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And bear the marks upon a blushing face
Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are ib acute,
The fear of being silent makes us mute.
We sometimes think we could a speech produce
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose,
But being tied, it dies upon the lip,
Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
Few Frenchmen of this evil have complained,
It seems as if we Britons were ordained
By way of wholesome curb upon our pride,
To fear each other, fearing none beside.
The cause perhaps enquiry may descry,
Self-searching with an introverted eye,
Concealed within an unsuspected part,
The vainest corner of our own vain heart:
For ever aiming at the world's esteem,
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme,
la In other eyes our talents rarely shown,
Become at length so splendid in our own,
We dare not risque them into public view,
Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.
True modesty is a discerning grace,
And only blushes in the proper place,
But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear,
Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed t'appear;
Humility the parent of the sirst,
The last by vanity produced and nurst.
The circle formed we fit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate,
Yes ma'am, and no ma'am, utter'd softly, show
Ev'ry five minutes how the minutes go;
Each individual susfering a constraint
Poetry may, but colours cannot painty
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;
And sinds a changing clime, an happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next enquire, but softly and by stealth,
The reeking roaring hero of the chase,
And though the fox he follows may be tamed, i
A mere fox-follower never is reclaimed.
Some farrier should prescribe his proper course,
Whose only sit companion is his horse,
Or if deserving of a better doom . .
The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom.
Yet ev'n the rogue that serves him, though he stand
To take his honour's orders cap in hand,
Prefers his fellow-grooms with much good sense,
Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence.
If neither horse nor groom asfect the 'squire,
Where can at last his jockeyship retire?
Oh to the club, the scene of savage joys,
The school of coarse good fellowship and noise;
There in the sweet society of those
Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose,
Let him improve his talent if he can,
'Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man.
Man's heart had been impenetrably sealed, Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field,
Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand