Queen every where, but most a queen in courts,
Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports,
Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage,
And prove her right to reign from age to age;
Lothario, great above the common fize,
With all engag'd, and won from all the prize;
Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore,
And every day deserves it more and more.
Nor in fuch limits reft his foul confin'd;
Folly may fhare, but can't engrofs his mind;
Vice, bold, fubftantial vice, puts in her claim,
And ftamps him perfect in the books of fhame.
Obferve his follies well, and you will swear
Folly had been his firft, his only care;
Obferve his vices, you'll that oath disown,
And fwear that he was born for vice alone.
Is the foft nature of fome easy maid,
Fond, eafy, full of faith, to be betray'd,
Muft fhe, to virtue lost, be lost to fame,
And he who wrought her guilt, declare her shame?
Is fome brave friend, who, men but little known,
Deems every heart as honeft as his own,
And, free himself, in others fears no guile,
To be enfnar'd, and ruin'd with a smile?
Is law to be perverted from her course?
Is abject fraud to league with brutal force?
Is freedom to be crufh'd, and every son,
Who dares maintain her cause, to be undone ?
Is bafe corruption, creeping through the land,
To plan, and work her ruin, underhand,
With regular approaches, fure tho' flow,
Or muft fhe perish by a single blow?
Are kings (who truft to fervants, and depend
In fervants (fond, vain thought!) to find a friend)
To be abus'd, and made to draw their breath
In darkness thicker than the fhades of death?
Is God's molt holy name to be prophan'd,
His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd,
His fervants fcorn'd, as men who idly dream'd,
His fervice laugh'd at, and his Son blafphem'd?
Are debauchees in morals to prefide?
Is faith to take an atheift for her guide?
Is fcience by a blockhead to be led?
Are ftates to totter on a drunkard's head?
To answer all these purposes, and more,
More black than ever villains plann'd before,
Search earth, fearch hell, the devil cannot find
An agent, like Lothario, to his mind.
Is this nobility, which, fprung from kings,
Was meant to fwell the power from whence it fprings ?
Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit,
Which nature hop'd for from fo rich a root?
Were there but two (fearch all the world around)
Were there but two fuch nobles to be found,
The very name would fink into a term
Of fcorn, and man would rather be a worm
Than be a lord; but nature, full of grace,
Nor meaning birth and titles to debafe,
Made only one, and having made him, fwore,
In mercy to mankind to make no more.
Nor ftopp'd fhe there, but like a generous friend,
The ills which error caus'd fhe ftrove to mend,
And, having brought Lothario forth to view,
To fave her credit, brought forth
To Mr. R. laid up with a fit of the Gout, by Mr. L. confined in the Fleet. THERE is a magic in fweet founds
Which draws forth every thing but-pounds.
By myftic fong's commanding tune,
Medea could unhinge the moon.
At old Amphion's plastic call
The ftones jump'd up, and form'd a wall.
The priests loud horns began to blow,
Down went the walls of Jericho.
The failors, people not renown'd
For nice intelligence of found,
Chuck'd poor Arion fairly o'er,
To swim at leaft nine leagues to shore,
Down fiddle went, and fiddler-pish!
He got a horfeback on a fish!
You fee the force of mufic here,
Your dolphins have a charming ear.
Young Orpheus, whom you oft have seen
In playhouse fuit of lighteft green,
Scarce fweetly fwept the whizzing wire;
When at the magic of his lyre,
From cunning trap-doors of the earth
Sprang trees of inftantaneous birth,
While all refponfive to his airs,
Leapt bulls, and wolves, and dancing bears.
When David fung, what fome folks call
(See Doctor Brown) the Cure of Saul,
He touch'd the monarch to the quick,
Like Orpheus when he footh'd old Nic.
A foaming wolf, relentlefs, fierce,
Who never heard one word of verse,
Came rufhing from a neighb'ring wood,
Juft where the careless poet stood:
But Horace (was he much to blame?)
Humm'd a fhort ode-the wolf grew tame,
And went as empty as he came.
Strange pow'r of verfe in ancient times!
Loft in our luckless land of rhimes:
All things are tending to decay,
Poor Nature's in a palfy'd way.
Now kings may touch and touch again,
The Royal Evil will remain ;
And modern bards, and fcepter'd kings,
Are equally ungifted things.
Not all the lays we lay-men make
Can charm away the belly-ache.
Can numbers numb the twinging gout,
And bring the cripple dancing out?
Say, can I foothe, with carol fweet,
The Cerberus who guards the Fleet?
Can I, by rhime's harmonious aid,
Charm Argus turnkeys from their trade?
Their mind on other paffions rolls,
They have no music in their souls.
While on their accents fenates hung,
When rhet'ric fpoke from Tully's tongue,
While he purfu'd his fureft art
To wind him into Cæfar's heart,
As if the words had pierc'd his foul,
The artful Cæfar dropp'd bis fcroll.
Wonders we cannot work like these,
Sing what you lift, fay what you please,
Jn will hear, yet keep his keys.
Say, will my fong, da capo'd o'er,
Piano foft, Andante roar,
Though even Handel fet the air,
Call
up one tree to fhade the Bare?
Though I burft both my cheeks for fpite,
And blow aloud from morn to night,
The trumpet, flute, and horn and all-
The devil of a brick will fall;
And poetry like mine, I trust,
Can neither raise a wall, nor cruft.
In that loose cafh, however ftrong,
Who'll take the payment of a fong?
What wolf will now forego his prey
For all that I can fing or fay?
My rhimes, alas! will catch no fish,
To swim in fauce upon my difh;
And for these notes, however clear,
Will the next Dolphin* give me beer?
Alas! my friend, how vain our boast!
The ancients ftill muft rule the roast:
They could raise walls by mufic's fpell,
Bring trees from earth, and wives from hell;
But fruitless we may pipe and thrum,
Nor wives, nor trees, nor walls will come.
Though you, like Phoebus, fweetly fing,
Though I fhould foar on Pindar's wing,
Yet neither tune nor words avail;
The gout's a gout, a jail's a jail.
What is to us, or profe or rhime,
My measur'd verfe, your meafur'd time?
Have we not loft all use of feet,
You in the Gout, I in the Fleet?
The horrors of the grave and hell,
Thofe horrors which the wicked feel,
In vain their gloom display;
For he who bids yon comet burn,
Or makes the night defcend, can turn
Their darkness into day.
The Dolphin, a public houfe in Ludgate-street.
TENCE, Belmour, perfidious! this inftant retire,
No further entreaties employ,
Nor meanly pretend any more to admire,
What bafely you wish to destroy.
Say, youth, muft I madly rush on upon fhame,
If a traitor but artfully fighs;
And eternally part with my honour and fame
For a compliment paid to my eyes?
If a flame all dishonest be vilely profeft,
Thro' tenderness must I incline,
And feek to indulge the repofe of a breast,
That would plant endless tortures in mine!
No, Belmour-a paffion I can't but defpife,
Shall never find way to my ears;
Nor a man meet a glance of regard from these
That would drench them for ever in tears.
Can the lover who thinks, nay, who wishes me base,
Expect that I e'er fhould be kind?
Or atone with a paltry addrefs to my face,
For the injury done to my mind?"
Hence, Belmour, this inftant, and ceafe every dream
Which your hope faw fo foolishly born;
Nor vainly imagine to gain my esteem,
By deferving my hate and my fcorn.
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