True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o'th'fhire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it
And, rolling o'er you, like a fnow-ball
grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the tofs, and one the new French wallow:
His fword-knot this, his cravat that defign'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the facred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prophan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a fhog cafts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rifes with a water-fpaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
These fure he took from most of you who write,
Yet ev'ry man is fafe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
MITHRIDATES, King of PONTUS.
By Mr. N. LEE, 1678.
OU'VE feen a pair of faithful lovers die :
And much you care;
Yanymfen you are, for most of
Twas a juft judgment on their conftancy.
For, heaven be thank'd, we live in fuch an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the ftage:
And e'en thofe martyrs are but rare in plays;
A curfed fign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent defire;
'Tis a meer metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our fex, the name examin'd well,
'Tis pride to gain,, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 'tis of fubtle int'reft made:
Curfe on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool prefume to prate of love.
Let honor and preferment go
But glorious beauty is not to be fold;
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,
That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may
They purchase but fophifticated ware.
'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
their boasting spare;
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way;
And women fight, like Swiffers, for their pay.
Eaven fave ye, gallants, and this hopeful age;
H fave gallante flage
Y'are welcome to the downfal of the stage: The fools have labor'd long in their vocation; And vice, the manufacture of the nation, O'erftocks the town fo much, and thrives fo well, That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not sell. In vain our wares on theatres are shown, When each has a plantation of his own.
His caufe ne'er fails; for whatfoe'er he spends, There's ftill God's plenty for himself and friends. Should men be rated by poetic rules,
Lord! what a poll would there be rais'd from fools! Mean time poor wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made fome French commodity. Fools will have, and rais'd at vaft expence ;
And yet, as foon as feen, they give offence.
Time was, when none would cry, That oaf was me;
But now you strive about your pedigree.
Bauble and cap no fooner are thrown down,
But there's a mufs of more than half the town.
Each one will challenge a child's part at leaft;
A fign the family is well increaft.
Of foreign cattle there's no longer need,
When we're fupply'd so fast with English breed.
Well! flourish, countrymen, drink, fwear, and roar;
Let ev'ry free-born fubject keep his whore,
And wand'ring in the wilderness about,
At end of forty years not wear her out.
But when you fee these pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a limb or fingle fhare:
For where the punk is common, he's a fot,
Who needs will father what the parish got.
H'unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen,
Lives not to please himself, but other
Is always drudging, waftes his life and blood,
Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.
What praise foe'er the poetry deserve,
Yet ev'ry fool can bid the poet starve.
That fumbling letcher to, revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or whore is meant:
Name but a cuckold, all the city fwarms;
From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms:
Were there no fear of Antichrift or France,
In the bleft time poor poets live by chance.
Either you come not here, or, as you grace
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
Carelefs and qualmish with a yawning face :
You sleep o'er wit, and by my troth you may;
Moft of your talents lie another way.
You love to hear of fome prodigious tale,
The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale.
|