The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 7

If so, sure they who the mere volume prize, But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, But found at length that it reduc'd his rent; His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on, A choice collection! what is to be done?

He sells his last; for he the whole will buy; Sells ev'n his house; nay, wants whereon to lie: So high the gen'rous ardour of the man For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.

When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk, Lorenzo sign'd the bargain-with his mark.

Unlearned men of books a.s.sume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Not in his authors' liveries alone Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown: Editions various, at high prices bought, Inform the world what Codrus would be thought; And to his cost another must succeed To pay a sage, who says that he can read; Who t.i.tles knows, and indexes has seen; But leaves to Chesterfield what lies between; Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense, And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Stanhope, whose accomplishments make good The promise of a long ill.u.s.trious blood, In arts and manners eminently grac'd, The strictest honour! and the finest taste!

Accept this verse; if satire can agree With so consummate a humanity.

By your example would Hilario mend, How would it grace the talents of my friend, Who, with the charms of his own genius smit, Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit!

But time his fervent petulance may cool; For though he is a wit, he is no fool.

In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense; Nor make a frailty of an excellence.

He spares nor friend, nor foe; but calls to mind, Like doomsday, all the faults of all mankind.

What though wit tickles? tickling is unsafe, If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd; Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword; And never on the weak; or you'll appear As there no hero, no great genius here.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set: Their want of edge from their offence is seen; Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

The fame men give is for the joy they find; Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.

Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit, To pay my compliment, what place so fit?

His most facetious(11)letters came to hand, Which my first satire sweetly reprimand: If that a just offence to Marcus gave, Say, Marcus, which art thou, a fool, or knave?

For all but such with caution I forbore; That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before: I know thee now, both what thou art, and who; No mask so good, but Marcus must s.h.i.+ne through: False names are vain, thy lines their author tell; Thy best concealment had been writing well: But thou a brave neglect of fame hast shown, Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.

Write on unheeded; and this maxim know, The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull Their peevish reason; vain of being dull; When some home joke has stung their solemn souls, In vengeance they determine to be fools; Through spleen, that little nature gave, make less, Quite zealous in the way of heaviness; To lumps inanimate a fondness take; And disinherit sons that are awake.

These, when their utmost venom they would spit, Most barbarously tell you-"He's a wit."

Poor negroes, thus, to show their burning spite To cacodemons, say, they're dev'lish white.

Lampridius, from the bottom of his breast, Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest.

How just his grief! one carries in his head A less proportion of the father's lead; And is in danger, without special grace, To rise above a justice of the peace.

The dunghill breed of men a diamond scorn, And feel a pa.s.sion for a grain of corn; Some stupid, plodding, monkey-loving wight, Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white, Who with much pains, exerting all his sense, Can range aright his s.h.i.+llings, pounds, and pence.

The b.o.o.by father craves a b.o.o.by son; And by heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea; One learns to lisp; another not to see: Miss D--, tottering, catches at your hand: Was ever thing so pretty born to stand?

Whilst these, what nature gave, disown, through pride, Others affect what nature has denied; What nature has denied, fools will pursue, As apes are ever walking upon two.

Cra.s.sus, a grateful sage, our awe and sport!

Supports grave forms; for forms the sage support.

He hems; and cries, with an important air, "If yonder clouds withdraw it will be fair:"

Then quotes the Stagyrite, to prove it true; And adds, "The learn'd delight in something new."

Is't not enough the blockhead scarce can read, But must he wisely look, and gravely plead?

As far a formalist from wisdom sits, In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.

These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men, Though satire couch them with her keenest pen) For ever will hang out a solemn face, To put off nonsense with a better grace: As pedlers with some hero's head make bold, Ill.u.s.trious mark! where pins are to be sold.

What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd?

The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.

A man of sense can artifice disdain; As men of wealth may venture to go plain; And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot, Solemnity's a cover for a sot.

I find the fool, when I behold the screen; For 'tis the wise man's interest to be seen.

Hence, Chesterfield, that openness of heart, And just disdain for that poor mimic art; Hence (manly praise!) that manner n.o.bly free, Which all admire, and I commend, in thee.

With generous scorn how oft hast thou survey'd Of court and town the noontide masquerade; Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace, And hide secure behind a naked face?

Where nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind; Where gen'rous hearts the greatest hazard run, And he who trusts a brother, is undone?

