Poems, chiefly consisting of satyrs and satyrical epistles by Robert Gould.

A SATYR UPON MAN.

I Who against the fair Sex drew my Pen, With equal fury now attack the Men; Whom, if I spare, on me the Curse befall, Of being thought the vilest of 'em all.

Ye injur'd Spirits of that Virgin-train, Who by unfaithful Lovers once were slain, Cropt from your Stalks, like Flow'rs, in all your prime, To languish, fade and dy before your time: In vain the Nymph was faithful to her Mate, Your truth cou'd not protect you from your Fate; Your truth, too cold to melt th' obdurate mind Of Man, whose Nature is to be unkind: If you, chast shades, e'r condescend to know, Enthron'd above, what Mortals do below;

If still you can your Earthly wrongs resent, And with the perjur'd Wretches lasting punish∣ment, Assist my Muse in her Satyrick flight; Lend her but rage, and she shall do you right.

Man is my Theme — but where shall I begin, Where enter the vast Circle of his Sin? Or how get out of it, when once I'm in? Man! who was made to govern all things, yet No other Brute is govern'd with so little wit: So oddly temper'd and so apt to stray, There's not a Dog but's wiser in his way: Thinks he sees all things, but so dim his Eye, He's furthest off, when he believes he's nigh. Pretends to Heav'n your Footsteps to convey, Then raises Mists, and makes you lose your way.

Slave to his Passions, every several lust Whisks him about, as Whirlwinds do the dust: And dust he is indeed, a senceless Clod, That swells and struts, and wou'd be thought a God. So selfish, insolent and vain, whene'r In his gilt Coach the Pageant does appear, He must be thought just, gen'rous, wise and brave, Though a known Coxcomb, and a fearful Slave. This shews us Fortune, in her giddy mood, Rains bounty every where, but where she shou'd, To merit false, and all that's good and brave, But ever faithful to the Fool and Knave. Good Heav'n! that such shou'd have so little sense, Yet, at the same time, so much Impudence,

To think they bear more value than the rest, Because they swear more, and go better drest; Yet so it is, the gawdy Coxcomb's priz'd, And the brave, thread-bare, honest Soul despis'd. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? That may be good, and by his choice is ill.

Where e'r Self-Interest calls, he's sure to go, But never matters where 'tis just, or no: Justice he laughs at, thinks there's no such tye, So lives, so, like a Beast, designs to dy. As greater Fish upon the lesser prey, As Wolves on Sheep, that from the Shepherd stray, So Man on Man pour out their rage and spite, Make violence and rapine their delight, Till with revenge they've gorg'd their Appetite. Not bounded by Divine, or Humane Law, Too proud to humble, and too strong to aw. They break the Bars nature her self has laid, And every sacred Priviledge invade. New Worlds of Vice he daily does explore; His Sea of Villany's without a shore. Ev'n while he sleeps his dreams are full of blood, And, waking, he resolves to make 'em good: Or say against their Treachery you provide, It is but having Power on their side, And that does still to the same Centre draw, Corrupt the Judge, and murder you by Law: Witness the Crew that, late, exulting stood, And wash't their impious hands in Royal Blood: If from their Subject's rage Kings are not free, What must the Wretch expect of mean degree?

Not in an Age he sees a happy hour, Vertue and Poverty are Slaves to Pow'r; And oft, to satisfy the Tyrant's Lust, (Hard fate! that 'tis so dangerous to be just!) Are forc'd to bend and crawl, and lick the dust. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill?

Deceitful, slothful, covetous and base, A Devil's Intellect, an Angel's Face: When e'r he smiles, 'tis then you shou'd beware, To your assistance summon all your care, Some specious Villany lies lurking there: Which oft is drest in such a bright disguise, The dazling Lustre does deceive the wise, And wise men, too, are Villains oft themselves; What Pilot so expert to 'scape these Rocks and Shelves? Ev'n Friendship, which of old gain'd lasting Fame, Is, in these latter times, nought but a name: Who calls you Friend avoid, unless you know Substantial Reason why he shou'd be so: In that disguise all Villanies are done, In that disguise they're hardest, too, to shun. Husbands, who is it makes your Consorts Whores? Your Friend, none else can come within your doors. Who is it proves to Oath and Bond unjust? Your Friend, your Enemies you never trust; Or if you do, y' are very far from wise, And Knave and Fool we equally despise. Who is it does your secret Soul betray, And bring your darkest thoughts to open day,

Who is it, but your Friend? in whose false breast You fondly thought they wou'd for ever rest. The Heart of Man is to it self untrue, And why shou'd you expect it just to you? Friendships, at best, are but like Brush-wood fire, Shine bright a while, and in a blaze expire. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and by his choice is ill!

