; Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be sav'd.

Let priests do something for their one in ten; It is their trade; so far they're honest men.

Let them cant on, since they have got the knack, And dress their notions, like themselves, in black; Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown, From joys of this, to keep them all their own.

Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee; But then they leave our unt.i.th'd virtue free.

Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show: Did ever mortal write like Rochefocaut?"

Thus pleads the devil's fair apologist, And, pleading, safely enters on his list.

Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain; Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane.

For what's true beauty, but fair virtue's face?

Virtue made visible in outward grace?

She, then, that's haunted with an impious mind, The more she charms, the more she shocks mankind.

But charms decline: the fair long vigils keep: They sleep no more! (17)quadrille has murder'd sleep.

"Poor K-p! cries Livia; I have not been there These two nights; the poor creature will despair.

I hate a crowd-but to do good, you know- And people of condition should bestow."

Convinc'd, o'ercome, to K-p's grave matrons run; Now set a daughter, and now stake a son; Let health, fame, temper, beauty, fortune, fly; And beggar half their race-thro' charity.

Immortal were we, or else mortal quite, I less should blame this criminal delight: But since the gay a.s.sembly's gayest room Is but the upper story of some tomb, Methinks, we need not our short beings shun, And, thought to fly, contend to be undone.

We need not buy our ruin with our crime, And give eternity to murder time.

The love of gaming is the worst of ills; With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills; Inveighs at heaven, neglects the ties of blood; Destroys the power and will of doing good; Kills health, p.a.w.ns honour, plunges in disgrace, And, what is still more dreadful-spoils your face.

See yonder set of thieves that live on spoil, The scandal, and the ruin of our isle!

And see, (strange sight!) amid that ruffian band, A form divine high wave her snowy hand; That rattles loud a small enchanted box, Which, loud as thunder, on the board she knocks.

And as fierce storms, which earth's foundation shook, From aeolus's cave impetuous broke, From this small cavern a mix'd tempest flies, Fear, rage, convulsion, tears, oaths, blasphemies!

For men, I mean,-the fair discharges none; She (guiltless creature!) swears to heaven alone.

See her eyes start! cheeks glow! and muscles swell!

Like the mad maid in the c.u.mean cell.

Thus that divine one her soft nights employs!

Thus tunes her soul to tender nuptial joys!

And when the cruel morning calls to bed, And on her pillow lays her aching head, With the dear images her dreams are crown'd, The die spins lovely, or the cards go round; Imaginary ruin charms her still; Her happy lord is cuckol'd by spadille: And if she's brought to bed, 'tis ten to one, He marks the forehead of her darling son.

O scene of horror, and of wild despair, Why is the rich Atrides' splended heir Constrain'd to quit his ancient lordly seat, And hide his glories in a mean retreat?

Why that drawn sword? And whence that dismal cry?

Why pale distraction thro' the family?

See my lord threaten, and my lady weep, And trembling servants from the tempest creep.

Why that gay son to distant regions sent?

What fiends that daughter's destin'd match prevent?

Why the whole house in sudden ruin laid?

O nothing, but last night-my lady play'd.

But wanders not my satire from my theme?

Is this too owing to the love of fame?

Though now your hearts on lucre are bestow'd, 'Twas first a vain devotion to the mode; Nor cease we here, since 'tis a vice so strong, The torrent sweeps all womankind along; This may be said, in honour of our times, That none now stand distinguish'd by their crimes.

If sin you must, take nature for your guide: Love has some soft excuse to soothe your pride: Ye fair apostates from love's ancient power!

Can nothing ravish, but a golden shower?

Can cards alone your glowing fancy seize; Must Cupid learn to punt, ere he can please?

When you're enamour'd of a lift or cast, What can the preacher more, to make us chaste?

Why must strong youths unmarried pine away?

They find no woman disengag'd--from play.

Why pine the married-O severer fate!

They find from play no disengag'd-estate.

Flavia, at lovers false, untouch'd and hard, Turns pale, and trembles at a cruel card.

Nor Arria's Bible can secure her age; Her threescore years are shuffling with her page.

While death stands by, but till the game is done, To sweep that stake, in justice, long his own; Like old cards ting'd with sulphur, she takes fire; Or, like snuffs sunk in sockets, blazes higher.

Ye G.o.ds! with new delights inspire the fair; Or give us sons, and save us from despair.

Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, tradesmen, close In my complaint, and brand your sins in prose: Yet I believe, as firmly as my creed, In spite of all our wisdom, you'll proceed: Our pride so great, our pa.s.sion is so strong, Advice to right confirms us in the wrong.

I hear you cry, "This fellow's very odd."

When you chastise, who would not kiss the rod?

But I've a charm your anger shall control, And turn your eyes with coldness on the vole.

The charm begins! To yonder flood of light, That bursts o'er gloomy Britain, turn your sight.

What guardian power o'erwhelms your souls with awe?

Her deeds are precepts, her example law; 'Midst empire's charms, how Carolina's heart Glows with the love of virtue, and of art!

Her favour is diffus'd to that degree, Excess of goodness! it has dawn'd on me: When in my page, to balance numerous faults, Or G.o.dlike deeds were shown, or gen'rous thoughts, She smil'd, industrious to be pleas'd, nor knew From whom my pen the borrow'd l.u.s.tre drew.

(18)Thus the majestic mother of mankind, To her own charms most amiably blind, On the green margin innocently stood, And gaz'd indulgent on the crystal flood; Survey'd the stranger in the painted wave, And, smiling, prais'd the beauties which she gave.

Satire VII.