betray'd Virtue the Noble Cause for which you 're made Improperly we measure Life by Breath Such do not truly Live who merit Death Tho they their wanton Sences nicely please With all the Charms of Luxury and Ease Tho mingled Flow'rs adorn their careless Brow And round 'em costly Sweets neglected flow As if they in their Funeral State were laid And to the World as they 're to Virtue Dead When You the Province you expect obtain From Passion and from Avarice refrain Let our Associates Poverty provoke Thy generous Heart not to encrease their Yoke Since Riches cannot rescue from the â—nave Which claims alike the Monarch and the Slave To what the Laws enjoin submission pay And what the Senate shall Command Obey Think what Rewards upon the Good attend And how those fall unpitied who offend Tutor and Capito may Warnings be Who felt the Thunder of the States Decree For robbing the Cilicians tho they Like lesser Pikes only subsist on Prey But what avails the Rigour of their Doom Which cannot future violence o'recome Nor give the Miserable Province â—ase Since what one Plund'rer left the next will seize Cherippus then in time your self bethink And what your Rags will yield by Auction sink Ne're put your self to Charges to complain Of Wrongs which 〈◊〉 you did sustain Make not a Voyage to detect the Theft 'T is mad to Lavish what their Rapine lest When Rome at first our Rich Allies subdu'd From gentle Taxes Noble Spoils accru'd Each wealthy Province but in part Opprest Thought the Loss trivial and enjoy'd the rest All Treasuries did then with Heaps abound In every Wardrobe costly Silks were found The least Apartment of the meanest House Cou'd all the wealthy Pride of Art produce Pictures which from Parrhasius did receive Motion and warmth and Statues taught to live Some Polyclete's some Myron's Work declar'd In others Phidia's Masterpiece appear'd And crowding Plate did on the Cupboard stand Emboss'd by curious Mentor's artful hand Prizes like these Oppressors might invite These Dolabella's Rapine did excite These Anthony for his own Theft thought fit Verres for these did Sacriledge commit And when their Reigns were ended Ships full Fraught The hidden Fruits of their Exaction brought Which made in Peace a Treasure Richer far Than what is Plunder'd in the Rage of War This was of Old But our Confederates now Have nothing left but Oxen for the Plough Or some few Mares reserv'd alone for Breed Yet lest this provident Design succeed They drive the Father of the Herd away Making both Stallion and his Pasture Prey Their Rapine is so abject and prophane They nor from Trifles nor from Gods refrain But the poor Lares from the Niches seize If they be little images that please Such are the Spoils which now provoke their Theft And are the greatest Nay they 're all that 's left Thus may You Corinth or weak Rhodes oppress Who dare not bravely what they feel redress For how can Fops thy Tyranny controul Smooth Limbs are symptoms of a servile Soul But Trespass not too far on sturdy Spain Sclavonia France thy Gripes from those restrain Who with their sweat Rome's Luxury maintain And send us Plenty while our wanton day Is lavish'd at the Circus or the Play For shou'd you to Extortion be inclin'd Your Cruel Guilt will little Booty find Since gleaning Marius has already seiz'd All that from Sun-burnt Africk can be squees'd But above all Be careful to with-hold Your Tallons from the Wretched and the Bold Tempt not the Brave and Needy to Despair For tho your Violence shou'd leave 'em bare Of Gold and Silver Swords and Darts remain And will Revenge the Wrongs which they sustain The Plundred still have Arms. Think not the Precept I have here laid down A fond uncertain Notion of my own No 't is a Sibyl's Leaf what I relate As fixt and sure as the Decrees of Fate Let none but Men of Honour you attend Chuse him that has most Virtue for your Friend And give no way to any Darling Youth To sell your Favour and pervert the Truth Reclaim your Wife from stroling up and down To all Assizes and through every Town With Claws like Harpies eager for the Prey For which your Justice and your Fame will pay Keep your self free from Scandals such as these Then Trace your Birth from Picus if you please If he 's too Modern and your Pride aspire To seek the Author of your Being higher Chuse any Titan who the Gods withstood To be the Founder of your Ancient blood Prometheus and that Race before the flood Or any other Story you can find From Heralds or in Poets to your mind But shou'd you prove Ambitious Lustful Vain Or cou'd you see with Pleasure and Disdain Rods broke on our Associates bleeding backs And Heads-Men lab'ring till they blunt their Ax Your Father's Glory will your Sin