Who protests most let him be least believ'd, For 'tis by such w' are sure to be deceiv'd. Ev'n I my self once thought I had a Friend, For boundless was the love he did pretend: Riches he did not want, he rowl'd in Coin, Which he oft swore was no more his than mine: He wou'd do nothing without my advice, Friendship's best sign, for no true Friend is Nice. I too ador'd him with so bright a Flame, Angel to Angel cou'd but do the same. At his approach all lesser Joys took flight, Ev'n Women I contemn'd; he was the light That rul'd the day, they did but rule the night. And that too oft— upon his gentle Breast My Cares, and every anxious thought took rest. It happn'd once that I was low of store; (It is no wonder Poets shou'd be poor) In this afflicted State, 'twas no small Bliss I was assur'd of such a Friend as this: On him, said I, on him I may depend, I cannot need so much, as he will lend; He will be proud his Constancy is try'd: — I ask't him, and, by Heav'n, I was deny'd!

And ne'r since then will he so much as greet, Nay not take notice of me when we meet; But, when he sees me, turns away his Eye, Or with proud scorn does walk regardless by. Traytor to Friendship! may thy spotted Name Stand branded here with everlasting shame. But 'tis no wonder, search and you will find The same Ingratitude through all Mankind: Not Madmen, when they're in their raving fit, Nor the pert Fop, that wou'd be thought a wit, Reciting Poet, or Illiterate Cit; Not flutt'ring Officers, at Mid-night drunk, That scowr the street in the pursuit of Punk, Nor ought, be it as horrid as it can, Is more avoided than the Borrowing Man! How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill?

Reader, I write not this to make thee lend, Unless y'are sure 'tis to a real Friend, If you doubt that, hear not what he entreats; For one that's honest there's ten thousand cheats: Why then shou'd any be so vain to trust, When 'tis such odds, the Debtor proves unjust? A Friend's a Friend, and so he shou'd be us'd, But think two Men your Friends, you'll be abus'd. The Vows of Men are of the britlest kind, Lighter than Children's Bubbles drove by wind, Vary all Colours, blown so thin and weak, As if, like them, just made for sport to break. How prone to promise, and how false of heart Women best know, for they have felt the smart:

What Female ever had the happiness To find her Lover all he did profess? Much for Inconstancy that Sex is fam'd; But now in their own Mother Art they're sham'd; The Swains, the Tyrant, and the Nymph is blam'd: Most to be fear'd when he does sigh and whine; Much he does talk, but little does design, And thinks them Devils whom he calls divine: Knows he's unfaithful, yet will swear h's true, Nay, which is worse, call Heav'n to vouch it too; But 'tis all Lust, spoke when his blood is warm, And the next Face he sees does end the charm. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and chuses to be ill.

No Vice so distant, but within his view, Nor Crime so horrid, which he dares not do. Treason's a Trifle, 'tis a frequent thing To hear the sawcy Subject brave his King; Give him worse Terms than Tinkers in their Ale Throw on a Trull, too liberal of her Tayl. Adultery a venial slip, no more; Now grown a Trade, what e'r 'twas heretofore; For some there are (O whither's Vertue fled! O strange perversion of the Nuptial Bed!) That by Venereal Drudgery get their daily Bread. Murder and Pox so common, none can be Admitted Gentleman oth' first degree, Till he has thrice been clap'd, and murder'd three. Incest but laught at, made a Buffoon jest; A Sister now, as G— has oft confest, Is e'en as good a Morsel as the best.

