ON CENSURE
     1727

     Ye wise, instruct me to endure
     An evil, which admits no cure;
     Or, how this evil can be borne,
     Which breeds at once both hate and scorn.
     Bare innocence is no support,
     When you are tried in Scandal's court.
     Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit;
     All others, who inferior sit,
     Conceive themselves in conscience bound
     To join, and drag you to the ground.
     Your altitude offends the eyes
     Of those who want the power to rise.
     The world, a willing stander-by,
     Inclines to aid a specious lie:
     Alas! they would not do you wrong;
     But all appearances are strong.
       Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay
     On what detracting people say!
     For let mankind discharge their tongues
     In venom, till they burst their lungs,
     Their utmost malice cannot make
     Your head, or tooth, or finger ache;
     Nor spoil your shape, distort your face,
     Or put one feature out of place;
     Nor will you find your fortune sink
     By what they speak or what they think;
     Nor can ten hundred thousand lies
     Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise.
       The most effectual way to balk
     Their malice, is—to let them talk.

THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND
     1727

     A set of phrases learn'd by rote;
     A passion for a scarlet coat;
     When at a play, to laugh or cry,
     Yet cannot tell the reason why;
     Never to hold her tongue a minute,
     While all she prates has nothing in it;
     Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,
     And take his nonsense all for wit;
     Her learning mounts to read a song,
     But half the words pronouncing wrong;
     Has every repartee in store
     She spoke ten thousand times before;
     Can ready compliments supply
     On all occasions cut and dry;
     Such hatred to a parson's gown,
     The sight would put her in a swoon;
     For conversation well endued,
     She calls it witty to be rude;
     And, placing raillery in railing,
     Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
     Nor make a scruple to expose
     Your bandy leg, or crooked nose;
     Can at her morning tea run o'er
     The scandal of the day before;
     Improving hourly in her skill,
     To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.
       In choosing lace, a critic nice,
     Knows to a groat the lowest price;
     Can in her female clubs dispute,
     What linen best the silk will suit,
     What colours each complexion match,
     And where with art to place a patch.
       If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,
     Can finely counterfeit a fright;
     So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,
     She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
     Can dext'rously her husband teaze,
     By taking fits whene'er she please;
     By frequent practice learns the trick
     At proper seasons to be sick;
     Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
     At once creating love and pity;
     If Molly happens to be careless,
     And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,
     She gets a cold as sure as death,
     And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
     Admires how modest women can
     Be so robustious like a man.
       In party, furious to her power;
     A bitter Whig, or Tory sour;
     Her arguments directly tend
     Against the side she would defend;
     Will prove herself a Tory plain,
     From principles the Whigs maintain;
     And, to defend the Whiggish cause,
     Her topics from the Tories draws.
       O yes! if any man can find
     More virtues in a woman's mind,
     Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;[1]
     She'll pay the charges to a farthing;
     Take notice, she has my commission
     To add them in the next edition;
     They may outsell a better thing:
     So, holla, boys; God save the King!

     [Footnote 1: Widow of John Harding, the Drapier's printer.—F.]

     As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling,
     Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling,
     He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack,
     And promised to pay for it when he came back.
     His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches, were white;
     His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't.
     The maids to the doors and the balconies ran,
     And said, "Lack-a-day, he's a proper young man!"
     But, as from the windows the ladies he spied,
     Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side!
     And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry,
     He swore from his cart, "It was all a damn'd lie!"
     The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee;
     Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee:
     Then said, I must speak to the people a little;
     But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle.[1]
     My honest friend Wild[2] (may he long hold his place)
     He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace.
     Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid,
     Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade;
     My conscience is clear, and my spirits are calm,
     And thus I go off, without prayer-book or psalm;
     Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch,
     Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.

     [Footnote 1: A cant word for confessing at the gallows.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: The noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was
     the head of a gang of thieves, and was at last hanged as a receiver of
     stolen goods. See Fielding's "Life of Jonathan Wild."—W. E. B.]