proclaim And to a clearer Light expose your shame For still more publick scandal Vice extends As he is Great and Noble who offends How dare you then your high Extraction plead Yet blush not when you go to forge a Deed In the same Temple which your Grandsire built Making his Statue privy to the Guilt Or in a Bawdy Masquerade are led Muffled by Night to some polluted Bed Fat Lateranus does his Revels keep Where his Fore-Fathers peaceful Ashes sleep Driving himself a Chariot down the Hill And tho a Consul links himself the Wheel To do him Justice 't is indeed by Night Yet the Moon sees and ev'ry smaller light Pries as a Witness of the shameful sight Nay when his Year of Honour 's ended soon He 'll leave that nicety and mount at Noon Nor blush shou'd he some Grave Acquaintance meet But proud of being known will Jerk and Greet And when his Fellow-Beasts are weary grown He 'll play the Groom give Oats and rub 'em down If after Numa's Ceremonial way He at Iove's Altar wou'd a Victim slay To no clean Goddess he directs his Pray'rs But by Hippona most Devoutly Swears Or some rank Deity whose filthy face We suitably o're stinking Stables place When he has run his length and does begin To steer his course directly for the Inn Where they have watch'd expecting him all night A greasie Syrian e're he can alight Presents him Essence while his courteous Host Well knowing nothing by good breeding's lost Tags every Sentence with some fawning word Such as My King My Prince at least My Lord And a tight Maid e're he for Wine can ask Guesses his Meaning and unoils the Flask Some Friends to Vice industriously defend These innocent Diversions and pretend That I the Tricks of Youth too roughly blame Alledging that when young we did the same I grant we did yet when that age was past The frolick Humour did no longer last We did not cherish and indulge the Crime What 's foul in acting shou'd
neither the Ease of doing it nor the Graces of it which is manifest in his Iuvenilia or Verses written in his Youth Where his Rhyme is always constrain'd and forc'd and comes hardly from him at an Age when the Soul is most pliant and the Passion of Love makes almost every Man a Rhymer tho' not a Poet. By this time My Lord I doubt not but that you wonder why I have run off from my Biass so long together and made so tedious a Digression from Satire to Heroique Poetry But if You will not excuse it by the tattling Quality of Age which as Sir William Davenant says is always Narrative yet I hope the usefulness of what I have to say on this Subject will qualifie the remoteness of it and this is the last time I will commit the Crime of Prefaces or trouble the World with my Notions of any thing that relates to Verse I have then as You see observ'd the Failings of many great Wits amongst the Moderns who have attempted to write as Epique Poem Besides these or the like Animadversions of them by other Men there is yet a farther Reason given why they cannot possibly succeed so well as the Ancients even tho' we cou'd allow them not to be Inferiour either in Genius or Learning or the Tongue in which they write or all those other wonderful Qualifications which are necessary to the forming of a true Accomplish'd Heroique Poet. The fault is laid on our Religion They say that Christianity is not capable of those Embellishments which are afforded in the Belief of those Ancient Heathens And 't is true that in the severe notions of our Faith the Fortitude of a Christian consists in Patience and Suffering for the Love of God what ever hardships can befall him in the World not in any great Attempt or in performance of those Enterprises which the Poets call Heroique and which are commonly the Effects of Interest Ostentation Pride and Worldly Honour That Humility and Resignation are our prime Vertues and that these include no Action but that of the Soul When as on the Contrary an Heroique Poem requires to its necessary Design and as its last Perfection some great Action of War the Accomplishment of some Extraordinary Undertaking which requires the Strength and Vigour of the Body the Duty of a Souldier the Capacity and Prudence of a General and in short as much or more of the Active Virtue than the Suffering But to this the Answer is very Obvious God has plac'd us in our several Stations the Virtues of a private Christian are Patience Obedience Submission and the like but those of a Magistrate or General or a King are Prudence Counsel active Fortitude coercive Power awful Command and the Exercise of Magnanimity as well as Justice So that this Objection hinders not but that an Epique Poem or the Heroique Action of some Great Commander Enterpris'd for the Common Good and Honour of the Christian