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 fweet inftruction flows.
But fome, untaught, o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,
In spite of facred leisure, blockheads still;
Nor fhoots 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 (whofe 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 praise? 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 jeft you made.
Here breathe, my muse! and then thy task renew:
Ten thousand fools unfung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists 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 difcreetly 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 país?
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;
Though toils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and Gods make other poems fine;
Plain Satire calls for fenfe in every line:
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When fuch the foe, a war eternal wage;
'Tis moft ill-nature to repress thy rage:
And if thefe ftrains 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 zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the fun, all colours dost contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every foul finds reasons to be proud,
Tho' hiss'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 illuftrious 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 flood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be fo good;
What shape! 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, snail, 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,
OC! and be kind ere 'tis too late.
Nor are those 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 dæmon cropt my flow'r ?" 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 paradife 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 defpife 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 wifer whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?
What's he who fighs for wealth, or fame, or pow'r?
Another FLORI0 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 fo, fure 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 it 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 affume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
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