     1727

POPE has the talent well to speak,
       But not to reach the ear;
     His loudest voice is low and weak,
       The Dean too deaf to hear.

     Awhile they on each other look,
       Then different studies choose;
     The Dean sits plodding on a book;
       Pope walks, and courts the Muse.

     Now backs of letters, though design'd
       For those who more will need 'em,
     Are fill'd with hints, and interlined,
       Himself can hardly read 'em.

     Each atom by some other struck,
       All turns and motions tries;
     Till in a lump together stuck,
       Behold a poem rise:

     Yet to the Dean his share allot;
       He claims it by a canon;
     That without which a thing is not,
       Is causa sine quâ non.

     Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
       For, had our deaf divine
     Been for your conversation fit,
       You had not writ a line.

     Of Sherlock,[1] thus, for preaching framed
       The sexton reason'd well;
     And justly half the merit claim'd,
       Because he rang the bell.

     A LOVE POEM FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS

     By poets we are well assured
     That love, alas! can ne'er be cured;
     A complicated heap of ills,
     Despising boluses and pills.
     Ah! Chloe, this I find is true,
     Since first I gave my heart to you.
     Now, by your cruelty hard bound,
     I strain my guts, my colon wound.
     Now jealousy my grumbling tripes
     Assaults with grating, grinding gripes.
     When pity in those eyes I view,
     My bowels wambling make me spew.
     When I an amorous kiss design'd,
     I belch'd a hurricane of wind.
     Once you a gentle sigh let fall;
     Remember how I suck'd it all;
     What colic pangs from thence I felt,
     Had you but known, your heart would melt,
     Like ruffling winds in cavern pent,
     Till Nature pointed out a vent.
     How have you torn my heart to pieces
     With maggots, humours, and caprices!
     By which I got the hemorrhoids;
     And loathsome worms my anus voids.
     Whene'er I hear a rival named,
     I feel my body all inflamed;
     Which, breaking out in boils and blains,
     With yellow filth my linen stains;
     Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst,
     Small-beer I guzzle till I burst;
     And then I drag a bloated corpus,
     Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpus;
     When, if I cannot purge or stale,
     I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.

     [Footnote 1: The Dean of St. Paul's, father to the Bishop.—H.]

     Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit,
       Of classic beauty, haec et illa;
     Not all his birch inspires such wit
       As th'ogling beams of Domitilla.

     Let nobles toast, in bright champaign,
       Nymphs higher born than Domitilla;
     I'll drink her health, again, again,
       In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla.

     At Goodman's Fields I've much admired
       The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla;
     But what are they to the soft step,
       The gliding air of Domitilla?

     Virgil has eternized in song
       The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3]
     Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong;
       He might have dream'd of Domitilla.

     Great Theodose condemn'd a town
       For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4]
     And deuce take London! if some knight
       O' th' city wed not Domitilla.

     Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise,
       Gives us a medal of Plantilla;
     But O! the empress has not eyes,
       Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla.

     Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy,
       Piled on the mules of king At-tila,
     Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie)
       Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla.

     Five years a nymph at certain hamlet,
       Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a-
     —bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let
       To verse—but now for Domitilla.

     Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch
       To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6]
     And thus I offer up my catch
       To the snow-white hands of Domitilla.

     [Footnote 1: Verses to be made upon a given name or word, at the end of a
     line, and to which rhymes must be found.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, famous, inter alia, for his
     enthusiasm in urging the use of tar-water for all kinds of complaints.
     See his Works, edit. Fraser. Fielding mentions it favourably as a
     remedy for dropsy, in the Introduction to his "Journal of a voyage to
     Lisbon"; and see Austin Dobson's note to his edition of the
     "Journal."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: "Aeneid," xi.]