Cause and Executed happily may be as well Written now as it was of old by the Heathens provided the Poet be endu'd with the same Talents and the Language though not of equal Dignity yet as near approaching to it as our Modern Barbarism will allow which is all that can be expected from our own or any other now extant though more Refin'd and therefore we are to rest contented with that only Inferiority which is not possibly to be Remedy'd I wish I cou'd as easily remove that other difficulty which yet remains 'T is Objected by a great French Critique as well as an Admirable Poet yet living and whom I have mention'd with that Honour which his Merit exacts from me I mean Boileau that the Machines of our Christian Religion in Heroique Poetry are much more feeble to Support that weight than those of Heathenism Their Doctrine grounded as it was on Ridiculous Fables was yet the Belief of the Two Victorious Monarchies the Grecian and Roman Their Gods did not only interest themselves in the Event of Wars which is the Effect of a Superiour Providence but also espous'd the several Parties in a Visible Corporeal Descent mannag'd their Intrigues and Fought their Battels sometimes in Opposition to each other Tho' Virgil more discreet than Homer in that last Particular has contented himself with the Partiality of his Deities their Favours their Counsels or Commands to those whose Cause they had espous'd without bringing them to the Outrageousness of Blows Now our Religion says he is depriv'd of the greatest part of those Machines at least the most Shining in Epique Poetry Tho' St. Michael in Ariosto seeks out Discord to send her amongst the Pagans and finds her in a Convent of Friars where Peace should Reign which indeed is fine Satire and Satan in Tasso excites Solyman to an Attempt by Night on the Christian Camp and brings an Host of Devils to his Assistance yet the Arch-Angel in the former Example when Discord was restive and would not be drawn from her belov'd Monastery with fair Words has the Whip-hand of her Drags her out with many stripes sets her on Gods-name about her business and makes her know the difference of Strength betwixt a Nuncio of Heaven and a Minister of Hell The same Angel in the latter Instance from Tasso as if God had never another Messenger belonging to the Court but was confin'd like Iupiter to Mercury and Iuno to Iris when he sees his time that is when half of the Christians are already kill'd and all the rest are in a fair way to be Routed stickles betwixt the Remainders of God's Host and the Race of Fiends Pulls the Devils backward by their Tails and drives them from their quarry or otherwise the whole business had miscarri'd and Ierusalem remain'd untaken This says Boileau is a very unequal Match for the Poor Devils who are sure to come by the worst of it in the Combat for nothing is more easie than for an Almighty Power to bring his old Rebels to Reason when he Pleases Consequently what pleasure what Entertainment can be rais'd from so pitiful a Machine Where we see the Success of the Battel from the very beginning of it Unless that as we are Christians we are glad that we have gotten God on our side to maul our Enemies when we cannot do the work our selves For if the Poet had given the Faithful more Courage which had cost him nothing or at least have made them exceed the Turks in Number he might have gain'd the Victory for us Christians without interessing Heaven in the quarrel and that with as much ease and as little Credit to the Conqueror as when a Party of a Hundred Souldiers defeats another which consists only of Fifty This my Lord I confess is such an Argument against our Modern Poetry as cannot be answer'd by those Mediums which have been us'd We cannot hitherto boast that our Religion has furnish'd us with any such Machines as have made the Strength and Beauty of the
for the rude Husband's head Unlike the Niceness of our Modern Dames Affected Nymphs with new Affected Names The Cynthia's and the Lesbia's of our Years Who for a Sparrow's Death dissolve in Tears Those first unpolisht Matrons Big and Bold Gave Suck to Infants of Gygantick Mold Rough as their Savage Lords who Rang'd the Wood And Fat with Akorns Belcht their windy Food For when the World was Bucksom fresh and young Her Sons were undebauch'd and therefore strong And whether Born in kindly Beds of Earth Or strugling from the Teeming Oaks to Birth Or from what other Atoms they begun No Sires they had or if a Sire the Sun Some thin Remains of Chastity appear'd Ev'n under Iove but Iove without a Beard Before the servile Greeks had learnt to Swear By Heads of Kings while yet the Bounteous Year Her common Fruits in open Plains expos'd E're Thieves