Ev'n Sacriledge and Rifling of the dead (By impious hands torn from their sheets of lead) Meets Praise; nay some, though hard to be be∣liev'd, Have stoln the Plate in which they'd just before receiv'd. In short, so much Man's violence prevails, Our Churches must be made as strong as Iayls. But you'l object that such as these, we find, Are Scoundrels, and the fag-end of Mankind, Beneath our Satyr — search the High-ways then, There you'l be-sure to meet with Gentlemen: But being well born makes ill men the worse, Decay'd, their next relief's to take a Purse. Villains that strip the needy Peasant bare, Depriv'd of that he got with toyl and care; Ravish poor helpless Women, barbarous Act! Then stab 'em, lest they shou'd reveal the Fact. But what they lightly get they spend as fast, Their Lives in dissolute Embraces wast, Till they are caught, adjudg'd, their Crimes confest, And then unpittied dy — and so dy all the rest. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill?

Thrice happy those that liv'd in Times of old, What they call Brass was, sure, an Age of Gold, When Man by active Games was hardy made; Ev'n War was then an honourable Trade: By that they strove t' immortalize their Name, Nor did they miss of their intended Fame:

Through Hills they hew'd and div'd through Seas of blood, Were prodigal of life for their dear Countries good. Factions then strove not to subvert the State, As they do now, and as they've done of late: They were not plagu'd with Iealousies and Fears, A Priest cou'd not set Nations by the Ears: Religious Wars and Brawls they did contemn, We fight for that, yet have much less than them. Thus Honour, Truth and Iustice was their aim; Their Sons saw this and learnt the way to Fame. How unlike them are we? that train our Youth To trade, that is t' impertinence and sloth; In no one thing ingenious and compleat, But rubbing of a Counter, and to cheat. Send 'em, fond Parents, out against the Turk, Though idle here, they will not there want work, It is a glorious Cause, and let 'em roam; Better to dy abroad, than cheat to live at home. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill?

But Trade, you'l say, ought not to be despis'd, That has, and is ev'n now by Princes priz'd, Keeps Millions in employ, who else wou'd know What strength they had, and into Factions grow, Disturb the Publick Peace; Nothing so rude As an untam'd, ungovern'd Multitude: Nay more, by trade Cities grow rich, and rise In a short time to Emulate the Skies — They do, indeed, and we may know as well, 'Tis riches makes 'em murmur and rebel:

Those Crowds whom you pretend their Trade deters From launching into civil strife and Iars, Made that a cause of our Intestine harms, For 'tis their chief pretence to take up Arms; If they grow poor, strait, with a joint consent, They lay the fault upon the Government, When 'tis false dealing among one another; One half of Mankind lives by starving t' other. In Gross, or in Retail, for both ways meet, And make this Truth their Centre, Trade's a cheat. What difference is there, 'pray, between the Man That cuts my throat, and who does what he can, By specious guile, to grasp away my store, And, to grow rich himself, wou'd make his Fa∣ther poor? Doubtless, though t' other seems the more accurst, The secret, trading-Villain is the worst. So of Religion, the bold Atheist, who Says there's no God, though impious and untrue, Is better than the Hypocrite, whose Zeal Is but a Cloak the Villain to conceal. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and chuses to be ill.

But here I must, with Indignation, show What Crime from seeming sanctity does flow, Wou'd you a Rascal be of the first Rate, And make a noted Figure in the State, Pretend Religion, 'tis a sure disguise, Makes Fools adore you, and ev'n blinds the wise.

Do you for high preferment ly in wait, As being Trustee of some large Estate; Labour to seem but Pious and Devout, And from a thousand they shall pick you out, Leave to your Management the whole affair, Which is, in short, the Ruin of the Heir. Are ye a Scholar? nay, or are you not? Put on a Gown, and to old Beldams trot, Or gowty Burgesses that have the rot; Who by their Crazyness know Death draws near, And then grow holy only out of fear: For had they health, they'd still be what they were. Go but to these, set up a holy Cant, Be impudent withal (a Gift we grant Which your Religious Strowlers seldom want.) Their hearts shall yern, and streight augment your store, While their poor Neighbours perish at the door. In short, there's nothing, be it ne'r so ill, To Ravish, Cheat, Forswear, to Bugger, Kill, But, if 'tis vail'd with a Religious dress, Is meritorious, Vertue, Godliness. But that the will of Heav'n we plainly find, Fixt and imprinted deeply on the Mind, And Reason tells us, Heav'n will have regard To scourge bad men, and give the good reward; So many errors has Religion shown, And its Professors so irreverent grown, I shou'd e'n think him happiest that had none. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and by his choice is ill.