     [Footnote 4: Qu. Flaccilla? see Gibbon, iii, chap, xxvii.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: Who lived from 1650 to 1723, and wrote and published several
     books of travels in Greece and Italy, etc.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6: See "The Rape of the Lock."]

     Now the active young attorneys
     Briskly travel on their journeys,
     Looking big as any giants,
     On the horses of their clients;
     Like so many little Marses
     With their tilters at their a—s,
     Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd,
     And with harness-buckles furnish'd,
     And with whips and spurs so neat,
     And with jockey-coats complete,
     And with boots so very greasy,
     And with saddles eke so easy,
     And with bridles fine and gay,
     Bridles borrow'd for a day,
     Bridles destined far to roam,
     Ah! never, never to come home.
     And with hats so very big, sir,
     And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir,
     And with ruffles to be shown,
     Cambric ruffles not their own;
     And with Holland shirts so white,
     Shirts becoming to the sight,
     Shirts bewrought with different letters,
     As belonging to their betters.
     With their pretty tinsel'd boxes,
     Gotten from their dainty doxies,
     And with rings so very trim,
     Lately taken out of lim—[1]
     And with very little pence,
     And as very little sense;
     With some law, but little justice,
     Having stolen from my hostess,
     From the barber and the cutler,
     Like the soldier from the sutler;
     From the vintner and the tailor,
     Like the felon from the jailor;
     Into this and t'other county,
     Living on the public bounty;
     Thorough town and thorough village,
     All to plunder, all to pillage:
     Thorough mountains, thorough valleys,
     Thorough stinking lanes and alleys,
     Some to—kiss with farmers' spouses,
     And make merry in their houses;
     Some to tumble country wenches
     On their rushy beds and benches;
     And if they begin a fray,
     Draw their swords, and——run away;
     All to murder equity,
     And to take a double fee;
     Till the people are all quiet,
     And forget to broil and riot,
     Low in pocket, cow'd in courage,
     Safely glad to sup their porridge,
     And vacation's over—then,
     Hey, for London town again.

     [Footnote 1: Limbo, any place of misery and restraint.
       "For he no sooner was at large,
       But Trulla straight brought on the charge,
       And in the selfsame Limbo put
       The knight and squire where he was shut."
             Hudibras, Part i, canto iii, 1,000.
     Here abbreviated by Swift as a cant term for a pawn shop.—W. E. B.]

     The life of man to represent,
       And turn it all to ridicule,
     Wit did a puppet-show invent,
       Where the chief actor is a fool.

     The gods of old were logs of wood,
       And worship was to puppets paid;
     In antic dress the idol stood,
       And priest and people bow'd the head.

     No wonder then, if art began
       The simple votaries to frame,
     To shape in timber foolish man,
       And consecrate the block to fame.

     From hence poetic fancy learn'd
       That trees might rise from human forms;
     The body to a trunk be turn'd,
       And branches issue from the arms.

     Thus Dædalus and Ovid too,
       That man's a blockhead, have confest:
     Powel and Stretch[1] the hint pursue;
       Life is a farce, the world a jest.

     The same great truth South Sea has proved
       On that famed theatre, the alley;
     Where thousands, by directors moved
       Are now sad monuments of folly.

     What Momus was of old to Jove,
       The same a Harlequin is now;
     The former was buffoon above,
       The latter is a Punch below.

     This fleeting scene is but a stage,
       Where various images appear;
     In different parts of youth and age,
       Alike the prince and peasant share.

     Some draw our eyes by being great,
       False pomp conceals mere wood within;
     And legislators ranged in state
       Are oft but wisdom in machine.

     A stock may chance to wear a crown,
       And timber as a lord take place;
     A statue may put on a frown,
       And cheat us with a thinking face.

     Others are blindly led away,
       And made to act for ends unknown;
     By the mere spring of wires they play,
       And speak in language not their own.

     Too oft, alas! a scolding wife
       Usurps a jolly fellow's throne;
     And many drink the cup of life,
       Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan.