were fear'd or Gardens were enclos'd At length uneasie Justice upwards flew And both the Sisters to the Stars withdrew From that Old Aera Whoring did begin So Ven'rably Ancient is the Sin Adult'rers next invade the Nuptial State And Marriage-Beds creak'd with a Foreign Weight All other Ills did Iron times adorn But Whores and Silver in one Age were Born Yet thou they say for Marriage do'st provide Is this an Age to Buckle with a Bride They say thy Hair the Curling Art is taught The Wedding-Ring perhaps already bought A Sober Man like thee to change his Life What Fury wou'd possess thee with a Wife Art thou of ev'ry other Death bereft No Knife no Ratsbane no kind Halter left For every Noose compar'd to Hers is cheap Is there no City Bridge from whence to leap Would'st thou become her Drudge who dost enjoy A better sort of Bedfellow thy Boy He keeps thee not awake with nightly Brawls Nor with a beg'd Reward thy Pleasure palls Nor with insatiate heavings calls for more When all thy Spirits were drain'd out before But still Vrsidius Courts the Marriage-Bait Longs for a Son to settle his Estate And takes no Gifts tho ev'ry gapeing Heir Wou'd gladly Grease the Rich Old Batchelour What Revolution can appear so strange As such a Leacher such a Life to change A rank notorious Whoremaster to choose To thrust his Neck into the Marriage Noose He who so often in a dreadful fright Had in a Coffer scap'd the jealous Cuckold's sight That he to Wedlock dotingly betrayd Should hope in this lewd Town to find a Maid The Man 's grown Mad To ease his Frantick Pain Run for the Surgeon breathe the middle Vein But let a Heyfer with Gilt Horns be led To Iuno Regent of the Marriage-Bed And let him every Deity adore If his new Bride prove not an arrant Whore In Head and Tail and every other Pore On Ceres feast restrain'd from their delight Few Matrons there but Curse the tedious Night Few whom their Fathers dare Salute such Lust Their Kisses have and come with such a Gust With Ivy now Adorn thy Doors and Wed Such is thy Bride and such thy Genial Bed Think'st thou one Man is for one Woman meant She sooner with one â—ye wou'd be content And yet 't is nois'd a Maid did once appear In some small Village tho Fame says not where 'T is possible but sure no Man she found 'T was desart all about her Father's Ground And yet some Lustful God might there make bold Are Iove and Mars grown impotent and old Many a fair Nymph has in a Cave been spread And much good Love without a Feather-Bed Whither wou'dst thou to chuse a Wiâ—e resort The Park the Mall the Play-house or the Court Which way soever thy Adventures fall Secure alike of Chastity in all One sees a Dancing-Master Capring high And Raves and Pisses with pure Extasie Another does with all his Motions move And Gapes and Grins as in the feat of Love A third is Charm'd with the new Opera Notes Admires the Song but on the Singer Doats The Country Lady in the Box appears Softly She Warbles over all she hears And sucks in Passion both at Eyes and Ears The rest when now the long Vacation's come The noisie Hall and Theatres grown dumb Their Memories to refresh and chear their hearts In borrow'd Breaches act the Players parts The Poor that scarce have wherewithal to eat Will pinch to make the Singing-Boy a Treat The Rich to buy him will refuse no price And stretch his Quail-pipe till they crack his Voice Tragedians acting Love for Lust are sought Tho but the Parrots of a Poet 's Thought The Pleading Lawyer tho for Counsel us'd In Chamber-practice often is refus'd Still thou wilt have a Wife and father Heirs The product of concurring Theatres Perhaps a Fencer did thy Brows adorn And a young Sword-man to thy Lands is born Thus Hippia loath'd her old Patrician Lord And left him for a Brother of the Sword To wondring Pharos with her Love she fled To shew one Monster more than Africk bred Forgetting House and Husband left behind Ev'n Children too she sails before the wind False to 'em all but constant to her Kind But stranger yet and harder to conceive She cou'd the Play-house and the Players leave Born of rich Parentage and nicely bred She lodg'd on Down and in a Damask Bed Yet daring now the Dangers of the Deep On a hard Mattress is content to sleep E're this 't is true she did her Fame expose But that great Ladies with great Ease can lose The tender Nymph cou'd the rude Ocean bear So much her Lust was stronger than her Fear But had some honest Cause her Passage prest The smallest hardship had disturb'd her brest Each Inconvenience makes their Virtue cold But Womankind in Ills is ever bold Were she to follow her own Lord to Sea What doubts and scruples wou'd she raise to stay Her Stomach sick and her head giddy grows The