Poems, and translations by the author of the Satyrs upon the Jesuits.

A SATYR TOUCHING NOBILITY. Out of Monsieur BOILEAV.

'TIS granted, that Nobility in Man, Is no wild flutt'ring Notion of the Brain, Where he, descended of an ancient Race, Which a long train of numerous Worthies grace, By Virtues Rules guiding his steddy Course, Traces the steps of his bright Ancestors. But yet I can't endure an haughty Ass, Debauch'd with Luxury, and slothful Ease,

Who besides empty Titles of high Birth, Has no pretence to any thing of Worth, Shoud proudly wear the Fame, which others sought, And boast of Honor which himself ne'er got. I grant, the Acts which his Fore-fathers did Have furnish'd matter for old Hollinshead, For which their Scutcheon, by the Conqu'ror grac'd Still bears a Lion Rampaut for its Crest: But what does this vain mass of Glory boot To be the Branch of such a noble Root, If he of all the Heroes of his Line Which in the Register of Story shine, Can offer nothing to the World's regard, But mouldy Parchments which the Worms have spar'd? If sprung, as he pretends, of noble Race, He does his own Original disgrace, And, swoln with selfish Vanity and Pride, To greatness has no other claim beside,

But squanders life, and sleeps away his days, Dissolv'd in Sloth, and steep'd in sensual ease? Mean while to see how much the Arrogant Boasts the false Lustre of his high Descent, You'd fancy him Comptroller of the Sky, And fram'd by Heav'n of other Clay than me. Tell me, great Hero, you, that would be thought So much above the mean, and humble Rout. Of all the Creatures which do men esteem? And which would you your self the noblest deem? Put case of Horse: No doubt, you'l answer strait, The Racer, which has often'st won the Plate: Who full of mettle, and of sprightly Fire, Is never distanc'd in the fleet Career: Him all the Rivals of New-market dread, And crowds of Vent'rers stake upon his Head: But if the Breed of Dragon, often cast, Degenerate, and prove a Jade at last; Nothing of Honor, or respect (we see) Is had of his high Birth, and Pedigree:

But maugre all his great Progenitors, The worthless Brute is banish'd from the Course, Condemn'd for Life to ply the dirty Road, To drag some Cart, or bear some Carrier's Load. Then how can you with any sense expect That I should be so silly to respect The ghost of Honor, perish'd long ago, That's quite extinct, and lives no more in you? Such gaudy Trifles with the Fools may pass, Caught with mere shew, and vain Appearances: Virtue's the certain Mark, by Heav'n design'd, That's always stamp'd upon a noble mind: If you from such illustrious Worthies came, By copying them your high Extract proclaim: Shew us those generous Heats of Gallantry, Which Ages past did in those Worthies see, That zeal for Honor, and that brave Disdain, Which scorn'd to do an Action base, or mean: Do you apply your Interest aright, Not to oppress the Poor with wrongful Might?

Would you make Conscience to pervert the Laws, Tho brib'd to do't, or urg'd by your own Cause? Dare you, when justly call'd, expend your Blood In service for your King's and Countries good? Can you in open Field in Armour sleep, And there meet danger in the ghastliest shape? By such illustrious Marks as these, I find, You're truly issued of a noble kind: Then fetch your Line from Albanact, or Knute, Or, if these are too fresh, from older Brute: At leisure search all History to find Some great, and glorious Warriour to your mind: Take Caesar, Alexander, which you please, To be the mighty Founder of your Race; In vain the World your Parentage bely, That was, or should have been your Pedegree. But, if you could with ease derive your Kin From Hercules himself in a right Line; If yet there nothing in your Actions be, Worthy the name of your high Progeny;

All these great Ancestors, which you disgrace, Against you are a cloud of Witnesses: And all the Lustre of their tarnish'd Fame Serves but to light, and manifest your Shame: In vain you urge the merit of your Race, And boast that Blood, which you your selves de∣base. In vain you borrow, to adorn your Name, The Spoils, and Plunder of another's Fame; If, where I look'd for something Great, and Brave, I meet with nothing but a Fool, or Knave, A Traitor, Villain, Sycophant, or Slave, A freakish Madman, fit to be confin'd, Whom Bedlam only can to order bind, Or (to speak all at once) a barren Limb, And rotten Branch of an illustrious Stem. But I am too severe, perhaps you'l think, And mix too much of Satyr with my Ink: We speak to men of Birth, and Honor here, And those nice Subjects must be touch'd with care:

Cry mercy, Sirs! Your Race, we grant, is known; But how far backwards can you trace it down? You answer: For at least a thousand year, And some odd hundreds you can make't appear: 'Tis much: But yet in short the proofs are clear: All Books with your Fore-fathers Titles shine, Whose names have scap'd the general wreck of Time: But who is there so bold, that dares engage His Honor, that in this long Tract of Age No one of all his Ancestors deceas'd Had e're the fate to find a Bride unchast? That they have all along Lucretia's been, And nothing e're of spurious Blood crept in, To mingle and defile the Sacred Line? Curss'd be the day, when first this vanity Did primitive simplicity destroy, In the bless'd state of infant time, unknown, When Glory sprung from Innocence alone:

Each from his merit only Title drew, And that alone made Kings, and Nobles too: Then, scorning borrow'd Helps to prop his Name, The Hero from himself deriv'd his Fame: But Merit by degenerate time at last, Saw Vice ennobled, and her self debas'd: And haughty Pride false pompous Titles feign'd, T'amuse the World, and Lord it o're mankind: Thence the vast Herd of Earls, and Barons came, For Virtue each brought nothing but a Name: Soon after Man, fruitful in Vanities, Did Blazoning and Armory devise, Founded a College for the Herald's Art, And made a Language of their Terms apart, Compos'd of frightful words, of Chief, and Base, Of Chevron, Saltier, Canton, Bend, and Fess, And whatsoe're of hideous Jargon else Mad Guillim, and his barbarous Volume fills. Then farther the wild Folly to pursue, Plain down-right Honor out of fashion grew:

But to keep up its Dignity, and Birth, Expence, and Luxury must set it forth: It must inhabit stately Palaces, Distinguish Servants by their Liveries, And carrying vast Retinues up and down, The Duke and Earl be by their Pages known. Thus Honor to support it self is brought To its last shifts, and thence the Art has got Of borrowing every where, and paying nought: 'Tis now thought mean, and much beneath a Lord To be an honest man, and keep his Word; Who, by his Peerage, and Protection safe, Can plead the Privilege to be a Knave: While daily Crowds of starving Creditors Are forc'd to dance attendance at his doors: Till he at length with all his mortgag'd Lands Are forfeited into the Banker's hands: Then to redress his wants, the bankrupt Peer To some rich trading Sot, turns Pensioner:

And the next News, you're sure to hear that he Is nobly wed into the Company: Where for a Portion of ill gotten Gold, Himself and all his Ancestors are sold: And thus repairs his broken Family At the expence of his own Infamy. For if you want Estate to set it forth, In vain you boast the splendor of your Birth: Your priz'd Gentility for madness goes, And each your Kindred shuns and disavows: But he that's rich is prais'd at his full rate, And tho he once cry'd Small-coal in the street, Tho he, nor none of his e're mention'd were, But in the Parish-Book, or Register. D—lé by help of Chronicle shall trace An hundred Barons of his ancient Race.