     In short, whatever men pursue,
       Of pleasure, folly, war, or love:
     This mimic race brings all to view:
       Alike they dress, they talk, they move.

     Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand,
       Mortals to please and to deride;
     And, when death breaks thy vital band,
       Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride.

     Thou shalt in puny wood be shown,
       Thy image shall preserve thy fame;
     Ages to come thy worth shall own,
       Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name.

     Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain,
       Before he looks in nature's glass;
     Puns cannot form a witty scene,
       Nor pedantry for humour pass.

     To make men act as senseless wood,
       And chatter in a mystic strain,
     Is a mere force on flesh and blood,
       And shows some error in the brain.

     He that would thus refine on thee,
       And turn thy stage into a school,
     The jest of Punch will ever be,
       And stand confest the greater fool.

     [Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.]

     [Footnote 2: Sheridan.]

SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part
     In you, who ought to know my heart,
     Are well acquainted with my zeal
     For all the female commonweal—
     How could it come into your mind
     To pitch on me, of all mankind,
     Against the sex to write a satire,
     And brand me for a woman-hater?
     On me, who think them all so fair,
     They rival Venus to a hair;
     Their virtues never ceased to sing,
     Since first I learn'd to tune a string?
     Methinks I hear the ladies cry,
     Will he his character belie?
     Must never our misfortunes end?
     And have we lost our only friend?
     Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears,
     No more let fall those precious tears.
     Sooner shall, etc.

     [Here several verses are omitted.]