Tar and Pitch are nausâ—ous to her Nose But in Love's Voyage nothing can offend Women are never Sea-sick with a Friend Amidst the Crew she walks upon the boord She eats she drinks she handles every Cord And if she spews 't is thinking of her Lord. Now ask for whom her Friends and Fame she lost What Youth what Beauty cou'd th' Adult'rer boast What was the Face for which she cou'd sustain To be call'd Mistress to so base a Man The Gallant of his days had known the best Deep Scars were seen indented on his breast And all his batter'd Limbs requir'd their needful rest A Promontory Wen with griesly grace Stood high upon the Handle of his Face His blear Eyes ran in gutters to his Chin His Beard was Stubble and his Cheeks were thin But 't was his Fencing did her Fancy move 'T is Arms and Blood and Cruelty they love But shou'd he quit his Trade and sheath his Sword Her Lover wou'd begin to be her Lord. This was a private Crime but you shall hear What Fruits the Sacred
Brows of Monarchs bear The good old Sluggard but began to snore When from his side up rose th' Imperial Whore She who preferr'd the Pleasures of the Night To Pomps that are but impotent delight Strode from the Palace with an eager pace To cope with a more Masculine Embrace Muffl'd she march'd like Iuno in a â—lowd Of all her Train but one poor Weneh allow'd One whom in Secret Service she cou'd trust The Rival and Companion of her Lust. To the known Brothel-house she takes her way And for a nasty Room gives double pay That Room in which the rankest Harlot lay Prepar'd for fight expectingly she lies With heaving Breasts and with desiring Eyes Still as one drops another takes his place And baffled still succeeds to like disgrace At length when friendly darkness is expir'd And every Strumpet from her Cell retir'd She lags behind and lingring at the Gate With a repining Sigh submits to Fate All Filth without and all a Fire within Tir'd with the Toyl unsated with the Sin Old Caesar's Bed the modest Matron seeks The steam of Lamps still hanging on her Cheeks In Ropy Smut thus foul and thus bedight She brings him back the Product of the Night Now should I sing what Poisons they provide With all their Trumpery of Charms beside And all their Arts of Death it would be known Lust is the smallest Sin the Sex can own Caesinia still they say is guiltless found Of every Vice by her own Lord Renown'd And well she may she brought ten thousand Pound She brought him wherewithal to be call'd chaste His Tongue is ty'd in Golden Fetters fast He Sighs Adores and Courts her every Hour Who wou'd not do as much for such a Dower She writes Love-Letters to the Youth in Grace Nay tipâ— the wink before the Cuckold's Face And might do more Her Portion makes it good Wealth has the Priviledge of Widow-hood These Truths with his Example you disprove Who with his Wife is monstrously in Love But know him better for I heard him Swear 'T is not that She 's his Wife but that She 's Fair. Let her but have three Wrinkles in her Face Let her Eyes Lessen and her Skin unbrace Soon you will hear the Saucy Steward say Pack up with all your Trinkets and away You grow Offensive both at Bed and Board Your Betters must be had to please my Lord. Mean time She 's absolute upon the Throne And knowing time is Precious loses none She must have Flocks of Sheep with Wool more Fine Than Silk and Vinyards of the Noblest Wine Whole Droves of Pages for her Train she Craves And sweeps the Prisons for attending Slaves In short whatever in her Eyes can come Or others have abroad she wants at home When Winter shuts the Seas and fleecy Snows Make Houses white she to the Merchant goes Rich Crystals of the Rock She takes up there Huge Agat Vases and old China Ware Then Beâ—enice's Ring her Finger proves More Precious made by her incestuous Loves And infamously Dear A Brother's Bribe Ev'n Gods Annointed and of Iudah's Tribe Where barefoot they approach the Sacred Shrine And think it only Sin to Feed on Swine But is none worthy to be made a Wife In all this Town Suppose her free from strife Rich Fair and Fruitful of Unblemish'd Life Chast as the Sabines whose prevailing Charms Dismiss'd their Husbands and their Brothers Arms. Grant her besides of Noble Blood that ran In Ancient Veins e're Heraldry began Suppose all these and take a Poet's word A Black Swan is not half so Rare a Bird. A Wife so hung with Virtues such a freight What Mortal Shoulders cou'd support the weight Some Country Girl scarce to a Curtsey bred Wou'd I much rather than Cornelia Wed If Supercilious Haughty Proud and Vain She brought her Father's Triumphs in her Train Away with all your Carthaginian State Let vanquish'd Hannibal without Doors wait Too burly and too big