His odoriferous attempts to please
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees;
But we that make no honey, though we sting,
Poets are sometimes apt to maul the thing,
'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort,
What make some sick, and others à la mort.
An argument of cogence, we may say,
Why such a one should keep himself away.

290

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,
Quite as absurd, though not so light as he :
A shallow brain behind a serious mask,
An oracle within an empty cask,
The solemn fop; significant and budge;

295

A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge;

300

He says but little, and that little said

Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.

His wit invites you by his looks to come,

But when you knock it never is at home;

'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage,

305

Some handsome present, as your hopes presage:

'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove

An absent friend's fidelity and love;

But when unpack'd your disappointment groans

To find it stuff'd with brickbats, earth, and stones. 310
Some men employ their health, an ugly trick,

In making known how oft they have been sick,
And give us in recitals of disease

A doctor's trouble, but without the fees;
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed;
How an emetick or cathartick sped;
Nothing is slightly touch'd, much less forgot,
Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot.
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill,
Victorious seem'd, and now the doctor's skill;
And now-alas, for unforeseen mishaps'

315

320

They put on a damp nightcap and relapse;

They thought they must have died, they were so bad; Their peevish hearers almost wish they had.

Some fretful tempers wince at ev'ry touch,
You always do too little or too much;
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain,
Your elevated voice goes through the brain;
You fall at once into a lower key,

325

That's worse-the dronepipe of an humblebee.
The southern sash admits too strong a light,
You rise and drop the curtain-now 'tis night.

330

He shakes with cold-you stir the fire and strive
To make a blaze-that's roasting him alive.
Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ;
With soal-that's just the sort he would not wish.
He takes what he at first profess'd to loathe,
And in due time feeds heartily on both;
Yet still o'erclouded with a constant frown,
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.
Your hope to please him vain on ev'ry plan,
Himself should work that wonder, if he can-
Alas! his efforts double his distress,
He likes yours little, and his own still less.
Thus always teazing others, always teaz'd,
His only pleasure is to be displeas'd.
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain

335

340

345

Of fancied scorn, and undeserv'd disdain,

And bear the marks, upon a blushing face,

Of needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace.

350

Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute.

We sometimes think we could a speech produce

Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose;
But being tried, it dies upon the lip,

355

Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:

Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,

Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns,

Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain'd,
It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd,
By way of wholesome curb upon our pride,
To fear each other, fearing none beside.

360

The cause perhaps inquiry may descry,
Self-searching with an introverted eye,
Conceal'd within an unsuspected part,
The vainest corner of our own vain heart:
For ever aiming at the world's esteem,
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme;
In other eyes our talents rarely shown,
Become at length so splendid in our own,
We dare not risk them into publick view,

365

370

Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.
True modesty is a discerning grace,

And only blushes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, 375 Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear;

Humility the parent of the first,

The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd.

The circle form'd, we sit in silent state,

Like figures drawn upon a dial plate ;

380

Yes, ma'am, and No, ma'am, utter'd softly, show

Ev'ry five minutes how the minutes go;

Each individual, suffering a constraint,
Poetry may, but colours cannot paint;
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection, and well-tim'd discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conservators of the publick health,

Of epidemick throats, if such there are,

385

390

And coughs, and rheums, and phthisicks, and catarrh That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,

Fill'd up at last with interesting news,

Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed, 395

And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed;
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if 'twere treason against English laws.
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,
As from a seven years' transportation home.

400

And there resume an unembarrass'd brow,
Recor'ring what we lost we know not how,
The faculties, that seem'd reduc'd to nought,
Expression and the privilege of thought.

The reeking, roaring hero of the chase,
I give him over as a desp'rate case.
Physicians write in hopes to work a cure,
Never, if honest ones, when death is sure;

And though the fox he follows may be tam'd,

A mere fox follower never is reclaim'd.

405

410

Some farrier should prescribe his proper course,
Whose only fit companion is his horse;

Or if deserving of a better doom,

The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom.

Yet e'en the rogue that serves him, tho' he stand 415

To take his honour's orders, cap in hand,

Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense,
Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence.

If neither horse nor groom affect the squire,
Where can at last his jockeyship retire?
Oh to the club, the scene of savage joys,

420

The school of coarse good fellowship and noise;
There in the sweet society of those

Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose,
Let him improve his talent if he can,

425

Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man.
Man's heart had been impenetrably seal'd,

Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field,

Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand

Giv'n him a soul, and bade him understand;

430

The reas'ning pow'r vouchsaf'd of course inferr'd

The pow'r to clothe that reason with his word;
For all is perfect that God works on earth,

And he that gives conception, aids the birth.

If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood,

435

What uses of his boon the giver would.

The mind despatch'd upon her busy toil,

Should range where Providence has bless'd the soil;

Visiting ev'ry flow'r with labour meet,

And gath'ring all her treasures sweet by sweet;
She should imbue the tongue with what she sips,
And shed the balmy blessing on the lips,
That good diffus'd may more abundant grow,

440

And speech may praise the pow'r that bids it flow.

Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night,
That fills the list'ning lover with delight,
Forget his harmony, with rapture heard,
To learn the twitt'ring of a meaner bird?
Or make the parrot's mimickry his choice,
That odious libel on a human voice?
No-Nature, unsophisticate by man,
Starts not aside from her Creator's plan;
The melody, that was at first design'd
To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind,
Is note for note deliver'd in our ears,
In the last scene of her six thousand years.
Yet Fashion, leader of a chatt'ring train,
Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign,

445

450

455

Who shifts and changes all things but his shape,

And would degrade ner votary to an ape,

460

The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong,

Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue;

There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace,
Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace.

And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school, 465 Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool.

Tis an unalterable fix'd decree,

That none could frame or ratify but she,

That Heav'n and Hell, and righteousness and sin,

Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within,

470

God and his attributes, (a field of day

Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray,)
Fruits of his love and wonders of his might,
Be never nam'd in ears esteen'd polite.
That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave,
Shall stand proscrib'd, a madman, or a knave,

475