     The hound be hunted by the hare,
     Than I turn rebel to the fair.
       'Twas you engaged me first to write,
     Then gave the subject out of spite:
     The journal of a modern dame,
     Is, by my promise, what you claim.
     My word is past, I must submit;
     And yet perhaps you may be bit.
     I but transcribe; for not a line
     Of all the satire shall be mine.
     Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes
     The common slanders of the times,
     Of modern times, the guilt is yours,
     And me my innocence secures.
     Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay,
     The annals of a female day.
       By nature turn'd to play the rake well,
     (As we shall show you in the sequel,)
     The modern dame is waked by noon,
     (Some authors say not quite so soon,)
     Because, though sore against her will,
     She sat all night up at quadrille.
     She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes,
     And asks if it be time to rise;
     Of headache and the spleen complains;
     And then, to cool her heated brains,
     Her night-gown and her slippers brought her,
     Takes a large dram of citron water.
     Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray,
     Don't I look frightfully to-day?
     But was it not confounded hard?
     Well, if I ever touch a card!
     Four matadores, and lose codille!
     Depend upon't, I never will.
     But run to Tom, and bid him fix
     The ladies here to-night by six."
     "Madam, the goldsmith waits below;
     He says, his business is to know
     If you'll redeem the silver cup
     He keeps in pawn?"—"Why, show him up."
     "Your dressing-plate he'll be content
     To take, for interest cent. per cent.     And, madam, there's my Lady Spade
     Has sent this letter by her maid."
     "Well, I remember what she won;
     And has she sent so soon to dun?
     Here, carry down these ten pistoles
     My husband left to pay for coals:
     I thank my stars they all are light,
     And I may have revenge to-night."
     Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream,
     She enters on her usual theme;
     Her last night's ill success repeats,
     Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats:
     "She slipt spadillo in her breast,
     Then thought to turn it to a jest:
     There's Mrs. Cut and she combine,
     And to each other give the sign."
     Through every game pursues her tale,
     Like hunters o'er their evening ale.
       Now to another scene give place:
     Enter the folks with silks and lace:
     Fresh matter for a world of chat,
     Right Indian this, right Mechlin that:
     "Observe this pattern—there's a stuff;
     I can have customers enough.
     Dear madam, you are grown so hard—
     This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard:
     Madam, if there be truth in man,
     I never sold so cheap a fan."
       This business of importance o'er,
     And madam almost dress'd by four;
     The footman, in his usual phrase,
     Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays."
     She answers, in her usual style,
     "The cook must keep it back a while;
     I never can have time to dress,
     No woman breathing takes up less;
     I'm hurried so, it makes me sick;
     I wish the dinner at Old Nick."
     At table now she acts her part,
     Has all the dinner cant by heart:
     "I thought we were to dine alone,
     My dear; for sure, if I had known
     This company would come to-day—
     But really 'tis my spouse's way!
     He's so unkind, he never sends
     To tell when he invites his friends:
     I wish ye may but have enough!"
     And while with all this paltry stuff
     She sits tormenting every guest,
     Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest,
     In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite,
     Which modern ladies call polite;
     You see the booby husband sit
     In admiration at her wit!
       But let me now a while survey
     Our madam o'er her evening tea;
     Surrounded with her noisy clans
     Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans,
     When, frighted at the clamorous crew,
     Away the God of Silence flew,
     And fair Discretion left the place,
     And modesty with blushing face;
     Now enters overweening Pride,
     And Scandal, ever gaping wide,
     Hypocrisy with frown severe,
     Scurrility with gibing air;
     Rude laughter seeming like to burst,
     And Malice always judging worst;
     And Vanity with pocket glass,
     And Impudence with front of brass;
     And studied Affectation came,
     Each limb and feature out of frame;
     While Ignorance, with brain of lead,
     Flew hovering o'er each female head.
       Why should I ask of thee, my Muse,
     A hundred tongues, as poets use,
     When, to give every dame her due,
     A hundred thousand were too few?
     Or how should I, alas! relate
     The sum of all their senseless prate,
     Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders,
     Their meanings lewd, and double entendres?
     Now comes the general scandal charge;
     What some invent, the rest enlarge;
     And, "Madam, if it be a lie,
     You have the tale as cheap as I;
     I must conceal my author's name:
     But now 'tis known to common fame."
       Say, foolish females, bold and blind,
     Say, by what fatal turn of mind,
     Are you on vices most severe,
     Wherein yourselves have greatest share?
     Thus every fool herself deludes;
     The prude condemns the absent prudes:
     Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death,
     Accuses Chloe's tainted breath;
     Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes
     To censure Phyllis for perfumes;
     While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says,
     That Florimel wears iron stays;
     Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous,
     Admires how girls can talk with fellows;
     And, full of indignation, frets,
     That women should be such coquettes:
     Iris, for scandal most notorious,
     Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!"
     And Rufa, with her combs of lead,
     Whispers that Sappho's hair is red:
     Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence,
     Talks half a day in praise of silence;
     And Sylvia, full of inward guilt,
     Calls Amoret an arrant jilt.
       Now voices over voices rise,
     While each to be the loudest vies:
     They contradict, affirm, dispute,
     No single tongue one moment mute;
     All mad to speak, and none to hearken,
     They set the very lap-dog barking;
     Their chattering makes a louder din
     Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin;
     Not schoolboys at a barring out
     Raised ever such incessant rout;
     The jumbling particles of matter
     In chaos made not such a clatter;
     Far less the rabble roar and rail,
     When drunk with sour election ale.
       Nor do they trust their tongues alone,
     But speak a language of their own;
     Can read a nod, a shrug, a look,
     Far better than a printed book;
     Convey a libel in a frown,
     And wink a reputation down;
     Or by the tossing of the fan,
     Describe the lady and the man.
       But see, the female club disbands,
     Each twenty visits on her hands.
     Now all alone poor madam sits
     In vapours and hysteric fits;
     "And was not Tom this morning sent?
     I'd lay my life he never went;
     Past six, and not a living soul!
     I might by this have won a vole."
     A dreadful interval of spleen!
     How shall we pass the time between?
     "Here, Betty, let me take my drops;
     And feel my pulse, I know it stops;
     This head of mine, lord, how it swims!
     And such a pain in all my limbs!"
     "Dear madam, try to take a nap"—
     But now they hear a footman's rap:
     "Go, run, and light the ladies up:
     It must be one before we sup."
       The table, cards, and counters, set,
     And all the gamester ladies met,
     Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,
     Our madam can sit up all night;
     "Whoever comes, I'm not within."
     Quadrille's the word, and so begin.
       How can the Muse her aid impart,
     Unskill'd in all the terms of art?
     Or in harmonious numbers put
     The deal, the shuffle, and the cut?
     The superstitious whims relate,
     That fill a female gamester's pate?
     What agony of soul she feels
     To see a knave's inverted heels!
     She draws up card by card, to find
     Good fortune peeping from behind;
     With panting heart, and earnest eyes,
     In hope to see spadillo rise;
     In vain, alas! her hope is fed;
     She draws an ace, and sees it red;
     In ready counters never pays,
     But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys;
     Ever with some new fancy struck,
     Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.
     "This morning, when the parson came,
     I said I should not win a game.
     This odious chair, how came I stuck in't?
     I think I never had good luck in't.
     I'm so uneasy in my stays:
     Your fan, a moment, if you please.
     Stand farther, girl, or get you gone;
     I always lose when you look on."
     "Lord! madam, you have lost codille:
     I never saw you play so ill."
     "Nay, madam, give me leave to say,
     'Twas you that threw the game away:
     When Lady Tricksey play'd a four,
     You took it with a matadore;
     I saw you touch your wedding ring
     Before my lady call'd a king;
     You spoke a word began with H,
     And I know whom you meant to teach,
     Because you held the king of hearts;
     Fie, madam, leave these little arts."
     "That's not so bad as one that rubs
     Her chair to call the king of clubs;
     And makes her partner understand
     A matadore is in her hand."
     "Madam, you have no cause to flounce,
     I swear I saw you thrice renounce."
     "And truly, madam, I know when
     Instead of five you scored me ten.
     Spadillo here has got a mark;
     A child may know it in the dark:
     I guess'd the hand: it seldom fails:
     I wish some folks would pare their nails."
       While thus they rail, and scold, and storm,
     It passes but for common form:
     But, conscious that they all speak true,
     And give each other but their due,
     It never interrupts the game,
     Or makes them sensible of shame.
       The time too precious now to waste,
     The supper gobbled up in haste;
     Again afresh to cards they run,
     As if they had but just begun.
     But I shall not again repeat,
     How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat.
     At last they hear the watchman knock,
     "A frosty morn—past four o'clock."
     The chairmen are not to be found,
     "Come, let us play the other round."
       Now all in haste they huddle on
     Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone;
     But, first, the winner must invite
     The company to-morrow night.
       Unlucky madam, left in tears,
     (Who now again quadrille forswears,)
     With empty purse, and aching head,
     Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.