to pass my narrow Gate Oh Paean cries Amphion bend thy Bow Against my Wife and let my Children go But sullen Paean shoots at Sons and Mothers too His Niobe and all his Boys he lost Ev'n her who did her num'rous Offspring boast As Fair and Fruitful as the Sow that carry'd The Thirty Pigs at one large Litter Farrow'd What Beauty or what Chastisty can bear So great a Price if stately and severe She still insults and you must still adore Grant that the Hony's much the â—all is more Upbraided with the Virtues she displays Sev'n Hours in Twelve you loath the Wife you Praise Some Faults tho small intolerable grow For what so Nauâ—eous and Affected too As those that think they due Perfection want Who have not learnt to Lisp the Greciâ—n Cant In Greece their whole Accomplishments they seek Their Fashion Breeding Language must be Greek But Raw in all that does to Rome belong They scorn to cultivate their Mother Tongue In Greek they flatter all their Fears they speak Tell all their Secrets nay they Scold in Greek Ev'n in the Feat of Love they use that Tongue Such Affectations may become the Young But thou Old Hag of Threescore Years and Three Is shewing of thy Parts in Greek for thee 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 All those tender words The Momentary trembling Bliss affords The kind soft Murmurs of the private Sheets Are Bawdy while thou speak'st in publick Streets Those words have Fingers and their force is such They raise the Dead and mount him with a touch But all Provocatives from thee are vain No blandishment the slacken'd Nerve can strain If then thy Lawful Spouse thou canst not love What reason shou'd thy Mind to Marriage move Why all the Charges of the Nuptial Feast Wine and Deserts and Sweet-meats to digest Th' indoweing Gold that buys the dear Delight Giv'n for thy first and only happy Night If thou art thus Uxoriously inclin'd To bear thy Bondage with a willing mind Prepare thy Neck and put it in the Yoke But for no mercy from thy Woman look For tho perhaps she loves with equal Fires To Absolute Dominion she aspires Joys in the Spoils and Triumphs o'er thy Purse The better Husband makes the Wife the worse Nothing is thine to give or fell or buy All Offices of Ancient Friendship dye Nor hast thou leave to make a Legacy By thy Imperious Wife thou art bereâ—t A Priviledge to Pimps and Panders left Thy Testament's her Will Where she prefers Her Ruffians Drudges and Adultere's Adopting all thy Rivals for thy Heirs Go drag that Slave to Death your Reason why Shou'd the poor Innocent be doom'd to Dye What proofs for when Man's Life is in debate The Judge can ne're too long deliberate Call'st thou that Slave a Man the Wife replies Prov'd or unprov'd the Crime the Villian Dies I have the Soveraign Pow'r to save or kill And give no other Reason but my Will Thus the She-Tyrant Reigns till pleas'd
he thinks th' Expence is more to Feast The Famish'd Poet than the Hungry Beast Lucan content with Praise may lye at ease In costly Grots and marble Palaces But to Poor Bassus what avails a Name To starve on Compliments and empty Fame All Rome is pleas'd when Statius will Reherse And longing Crowds expect the promis'd Verse His lofty Numbers with so great a gust They hear and swallow with such eager Lust But while the common Suffrage Crown'd his Cause And broke the Benches with their loud Applause His Muse had Starv'd had not a piece unread And by a Player bought supply'd her Bread He cou'd dispose of Honours and Commands The Pow'r of Rome was in an Actor's Hands The Peaceful Gown and Military Sword The bounteous Play'r out-gave the pinching Lord. And wouldst Thou Poet rise before the Sun And to his Honour 's lazy Levée run Stick to the Stage and leave thy fordid Peer And yet Heav'n knows 't is earn'd with hardship there The former Age did one Mecenas see One giving Lord of Happy Memory Thâ—n then 't was worth a Writer's pains to pine Look Pale and all December tast no Wine Such is the Poet's Lot What luckier Fate Does on the Works of Grave Historians wait More time they spend in greater Toils ingage Their Volumes swell beyond the thousandth Page For thus the Laws of History Command And much good Paper suffers in their Hand What Harvest rises from this labour'd Ground Where they get Pence a Clerk can get a Pound A lazy Tribe just of the Poet's pitch Who think themselves above the growing Rich. Next shew me the well-lung'd Civilian's Gain Who bears in Triumph an Artillery Train Of Chancery Libels opens first the Cause Then with a Picklock-Tongue perverts the Laws Talks loud enough in Conscience for his Fee Takes care his Client all his Zeal may see Twitch'd by the Sleeve he Mouths it more and more Till with white froth his