There pleafing objects useful thoughts fuggeft;
The fenfe is ravifh'd, and the foul is bleft;
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
In every rill a sweet inftruction flows.
But fome, untaught, o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,
In fpite of facred leisure, blockheads still;
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native foil, the drawing-room.
The Squire is proud to see his coursers strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles fweep along the plain.
Say, dear HIPPOLITUS (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christmas-tale,
Whose mistress is faluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon
the back)
When thy fleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And RINGWOOD opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praife? Let RINGWOOD's fame alone;
Juft RINGWOOD leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypfy you commit,
And shake the clumfy bench with country wit;
When you the dulleft of dull things have faid,
And then ask pardon for the jet you made.
Here breathe, my muse! and then thy task renew:
Ten thousand fools unfung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheifts made by church debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whofe love is conftant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords, to SCR-PE discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a ftatefman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his ftrain,
At Bath, in fummer, chants the reigning lass,
And fweetly whiftles, as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue, like DELIA's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?
Is there, whom his tenth Epic mouuts to fame?
Such, and fuch only, might exhauft my theme:
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad;
For who can write so fast as men run mad?
Y mufe, proceed, and reach thy deftin'd end;
M Though foils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and Gods make other poems fine;
Plain Satire calls for sense in every line :
Then, to what fwarms thy faults I dare expofe!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When fuch the foe, a war eternal wage ;,
'Tis moft ill-nature to reprefs thy rage:
And if these strains fome nobler muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.
So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to fuch weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty vanity! to thee they owe
Their xeft of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the fun, all colours doft contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every
foul finds reasons to be proud,
Tho' hifs'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes, and renown,
*HIPPOLITUS demands the sylvan crown;
But FLORIO's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!
Why teems the earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the fun? To make † Paul Diack rise.
From morn to night has FLORIO gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good;
What fhape! What hue! Was ever nymph so fair!
He doats! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O folid blifs! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, fnail, or idle boy.
In fame's full bloom lies FLORIO down at night,
And wakes next day a moft inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair fister's fate,
O C- ! and be kind ere 'tis too late.
Nor are thofe enemies I mention'd, all; Beware, O Florift, thy ambition's fall. A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame; A Quaker ferv'd him, ADAM was his name; To one lov'd tulip oft the mafter went, Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ; But came, and mift it, one ill-fated hour: He rag'd! he roar'd!" What damon cropt my Serene, quoth ADAM, "Lo! 'twas crusht by me; "Fall'n is the BAAL to which thou bow'dft thy knee."
But all men want amusement; and what crime
In fuch a paradise to fool their time ?`
None: but why proud of this? To fame they foar;
We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.
We smile at Florists, we despise their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy :
This refers to the first Satire.
The name of a tulip.
But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?
What's he who fighs for wealth, or fame, or pow'r ?
Another FLORIO doating on a flower;
A fhort-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung
From fordid arts, as FLORIO's out of dung.
With what, O CODRUS! is thy fancy fmit?
The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,
And EPICTETUs is a perfect beau.
How fit for thee! bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard;
And T.
N, turn'd upholsterer, fend home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.
If not to fome peculiar end defign'd,.
Study's the fpecious trifling of the mind;
Or is at belt a fecondary aim,
A chace for sport alone, and not for game.
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 if reduc'd his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a fale comes on,
A choice collection! what is to be done?
He fells his laft; 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 fign'd the bargain—with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
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