These all their care expend on outward show For wealth and fame; for fame alone, the beau.

Of late at White's was young Florello seen!

How blank his look! how discompos'd his mien!

So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign!

Sunk were his spirits; for his coat was plain.

Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace; His health was mended with a silver lace.

A curious artist, long inur'd to toils Of gentler sort, with combs, and fragrant oils, Whether by chance, or by some G.o.d inspir'd, So touch'd his curls, his mighty soul was fir'd.

The well swoln ties an equal homage claim, And either shoulder has its share of fame; His sumptuous watch-case, tho' conceal'd it lies, Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.

He only thinks himself (so far from vain!) Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.

Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye, With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

In active measures, brought from France, he wheels, And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels.

So have I seen, on some bright summer's day, A calf of genius, debonnair and gay, Dance on the bank, as if inspir'd by fame, Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.

Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surpris'd In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd.

No sublunary chance his vestments fear; Valu'd, like leopards, as their spots appear.

A fam'd surtout he wears, which once was blue, And his foot swims in a capacious shoe; One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim?) Levell'd her barb'rous needle at his fame: But open force was vain; by night she went, And while he slept, surpris'd the darling rent: Where yawn'd the frieze is now become a doubt; And glory, at one entrance, quite shut out.(12) He scorns Florello, and Florello him; This hates the filthy creature; that, the prim: Thus, in each other, both these fools despise Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes; Their methods various, but alike their aim; The sloven and the fopling are the same.

Ye whigs and tories! thus it fares with you, When party rage too warmly you pursue; Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride, And folly joins whom sentiments divide.

You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pa.s.s, Scratch at the mimic monkey in the gla.s.s; While both are one: and henceforth be it known, Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone.

"But who art thou?" methinks Florello cries; "Of all thy species art thou only wise?"

Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch, As crossing straws r.e.t.a.r.d a pa.s.sing witch, Florello, thou my monitor shalt be; I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee.

O thou myself! abroad our counsels roam, And, like ill husbands, take no care at home: Thou too art wounded with the common dart, And love of fame lies throbbing at thy heart; And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose?

Know, fame and fortune both are made of prose.

Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme, Thou unambitious fool, at this late time?

While I a moment name, a moment's past; I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last: What then is to be done? Be wise with speed; A fool at forty is a fool indeed.

And what so foolish as the chance of fame?

How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!

For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, But bubbles on the rapid stream of time, That rise, and fall, that swell, and are no more, Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

Satire III.

To the Right Honorable Mr. Dodington.

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought To ease the burthen of my grateful thought; And now a poet's grat.i.tude you see; Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three: For whose the present glory, or the gain?

You give protection, I a worthless strain.

You love and feel the poet's sacred flame; And know the basis of a solid fame; Tho' p.r.o.ne to like, yet cautious to commend, You read with all the malice of a friend; Nor favour my attempts that way alone, But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.

An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er, When wanted Britain bright examples more?

Her learning, and her genius too, decays, And dark and cold are her declining days; As if men now were of another cast, They meanly live on alms of ages past.

Men still are men; and they who boldly dare, Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair; Or, if they fail, they justly still take place Of such who run in debt for their disgrace; Who borrow much, then fairly make it known, And d.a.m.n it with improvements of their own.

We bring some new materials, and what's old New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould; Late times the verse may read, if these refuse; And from sour critics vindicate the muse.

"Your work is long," the critics cry. "Tis true, And lengthens still, to take in fools like you: Shorten my labour, if its length you blame; For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game; As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue, Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile, That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile, Will I enjoy, (dread feast!) the critic's rage, And with the fell destroyer feed my page.

For what ambitious fools are more to blame, Than those who thunder in the critic's name?

Good authors d.a.m.n'd, have their revenge in this, To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

Balbutius, m.u.f.fled in his sable cloak, Like an old Druid from his hollow oak, As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries, "Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!"

Ye doctors sage, who thro' Parna.s.sus teach, Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

One judges as the weather dictates; right The poem is at noon, and wrong at night: Another judges by a surer gage, An author's principles, or parentage; Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell, The poem doubtless must be written well.

Another judges by the writer's look; Another judges, for he bought the book; Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep; Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim, To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.

The very best ambitiously advise, Half to serve you, and half to pa.s.s for wise.

Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Proclaim the glory, and augment the state; Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.

Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?