If B-ry1 bought a Bacon for a Strange, The man has credit, and is great on 'Change. If Camplin ungrammatically spoke,
"Tis dang'rous on such men to pass a joke.
If from satire can withhold the line,
At every public hall perhaps you'll dine.
I must confess, rejoins a prudent sage,
You're really something clever for your age:
Your lines have sentiment, and now and then
A lash of satire stumbles from your pen.
But ah! that satire is a dangerous thing,
And often wounds the writer with its sting
Your infant muse should sport with other toys,
Men will not bear the ridicule of boys.
Some of the aldermen, (for some indeed
For want of education cannot read,
And those who can, when they aloud rehearse
What Fowler, happy genius, titles verse,
To spin the strains sonorous thro' the nose,
The reader cannot call it verse or prose)
Some of the aldermen may take offence
At my maintaining them devoid of sense;
And if you touch their aldermanic pride,
Bid dark reflection tell how Savage died.
Besides the town, the sober honest town,
Gives virtue her desert, and vice her frown;
Bids censure brand with infamy your name—
I, even I, must think you are to blame.
1 Burgum, in Kew Gardens.
Is there a street within this spacious place
That boasts the happiness of one fair face,
Where conversation does not turn on you,
Blaming your wild amours, your morals too?
Oaths, sacred and tremendous oaths you swear,
Oaths that might shock a Luttrell's soul to hear;
These very oaths, as if a thing of joke,
Made to betray, intended to be broke,
Whilst the too tender and believing maid
(Remember pretty Fanny) is betray'd.
Then your religion-ah! beware, beware,
Although a deist is no monster here,
Yet hide your tenets-priests are powerful foes,
And priesthood fetters justice by the nose.
Think not the merit of a jingling song
Can countenance the author's acting wrong:
Reform your manners, and with solemn air
Hear Catcott bray, and Robins squeak in pray'r.
Honour the scarlet robe, and let the quill
Be silent when his worship eats his fill.
Regard thy int'rest, ever love thyself;
Rise into notice as you rise in pelf.
The muses have no credit here, and fame
Confines itself to the mercantile name.
Then clip Imagination's wing-be wise,
And great in wealth, (to real greatness rise ;)
Or if you must persist to sing and dream,
Let only panegyric be your theme:
Make North a Chatham, canonize his grace,
And get a pension, or procure a place.
Damn'd narrow notions! tending to disgrace
The boasted reason of the human race.
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still,
But know, my saving friends, I never will.
The composition of my soul is made
Too great for servile, avaricious trade;
When raving in the lunacy of ink
I catch the pen, and publish what I think.
North is a creature, and the king's misled;
Mansfield and Norton came as justice fled;
Few of our ministers are over wise :-
Old Harpagon's a cheat, and Taylor lies.
When cooler judgment actuates my brain,
My cooler judgment still approves the strain;
And if a horrid picture greets your view,
There it continues still, if copied true.
Though in the double infamy of lawn
The future bishopric of Barton's drawn,
Protect me, fair ones, if I durst engage
To serve ye in this catamitish age,
To exercise a passion banish'd hence,
And summon satire in to your defence.
Woman, of ev'ry happiness the best,
Is all my heaven,-religion is a jest.
Nor shall the muse in any future book
With awe upon the chains of favour look:
North shall in all his vices be display'd,
And Warburton in lively pride array'd;
Sandwich shall undergo the healing lash,
And read his character without a dash;
Mansfield, surrounded by his dogs of law,
Shall see his picture drawn in ev'ry flaw ;
Luttrell (if satire can descend so low)
Shall all his natiye little vices show ;
And Grafton, tho' prudentially resign'd,
Shall view a striking copy of his mind;
Whilst iron Justice, lifting up her scales,
Shall weigh the Princess Dowager of Wales.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN TANDEY, SENR.
A sincere Christian Friend. He died 5th January, 1769, aged 76.
YE virgins of the sacred choir,
Awake the soul-dissolving lyre,
Begin the mournful strain ;
To deck the much-lov'd Tandey's urn,
Let the poetic genius burn,
And all Parnassus drain.
Ye ghosts! that leave the silent tomb,
To wander in the midnight gloom,
Unseen by mortal eye;
Garlands of yew and cypress bring,
Adorn his tomb, his praises sing,
And swell the gen'ral sigh.
Ye wretches, who could scarcely save
Your starving offspring from the grave,
By God afflicted sore,
Vent the big tear, the soul-felt sigh,
And swell your meagre infant's cry,
For Tandey is no more.
To you his charity he dealt,
His melting soul your mis'ries felt,
And made your woes his own:
A common friend to all mankind,
His face the index of his mind,
Where all the saint was shown.
In him the social virtues join'd,
His judgment sound, his sense refin'd,
His actions ever just—
Who can suppress the rising sigh,
To think such saint-like men must die,
And mix with common dust.
Had virtue pow'r from death to save,
The good man ne'er would see the grave,
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