Yet Heav'n forbid we shou'd include 'em all, Because most of 'em slip, and many fall; The tainted Members 'tis we here condemn, Our pointed Satyr's only aim'd at them. Howbeit we shall not too nicely pry Into their Feasting, Drinking, Leachery; Nor tell how lazily they lead their Lives, And how they train their Daughters and their Wives; How they, by their Example, vitious grow, For 'tis by them they're taught the ills they know: These, and what other faults they have beside, Their Foppery, Peevishness, Self-love and Pride, I shall pass o'er in Silence, and will be More Charitable than they wou'd to me: A Gift much prais'd by them, as little sought; But who did ever practise what he taught? The Zealot and th' Enthusiastick Fry Shou'd feel the lash of our severity, But they are such a Frantick sort of Elves, I spare them too: beside, they flog themselves. Begging their Pardon I have been so free To let the suffering World their failings see, I hasten on (though I much more cou'd add) To mention other Grievances as bad. Justly the Satyr may indulge her rage, For never was a more licentious Age.

The Men of business, of all sorts, come next, Who seem to take a Pride to be perplext: Contentious, Restless, never out of strife, But make a Drudge, a Hackney Jade of Life.

Much they design, but scarce know where, nor when, And tire themselves in plaguing other men; So very active in their own disgrace, A Dog ought to be pitty'd in their Case. Here one, forsooth, sets up to regulate What-ever is amiss in Church and State; With endless chat, and scarce a grain of sense, Mixt with a shufling sort of Impudence, Asks himself Questions which he ne'r can solve, And what he strives to unperplex, does but the more involve. In Coffee-Houses others wast their time, Yet Idleness they'l tell you is a crime. These Dolts have such a natural itch to prate Of Council, Parliaments and tricks of State, Regardless of their Families they roam, And while they gape for news abroad, can let 'em starve at home. Now for your Pander, whom, if you but scan, You'l find to be a very busy Man; We'll therefore put him in among the rest; And, though his Nature's damnable confest, Of all the busy Men he is the best. Your Harpey Lawyer, too, that deep-mouth'd throng, Who live by what undoes most Men, the Tongue; Ev'n they, for that vile Tribe I'll never spare, Like th' Innkeeper must come in for their share. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age.

One of these Creatures once was pleas'd to be So loving as to tell me, Poesie Was but an idle, empty, airy thing, That, for small profit, much contempt wou'd bring: By Fools and Women, true, said he, 'tis priz'd, But by the men of Business still despis'd; The sober Party, who know what is best, And still are pushing on their Interest. Business does lead to wealth a thousand ways, Let that employ thy thought; and strive to raise A Stock of Money, not a Stock of Praise: What the World says it matters not a T—d You see we thrive with every Man's ill word. Will Praise pay House-rent, or maintain a Wife? That worse than Plague, and Hell of human Life. Will Praise secure a Poet from a Iayl? Will Praise protect him when his Monies fail? Leave then this jingling, scribling itch of Rhime, And in some gainful art employ thy Time.

I thank you, Sir, cry'd I, though what y'ave said, Consider'd, is too bitterly inveigh'd Against an Art so excellent and rare, Which Heav'n inspires, and Kings are pleas'd to hear! The Deity was once ador'd in Verse, Which best and loudest cou'd his wondrous works reherse; Prose is too weak that pond'rous weight to raise, Too hoarse to sing a bounteous Maker's praise; Who, when all things were Chaos, with a word Order to wild Confusion did afford,

And from their various seeds, in discord hurl'd, Rais'd Sun, Moon, Stars, and a new glorious World. Moses, David's, Deborah's Writings prove, Nothing below meets more regard above: True, 'tis now oft perverted and ill us'd, And its Perverters justly are accus'd, But where is the good thing that's not abus'd? Yet since for business and the love of Gain You'd have me leave the blest Poetick strain, And court your own dear Idol, Interest, What method is it you commend for best?