     Logicians have but ill defined
     As rational, the human kind;
     Reason, they say, belongs to man,
     But let them prove it if they can.
     Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
     By ratiocinations specious,
     Have strove to prove, with great precision,
     With definition and division,
     Homo est ratione praeditum;     But for my soul I cannot credit 'em,
     And must, in spite of them, maintain,
     That man and all his ways are vain;
     And that this boasted lord of nature
     Is both a weak and erring creature;
     That instinct is a surer guide
     Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
     And that brute beasts are far before 'em.
     Deus est anima brutorum.     Whoever knew an honest brute
     At law his neighbour prosecute,
     Bring action for assault or battery,
     Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
     O'er plains they ramble unconfined,
     No politics disturb their mind;
     They eat their meals, and take their sport
     Nor know who's in or out at court.
     They never to the levee go
     To treat, as dearest friend, a foe:
     They never importune his grace,
     Nor ever cringe to men in place:
     Nor undertake a dirty job,
     Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.[1]
     Fraught with invective, they ne'er go
     To folks at Paternoster Row.
     No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
     No pickpockets, or poetasters,
     Are known to honest quadrupeds;
     No single brute his fellow leads.
     Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
     Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
     Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
     Comes nearest us in human shape;
     Like man, he imitates each fashion,
     And malice is his lurking passion:
     But, both in malice and grimaces,
     A courtier any ape surpasses.
     Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
     Upon the minister of state;
     View him soon after to inferiors
     Aping the conduct of superiors;
     He promises with equal air,
     And to perform takes equal care.
     He in his turn finds imitators,
     At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
     Their masters' manner still contract,
     And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
     Thus, at the court, both great and small
     Behave alike, for all ape all.

