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

TO My LORD of ABINGDON, &c.

My Lord,

PLeas'd with the Fate that, from the noisy Town, To this Retreat of yours has charm'd me down; And, at once, freed me from the City Foes, That are so troublesom to Man's repose; The Flatt'rers smiles and the false Friend's embrace (Fiend at the heart though Angel on his Face.) From Tradesmens Cheats, ill Poets dogrel Rhimes, Which now are grown the grievance of the Times: To this, add that which does Mankind most wrong, The Harlot's Tayl, and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue. The Lawyer who can be a Friend to none, False to our Interest, falser to his own; For if a future doom their Errors wait, Where is that One will pass the narrow Gate? The Text that says, a Camel may as well Go through a Needle, as the Rich scape Hell,

Was meant of Lawyers; for the ill got store That makes one rich, has made three Nations poor. Had I a thousand Sons, e'r one shou'd be A Member of that vile Society, I'd in the Temple hang him up, nay boil His Quarters, as a Traytor's are, in Oyl, To fright all future Villains from the Soil. Freed from all this, and pleas'd I now am here, Where the fresh Seasons breath their vital air, And all the various Fragrancies dispence, That, with a grateful flavour, charm the sense, On tuneful rapture I my thought employ, And am e'en lost in a Poetick Ioy. As when a Lark, after a gloomy night, The Cloudless Morn indulgent to her flight, Stands glad a while, stretching her airy Wings, Then, with a sprightly vigor, upward springs; So fares my Muse, who, vail'd in darkness long, While the Town Mists obscur'd her humble Song, Does now again her wonted spright resume, And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume, Looks smiling all around for subject, where T' employ her utmost skill and nicest care, Some worthy Theme, that, with a prosp'rous wing, She, like the Lark, may mount, and mounting sing: But long she need not rove, her Game's in view, Sh' approves my choice, and says it must be you: Whose Praises she has oft long'd to reherse, Her dear Mecaenas, Patron of her Verse;

To bless your Choice that here set up your rest, Where Innocence and Honesty's profest, And shun the Vice that does large Towns infest: Where the loose courtly Coxcombs wast their Days In Brawls, in Iilting, Game and Bawdy Plays. While you, in nature prime and vigor's pride, The gaudy fry of Vanities deride, Temptation still have with firm Soul withstood, Nor think your self too Noble to be good: But, with judicious choice, have plac't aright In useful Authors your sublime delight: Such as of Heav'n, of God and Nature treat, Religious, Philosophical and great; These with nice Judgment, and a piercing Eye You search, and into hidden causes pry, Nature explore, make abstruse notions plain, And find what men well learn'd have sought in vain. Ah wou'd the Atheist seriously encline, Like you, to study things that are Divine; Observe how God's high Wisdom does disperse His pow'rful Genii through the Vniverse; How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance, Create the Seasons, in their various Dance, And shew their Essence not the work of Chance, But that some Power first made, and is the Soul That actuates and maintains the mighty Whole; Wou'd he but faithfully on this reflect, With just Confusion he'd his crime reject, And, when unprejudic't, by Reason see In the least spire of grass the Deity.

But such you rather pity than deride, Led on by Sin, and hoodwink't by their Pride: To say they're Fools they'd think a gross abuse; Yet, if they've sense, alas! where's the excuse, That can put such a Gift to such a use? Than Beasts why are we better, but to know And contemplate the Power that made us so? Though living these let vain expressions fly, And to be Hero's thought high Heav'n defy, They're sordid Cowards when they come to dy; The boldest of 'em shrink; unhappy Men! 'Tis well, indeed, they see their errour then; But ah! that shou'd not be left last to do, For late Repentance scarce is ever true. Happy the Man that to be Vertuous strives, And is prepar'd when the black hour arrives; Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew, That, in wild shapes, the guilty wretch pursue; His Smooth-pac't-hours glide pleasantly away, His troubles vanish and his Comforts stay: For of all good with which Mankind is blest, That of a clear, untainted mind is best; — Which you enjoy; for all your Actions show The Fountains Purity from whence they flow. In Converse charming, and in courage brave, A lasting Eye-sore to the Fool and Knave: Not rapt with Pleasure, nor with grief deprest, But to your steady temper owe your rest.

Honour is talk't of much, and some men think 'Stead of Embalming Names it makes 'em stink,

As being oft but nasty popular Breath, A Fume in Life, and nothing after Death: And, to their shame, it in most men holds good, For Honour lives ith' Mind more than ith' Blood. What signifies it, though one boast he brings His Pedigree from Conquerours and Kings, If he debase the Stock from whence he springs, Strips merit bare, prefers the flatt'ring Slave, And is himself a Coxcomb, or a Knave? If he be thus, let what will be his stem, There is more Honour in a Dog than him. He only is the Honourable Man, That ne'r does ought unworthy of his Name. In this Exemplar path, you bravely show How far a true Heroick Soul may go: And then, to make the summ compleat, we find Your Noble Birth proportion'd to your Mind; And they both shine the more, when with each other join'd. By Honour such as this good deeds are nurst, For who has this can never be unjust; And Justice we in all you do may scan, Without which, what a Brutish thing is Man? How undeserving the high name he bears, That can do worse by's Fellow Creatures, than wild Beasts by theirs.

Nor must we here forget (what ought to be Admir'd and prais'd by all) your Charity. On those that love the Poor, what Joys attend? But chiefly this, he makes his God his Friend!

Who that had Charity e'r was a Slave? Or who e'r wanted the relief he gave? Let those, ye Pow'rs, be poor themselves, that be Regardless of the Sting of Poverty: And, to be plain, what pity can they find From Heav'n, that are so dogged to their kind? Has the rich man a greater God than they? Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay? 'Twas Charity redeem'd us from the Sin Which our first Parents Fall had plung'd us in, Set us within the view of Heav'n; and can We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man?

In short, who can, like you, Rich Knaves despise, With dull Buffoons that get their Bread by Lies, And the yet duller Fops that think 'em wise; That hate the Town, the Mart of all false Ware, With all the Villanies that flourish there; Whom Tawdry Courts to Folly can't entice, Those Antick Schools of fashionable Vice: Before all this prefers his Country Seat, And rellishes the sweets of his Retreat; 'Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give; So lives, nay more, and so designs to live: That loaths the sordid Flatt'rer, though he be Belov'd by Kings, and Rascals of Degree: That strives to counter-act the Ages Crimes, And be a good Man in the worst of Times: Who fearless can do all these worthy things, We ought to prize above the wealth of Kings,

The mighty Nine united Forces raise, And with a noble flight adorn their praise.

Pardon, my Lord, that I have here so long Done both your Vertue and your Patience wrong: On One I have intrench't, but blame my fau't, Nor have describ'd the other as I ought; Yet, since you condescend t' indulge my Muse, What you encourage, you'l, perhaps, excuse, For kindly you on her endeavours smile, And with a Bounteous hand reward her Toyl. O had I strength to ballance my desire, Or wou'd the God Heroick thought inspire, To your high Worth a lasting Fame I'd give;— Nor shall it dy, if what I write does live.