The Law, replies the Wretch, what thing is there, If rightly scan'd, that can with Law compare? What thing so soon can give you Wings to soar? A power to curb the Rich, and spur the poor? Pamper your Carkases while thousands starve, Thousands that better than our selves deserve, And Lord it over those you ought to serve: Nay these are but the light and trivial things, It makes you question ev'n the Right of Kings, Mounts you upon the Publick Steed with ease, And run th' unwieldy Beast which way you please. Law is a spacious and a fertile Field, Which if well cultivated 'tis and till'd, Prodigious is th' encrease that it does yield. What thing so soon the ready Cash advances? And leaves to After-times so fair Inheritances?

No matter whether got by right, or wrong, You see their Issue does enjoy it long. How much of the Nobility have sprung From us, the bold Antagonists of the Tongue? Who e're was made a Lord, what Annals show it? Because he, or his Father was a Poet? A little grinning Fame indeed you get, But had you ten times more you'd hardly eat; In Butler's wretched Fate we see what 'tis to live by Wit. Leave therefore writing Madrigals; and then, No doubt, you'l thrive as well as other men.

Troth, Sir, said I, y'ave spoke enough to make Too many their good Principles forsake: How e're, I hope, it will not influence me, Your Choice be Law, let mine be Poesie: Yet take my thanks for the advice y'ave gave; I am not yet dispos'd to be a Knave.

Severe, to human thinking, is the Fate That upon true, unbyast Natures wait: Dare to be honest, and you'l surely be One of the Votaries of Poverty: But don't repine—there are some Joys in store For him that's very honest, very poor: 'Tis true, he does not ly on Beds of Down, Nor with a Sett of Flanders course the Town; Keeps not Six Lacqueys, that it may be shown, He does not dare to trust himself alone;

Drinks not the choicest Wines, nor does he eat The most delicious, or most Costly meat; Keeps not French Cooks to chatter at the poor, Nor lets his strength be soak't up by a Spungy Whore: To this Mans share though none of this does fall, Yet he has that which does o'erballance all, A Sober, quiet Conscience, free from stain, Which the rich Epicure does wish in vain; In vain he'd think there is no future State, He feels his load of Sins, and sinks beneath the weight. While honest Men — but whither do I steer? Why talk of Honesty that is so rare? So seldom thought of, and in bulk so small, 'Tis doubtful if there's such a thing at all. Search City, Camp and Court, find, if you can, That Prodigy, a Real Honest Man; Let me but see him, let me know his Name, And it shall be the whole discourse of Fame, Above the Clouds I'll raise it, set it high, And give it certain Immortality: In the mean time, till such a one is found, (And he that searches, first, must walk much ground, For ought we know the Universe around.) Justly the Satyr may indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age.

Go to the Country, if you think to see The old, fam'd, Primitive Simplicity;

A Temperate sort of People, Grave and Wise, All Follies hate, and all Excess despise, You'l be deceiv'd; for you shall quickly think, Both poor and rich were all baptiz'd in drink; Eternal Sots! when the Brown-Bowl's in use, Y' ad better meet a baited Bear broke loose: Then for Tobacco, every Alehouse there, Wou'd Suffocate ten Coffee-Houses here. Take'em from talking of Hawks, Horses, Dogs, And you'l find them but little more than Hogs; A stupid, obstinate, Illiterate Race, Their Makers oversight and Man's disgrace: In Converse, of all things, most like a Bear, And have just such another charming Air. Nay ev'n the better sort are much the same, Scarce Souls enough to actuate their Frame, And have of Christian nothing but the Name: Yet when their Ale dull Notions does create, Shall think 'tis only they can steer the Helm of State. Plain-dealing is a thing they all profess, But of all sorts of Creatures none have less: Under the specious Veil of Innocence (That things so foul shou'd have that fair pretence) They shall o'er-reach the honest and the wife; For who'd suspect a Cheat in that Disguise? Against the Town for ever they inveigh, And yet are quite as vitious in their way. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age.