     [Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, and his employment of
     party-writers.—W. E. B.]

     Sir E. Coke says: "Every member of the house being a counsellor
     should have three properties of the elephant; first that he hath no gall;
     secondly, that he is inflexible and cannot bow; thirdly, that he is of a
     most ripe and perfect memory ... first, to be without gall, that is,
     without malice, rancor, heat, and envy: ... secondly, that he be
     constant, inflexible, and not be bowed, or turned from the right either
     for fear, reward, or favour, nor in judgement respect any person: ...
     thirdly, of a ripe memory, that they remembering perils past, might
     prevent dangers to come."—W. E. B.

     Ere bribes convince you whom to choose,
     The precepts of Lord Coke peruse.
     Observe an elephant, says he,
     And let him like your member be:
     First take a man that's free from Gaul,
     For elephants have none at all;
     In flocks or parties he must keep;
     For elephants live just like sheep.
     Stubborn in honour he must be;
     For elephants ne'er bend the knee.
     Last, let his memory be sound,
     In which your elephant's profound;
     That old examples from the wise
     May prompt him in his noes and ayes.
       Thus the Lord Coke hath gravely writ,
     In all the form of lawyer's wit:
     And then, with Latin and all that,
     Shows the comparison is pat.
     Yet in some points my lord is wrong,
     One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue:
     Now, men of parliament, God knows,
     Are more like elephants of shows;
     Whose docile memory and sense
     Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence;
     To get their master half-a-crown,
     They spread the flag, or lay it down:
     Those who bore bulwarks on their backs,
     And guarded nations from attacks,
     Now practise every pliant gesture,
     Opening their trunk for every tester.
     Siam, for elephants so famed,
     Is not with England to be named:
     Their elephants by men are sold;
     Ours sell themselves, and take the gold.

     Dublin, Sept. 7, 1728.

     "A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats,
     In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats;
     While smiling Nature, in her best attire,
     Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire.
     Can he, who knows that real good should please,
     Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"—
     This Paulus preach'd:—When, entering at the door,
     Upon his board the client pours the ore:
     He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause,
     Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws.

     [Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent
     pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the
     Justices of the Common Pleas.—H.]