Gown is slaver'd o're Ask what he gains by all this Lying Prate A Captain 's Plunder trebbles his Estate The Magistrate assumes his Awful Seat Stand forth pale Ajax and thy Speech repeat Assert thy Clients Freedom bawl and tear So loud thy Country-Judge at least may hear If not discern and when thy Lungs are sore Hang up the Victor's Garland at thy Door Ask for what Price thy Venial Tongue was sold A rusty Gammon of some sev'n Years old Tough wither'd Treuffles ropy Wine a Dish Of shotten Herrings or stale stinking Fish For four times talking if one piece thou take That must be cantled and the Judge go snack 'T is true Emilius takes a five-fold Fee Tho some plead better with more Law than he But then he keeps his Coach six Flanders Mares Draw him in State when ever he appears He shews his Statue too where plac'd on high The Ginnet underneath him seems to fly While with a lifted Spear in Armour bright His aiming Figure meditates a Fight With Arts like these Rich Matho when he speaks Attracts all Fees and little Lawyers breaks Tongillus very Poor has yet an Itch Of gaining Wealth by feigning to be Rich Baths often and in State and proudly vain Sweeps through the Streets with a long dirty Train From thence with Lackeys running by his side High on the backs of brawny Slaves will ride In a long Litter through the Market-place And with a nod the distant Rabble grace Clad in a Gown that glows with Tyrian dye Surveys Rich Moveables with curious Eye Beats down the Price and threatens still to buy Nor can I wonder at such Tricks as these The Purple Garments raise the Lawyer 's Fees And sell him dearer to the Fool that buys High Pomp and State are useful Properties The Luxury of Rome will know no end For still the less we have the more we spend Trust Eloquence to shew our parts and Breeding Not Tâ—lly now cou'd get Ten Groats by Pleading Unless the Diamond glitter'd on his Hand Wealth 's all the Rhetorick Clients understand Without large Equipage and loud Expence The Prince of Orators would scarce speak Sense Paulus who with Magnificence did Plead Grew Rich while Tatter'd Gallus Begg'd his Bread Who to Poor Basilus his Cause would trust Tho ne're so full of pity ne're so just His Clients unregarded claim their due For Eloquence in Rags was never true Go Wretch thy pleadings into Africk send Or France where Merit never needs a Friend But oh what stock of Patience wants the Fool Who wasts his Time and Breath in Teaching School To hear the Speeches of declaiming Boys Deposing Tyrants with Eternal noise Sitting or standing still confin'd to roar In the same Verse the same Rules o're and o're What kind the Speech what colours how to purge Objections state the Case and Reasons urge All would Learn these but at the Quarter day Few Parents will the Pedant's Labour pay Pay Sir for what The Scholar knows no more At six Months end than what he knew before Taught or Untaught the Dunce is still the same Yet still the wretched Master bears the blame Once ev'ry week poor Hannibal is maul'd The Theme is giv'n and straight the Council's call'd Whether he should to Rome directly go To reap the Fruit of the dire overthrow Or into Quarters put his harrass'd Men Till Spring returns and take the Field agen The Murder'd Master cryes would Parents hear But half that stuff which I am bound to bear For that Revenge I 'le quit the whole Arrear The same Complaints most other Pedants make Plead real Causes and the feign'd forsake Medea's Poyson Iason's Perjury And Philomela's Rape are all laid by Th' Accusing Stepdame and the Son Accus'd But if my Friendly Counsel might be us'd Let not the Learn'd this course or t'other try But leaving both profess plain Poverty And shew his Tally for the dole of Bread With which the Parish-Poor are daily fed Ev'n that exceeds the price of all thy pains Now look into the Musick Master's gains Where Noble Youth at vast Expence is Taught But Eloquence not valu'd at a Groat On sumptuous Baths the Rich their Wealth bestow Or some expensive airy Portico Where safe from Show'rs they may be Born in State And free from Tempests for fair Weather wait Or rather not expect the clearing Sun Through thick and thin their Equipage must run Or staying 't is not for their Servants sake But that their Mules no prejudice may take At the Walks end behold how rais'd on high A Banquet-House salutes the Southern Skye Where from afar the Winter Sun displays The milder influence of his weaken'd Rays The Cook and Sewer each his Tallent tries In various Figures Scenes of Dishes rise Besides a Master-Cook with greazy Fist Dives in Luxurious Sawces to the Wrist Amidst this wastful Riot there accrews But poor Ten Shillings for Quintilian's dues For to Breed up