Let not the tawdry Town be here too proud, Or think her Follies and her Faults allow'd, Because, as yet, the Muse has silent been; But she but waits her time to draw the Scene: The Scene she draws—and now you have a view Of every Villany that Man can do, An abstract of all Vices, old and new; A Fund Immense, that won't exhausted be Till Time has shot the Gulf of round Eternity. No Crime's a Stranger here, here all abound, And none so bad but have Protection found. To tell 'em singly were a task as vain As in a showre to count the drops of rain; Yet thus far we premise as to the main, That shou'd a serious Man wast some few days At Taverns, Brothels, Parks, Spring-Gardens, Plays, And take the pains, impartially, to mind The Vanities and Vices of Mankind; Their bragging, pratling, dancing, damning, drinking, Gyants in talk, and less than Dwarfs in thinking; Their Projects, lewd Discourses, and Amours, Their wanton City-Wives, and stinking Suburb Whores; Pimps, Poys'ners, Padders, and half-witted Lords, Brib'd Iudges, damn'd upon their own Records; In Courts of Justice, little Justice had, Knights of the Post, and other Knights as bad. Shou'd he these Monsters see, and many more, (For we might easily augment the store)

What cou'd he think? what cou'd he thence deduce, But Sodom was reviv'd, or Hell broke loose? His Hair with Horrour stiffn'd, he wou'd say, We merited the Flames as much as they, And that the Devils went before but to prepare our way. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age.

But that which most surprizes me, is when I nicely mind the difference of men; All wide from one another in their will, Alike in only this, that all are ill; All ill, but then each takes a several way, And chuses his by-path to go astray. 'Twill here be proper then to fix remarks On some particular, and noted Sparks, Whose crimes conspicuous made, in publick shown, May make us less indulgent to our own. Yet, though I lash their faults, I spare to name, I but expose their Follies, not their Fame. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age.

See, first, a Wretch of a preposterous make, In seeking Honour, Honour does mistake: Reason, which o'er the Passions shou'd command, He does not, or he will not understand. If in discourse you don't with him comply,) Or say he treads but in the least awry, Damn me, he crys, d'ye think I'll take the ly?

And out he lugs his Whiniard, all beware, For in his rage the Brute will nothing spare, His Honour is engag'd in the affair. Chapman his Busy D'amboys paints him right, "Who thought perfection was to huff and fight: But brutal Courage is from valour far, A glow-worm this, and that the morning Star, Still sure to be the first where Glory calls, But never stains it self with Tavern-Brawls: Thus though he boasts himself of ancient Line, He dont deserve to eat the Husks with Swine.

Here one, who by his Age and grave Aspect, You'd think shou'd all vain trifling things reject, Lets his last sands run out in her embrace Who has traduc't and brought him to disgrace: Long kept by him, she in his Bosom slept, And now by her the sordid Cully's kept, Forc't, like a Slave, to dig the Mine for Ore, Which he profusely bury'd there before. O why, ye Gods, shou'd Felons punish't be? Why scourg'd and us'd with such severity, And this much greater Criminal go free? And not with O— in publick made appear, And have his annual whipping thrice a year.

Another Fop may lead a happy Life, Claspt in th' Embraces of a Vertuous Wife; For, sure, if any such are known to Fame, She, above all, deserves that sacred Name: Yet he, unkind, unmindful of her Charms, Which ev'n might tempt cold Hermits to her Arms,

Forgets his Quality to scowre the streets, And picks up every Midnight Drab he meets, The very scum and refuse of the Stews, Which ev'n no other Bruit but Man wou'd use; Fulsom without, and Medlar-like within, A Bag of rotten Bones wrapt in a sallow skin. Thus, careless of his safety, he does roam, And brings a load of foul Diseases home, Taints the fair Spring, and, to record disgrace, Gets nothing but a pocky, ritling Race.

Revers't to him, a fourth, whom Fate has join'd To one that's the disgrace of Womankind: A Iilt whom every Hackney, as it roul'd, In certain signs th' Intriegue within has told: Common as th' Elements of Earth and Air, Ev'n Coachmen have, by turns, enjoy'd her for their Fare. In * 1.1 Iulian's sacred Volumes you may find Her Universal Passion for Mankind; How, when and where she met her num'rous prey, And how many she has sent tyr'd away; Not satisfy'd with an European Face, Has drawn an Indian Leacher to her foul embrace, And rather had with Devil taint her breed, Than miss receiving his polluted Seed. But he, kind Husband, to her Vices blind, Thinks her the only Vertue of her kind: In vain he's told, in vain he sees she's light, For he had rather trust her than his sight.