     Lindsay mistakes the matter quite,
     And honest Paulus judges right.
     Then, why these quarrels to the sun,
     Without whose aid you're all undone?
     Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat?
     Did Paulus e'er the sun forget;
     The influence of whose golden beams
     Soon licks up all unsavoury steams?
     The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd:
     It has; but then it greased his fist.
     True lawyers, for the wisest ends,
     Have always been Apollo's friends.
     Not for his superficial powers
     Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers;
     Not for inspiring poets' brains
     With penniless and starveling strains;
     Not for his boasted healing art;
     Not for his skill to shoot the dart;
     Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles;
     Nor for his prophecies in riddles:
     But for a more substantial cause—
     Apollo's patron of the laws;
     Whom Paulus ever must adore,
     As parent of the golden ore,
     By Phoebus, an incestuous birth,
     Begot upon his grandam Earth;
     By Phoebus first produced to light;
     By Vulcan form'd so round and bright:
     Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice,
     By clients to her priests and trustees.
     Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand
     With even balance in her hand,
     Must we suppose she has in view,
     How to give every man his due;
     Her scales you see her only hold,
     To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold.
       Now, should I own your case was grievous,
     Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us?
     'Tis very true, and none denies,
     At least, that such complaints are wise:
     'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more,
     To cry, like statesmen, Quanta patimur!     But, since the truth must needs be stretched
     To prove that lawyers are so wretched,
     This paradox I'll undertake,
     For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake;
     By topics, which, though I abomine 'em,
     May serve as arguments ad hominem:
     Yet I disdain to offer those
     Made use of by detracting foes.
       I own the curses of mankind
     Sit light upon a lawyer's mind:
     The clamours of ten thousand tongues
     Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs;
     I own, his conscience always free,
     (Provided he has got his fee,)
     Secure of constant peace within,
     He knows no guilt, who knows no sin.
       Yet well they merit to be pitied,
     By clients always overwitted.
     And though the gospel seems to say,
     What heavy burdens lawyers lay
     Upon the shoulders of their neighbour,
     Nor lend a finger to their labour,
     Always for saving their own bacon;
     No doubt, the text is here mistaken:
     The copy's false, the sense is rack'd:
     To prove it, I appeal to fact;
     And thus by demonstration show
     What burdens lawyers undergo.
       With early clients at his door,
     Though he was drunk the night before,
     And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine,
     The wretch must be at court by nine;
     Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag,
     As ridden by a midnight hag;
     Then, from the bar, harangues the bench,
     In English vile, and viler French,
     And Latin, vilest of the three;
     And all for poor ten moidores fee!
     Of paper how is he profuse,
     With periods long, in terms abstruse!
     What pains he takes to be prolix!
     A thousand lines to stand for six!
     Of common sense without a word in!
     And is not this a grievous burden?
       The lawyer is a common drudge,
     To fight our cause before the judge:
     And, what is yet a greater curse,
     Condemn'd to bear his client's purse:
     While he at ease, secure and light,
     Walks boldly home at dead of night;
     When term is ended, leaves the town,
     Trots to his country mansion down;
     And, disencumber'd of his load,
     No danger dreads upon the road;
     Despises rapparees,[2] and rides
     Safe through the Newry mountains' sides.
       Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on,
     To state this question pro and con.
     My satire may offend, 'tis true;
     However, it concerns not you.
     I own, there may, in every clan,
     Perhaps, be found one honest man;
     Yet link them close, in this they jump,
     To be but rascals in the lump.
     Imagine Lindsay at the bar,
     He's much the same his brethren are;
     Well taught by practice to imbibe
     The fundamentals of his tribe:
     And in his client's just defence,
     Must deviate oft from common sense;
     And make his ignorance discern'd,
     To get the name of counsel-learn'd,
     (As lucus comes a non lucendo,)
     And wisely do as other men do:
     But shift him to a better scene,
     Among his crew of rogues in grain;
     Surrounded with companions fit,
     To taste his humour, sense, and wit;
     You'd swear he never took a fee,
     Nor knew in law his A, B, C.
       'Tis hard, where dulness overrules,
     To keep good sense in crowds of fools.
     And we admire the man, who saves
     His honesty in crowds of knaves;
     Nor yields up virtue at discretion,
     To villains of his own profession.
     Lindsay, you know what pains you take
     In both, yet hardly save your stake;
     And will you venture both anew,
     To sit among that venal crew,
     That pack of mimic legislators,
     Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters?
     For as the rabble daub and rifle
     The fool who scrambles for a trifle;
     Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd,
     Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd;
     You must expect the like disgrace,
     Scrambling with rogues to get a place;
     Must lose the honour you have gain'd,
     Your numerous virtues foully stain'd:
     Disclaim for ever all pretence
     To common honesty and sense;
     And join in friendship with a strict tie,
     To M—l, C—y, and Dick Tighe.[3]