Laught at by all, he snuggles to her Breast, And there dissolves supinely into rest, And dreams of what vast Treasure he does stand possest. With some this Wretch may for a wise man pass, But, for my part, I write him down an Ass.

Now for a Chitt, who the fair Sex to woo, Washes, perfumes, and grows a Woman too: Six hours are daily spent, Time, Heav'ns best Blessing, All thrown away, in painting, patching, dressing: And when all's done, a Baboon is as pretty, A Wolf as civil, and an Owl as witty. Effeminate Coxcomb! may it be thy Curse, (And Heav'n it self can scarce inflict a worse) Still to dress on, be by loose Strumpets priz'd, And every worthy knowing Man despis'd.

Next, view an Oph that's not yet quite of age, What pains he takes to wast his Heritage; And that enuff Extravagance may be shown, He spends it all before it is his own: For every Hundred now (rare way to thrive) Agrees at one and twenty to give five, Beside the Interest, which, alas! alone Soon eats a good Estate ev'n to the Bone. Thus, quickly ruin'd, to the Sea he goes, And finds the Winds and Waves are less his Foes, Than when he here was his own Pleasures Slave, A Jest to Fools, a Prey to every Knave.

Oppos'd to him, a sev'nth does bend his mind, In all he does, to cheat ev'n all Mankind. His love of gain is grown to such a pitch, He rather wou'd be damn'd than not be rich: Yet heaps this Wealth, through all this Toyl does run, To get Preferment for a Sottish Son; Who by his Sire's seven thousand pound a Year, And Marrying of a Bastard, grows a —

An Eighth who in his Youth had all the Arts Of Conversation, to allure our Hearts; Women contemn'd, thought 'em a sort of Toys Fit to converse with Monkeys and with Boys, And laught at Hymen, and his slimy Ioys; And did, ev'n in his greener days, presage, He wou'd accomplish wonders in his Age: Yet now, alas! his am'rous fit comes on, Just as his Spirit and his vigour's gone, Makes whining Songs the Ladies hearts to move, And melts, effeminately, all to love; Throws by his Books, and burns with Cupid's rage, Now in his doating, and his dying Age.

Next comes an Ideot, Dice his dear delight, Sleeps all the day, and Games at Niel's all night: A greater Slave to play, and drudges more Than the poor Miscreant that tugs the Oar: His Offices neglects, Friends, Children, Wife, And loves a shaking Elbow more than Life: Nay the vile Wretch, when all his Money's gone, Shall drill away five hours in looking on.

You that have skill to scan all sorts of Vice, Tell me what Charms ly in a Bail of Dice? That Men forget their Honour and their ease, To doat on such opprobrious trash as these. So when a Child does cry, give it to play A piece of gold, and streight 'tis thrown away, But if you'd have it's Tears and Snubbing eas'd, Shake but a Rattle and the Bratt is pleas'd. I shall not tell what Mortgages they make, How many large Estates now ly at stake, Sunk by degrees, and moulder'd quite away, All to maintain a Servile Lust of Play: Of all their Patrimonies, not enuff Left to maintain a constant stock of snuff.

Another, who has been deep bit by Play, Has left it to grow lewd another way: Drink is his God, so he might have his swill Of that, he wou'd not take Damnation ill. Six Bumpers in a hand must walk their round, And not a Creature budge, or quit his ground, Till over-gorg'd, at last, they're forc't to yield, And to All-Conqu'ring Bacchus leave the Field: Then all the Afternoon they ly and snore, They th' Inferior Swine, and he their Patron Bore: At night he wakes, and rallys up his men, And to their full Pint Glasses fall agen. 'Tis then such happy Notions he lets fall, As does with wonder charm the Ears of all. Who ever says he speaks one word of Sense, Ought to be Pillor'd for his Impudence.

In Brawny Exercise he takes delight, To see Fools wrastle, Butchers Mastiffs fight, And hugs himself with the Bear-Garden sight. Unhappy those that must on him depend, His Drunkenness and Looser hours attend; I'd rather be his Dog than be his Friend!

A Elev'nth a Buffoon, if you please, a Wit, Though how a Buffoon and that Term will fit, Has all along been undecided yet: By frequent use, he's come at length to be A Master of the Art of Blasphemy: That's his Employ, by that he gets his Bread, For that ador'd, respected, courted, fed; All sacred things traduces, makes a Jest, And that abuses most that is the best. If he shou'd chance to see a Pidgeon roast, He'l bid the Cook go bast the Holy Ghost. To please great men is the vain Talker's aim, He thinks their favour is sufficient Fame: But this Reproof of mine he will despise; No Men err more than those that think they're wise, Nor none sees less where their main error lies: Let him then have our pity, not our scoff, That damns himself to make lewd Coxcombs laugh.

To make 'em up a dozen, see a T—rd, A senseless Ape by Miracle prefer'd; And from a Footboy, Fortunes usual sport, Rais'd to a First-rate Minion of the Court▪

To see this Brute forget what he has been, So bare, his very Nakedness was seen, The Wind blew through him, the cold ground his Bed, Water his Beer, and Turnips was his Bread; To see him on a May-day-Muster ride, Pamper'd with Impudence, and swell'd with Pride, What a cold look he does cast down on those Ev'n by whose Bounty to that height he rose: Wou'd not all this inspire a Worm with spite? Wou'd it not make the arrant'st Withers write? Studdy new ways to Gibbet up his Fame; A lewd, ingrateful Wretch, and past all sense of shame.

To close up all, the humble, Civil— Shall grace these Worthies, and bring up the reer, Wicked enuff we grant to 've led the Van, But for that Office not enuff a Man: Yet Souldier he has been, has born the Name, Nor are his Actions quite unknown to Fame: For once she does record he shou'd have fought; (How dear, alas! is Reputation bought?) But using much Agility, he fell Just as his Sword, as the Spectators tell, Had sent his stout Antagonist to Hell. Yet losing, he came off with Honour bright, Daring to fall was more than 'twas to fight; For Hero's, willingly, may meet with Blows, What Hero, willingly, wou'd break his Nose? But, to be serious; in this Wretch you'l find A lazy Body and a vitious Mind, A Slave, yet wou'd insult o'er all Mankind.

Fawn'd to grow pow'rful, and when pow'rful grown Did higher aim, and thought to mount a — But flung from thence, and loaded with disgrace, He fawn'd himself again into his Place. Stops at no ill his Interest to advance, But leads his lewd desires an endless dance. Wealthy, yet ever crushing of the Poor, So stingy, with a Kick he pays his Whore. For benefits receiv'd makes no return; T' oblige him is the way to meet his scorn: To those that fear him haughty and severe, But meanly cow'rs to those that he does fear. With gogling Eyes, and a red, Cock't-up Nose, (Charms which he thinks no Female can oppose) A Cut-throat smile, and an ungraceful Air, He still pretends his Conquests o'er the Fair. Falstaff throughout, an Orthodox compound Of all ill Qualities that can be found. O when he dies, to celebrate his Name, And fix a lasting Trophy to his Fame, This Epitaph shall grace the Hero's Grave: Here lies a Fop, Food, Temporizer, Slave, A Leacher, Glutton, Coward and a Knave. Hear me, ye Poet afters of the Times, Who ought, with me, to lash our growing Crimes, And make the best use of your Dogrel Rhimes. Look back a little on the nauseous Tribe The Muse has had the patience to describe; See there to whom your Works you Dedicate, What abject Slaves you make appear in State:

One is like dreadful Mars, another Iove, A Third out-rivals the bright God of Love. Blockheads that you shou'd rather blush to name, If in the least you did but care for Fame, Or had, among you all, a grain of shame. Unless y'are stupid, and resolve to be Abhor'd and branded by Posterity; Forbear to flatter, and to court th' applause Of such as these, against Apollo's Laws. What Reputation can a Coxcomb give? Or will his sneering make your Labours live? No, no; then for his Praises do not care; In all you write be pointed and severe, And those that will not love you, make 'em fear. But here we end, which yet too soon may seem; For Knave and Fool is an Eternal Theme.

The End of the Satyr upon Man.

Notes

• * 1.1

  One that disperses Lampoons.