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Suc h often like the tube they so admire,
Important trifles! have more finoke than fire,
Per nicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys
Un friendly to fociety's chief joys,
TH y worst effect is banishing for hours
The sex whose presence civilizes ours:
Thou art indeed, the drug a gard'ner wants,
To poison vermin that infest his plants,
But are we so to wit and beauty blind,
As to despise the glory of our kind,
And show the softest minds and fairest forms
As little mercy, as he, grubs and worms?
They dare not wait the riotous abuse,
Thy thirst-creating steams at length produce,
When wine has giv'n indecent language birth,
And forced the flood-gates of licentious mirth;
For sea-born Venus her attachment shows
Still to that element from which she rose,
And with a quiet which no fumes disturb,
Sips meek infusions of a milder herb.
Th’emphatic speaker dearly loves t'oppose
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose,
As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz,
Touched with a magnet had attracted his.
His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large,
Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge,
An extract of his diary-no more,
A tasteless journal of the day before.
He walked abroad, o’ertaken in the rain
Called on a friend, drank tea, stept home again,
Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk.
I interrupt him with a sudden bow,
Adieu dear Sir! lest you should lose it now.
I cannot talk with civet in the room,
A fine puss-gentleman that's all perfume ;
The sight's enough-no need to smell a beau-
Who thrusts his nose into a raree-show?
His odoriferous attempts to please,
Perhaps might profper with a swarm of bees,
But we that make no honey though we sting,
Poets, are sometimes apt to mawl the thing.
'Tis wrong to bring into a mixt resort,
What makes some sick, and others a la-mort,
An argument of cogence, we may say,
Why such an one should keep himself away.
A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,
Quite as absurd though not so light as he:
A shallow brain behind a serious mask,
An oracle within an empty cask,
The solemn fop; significant and budge;
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge.
He says but little, and that little faid
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.
His wit invites you by his looks to come,
But when you knock it never is at home:
'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage,
Some handsome present, as your hopes presage,
'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove
An absent friend's fidelity and love,
But when unpack'd your disappointment groans To find it stuff?d with brickbats, earth and itones.
Some men employ their health, an ugly trick,
Ir making known how oft they have been fick,
And give us in recitals of disease
A doctor's trouble, but without the fees :
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed,
How an emetic or cathartic sped,
Nothing is Nightly touched, much less forgots
Nose, ears, and eyes seem present on the spot.
Now the distemper spight of draught or pill
Victorious seem'd, and now the doctor's skill;
And now-alas for unforeseen mishaps !
They put on a damp night-cap and relapse ;
They thought they must have died they were so bad,
Their peevith hearers almost wish they had.
Some fretful tempers wince at ev'ry touch,
You always do too little or too much :
You speak with life in hopes to entertain,
Your elevated voice goes through the brain;
You fall at once into a lower key,
That's worfe—the drone-pipe of an humble bee.
The southern salh admits too strong a light,
You rise and drop the curtain—now its night.
He shakes with cold—you stir the fire and strive
To make a blaze-that's roasting him alive.
Serve him with ven’son and he chufes fish,
With soal that's just the fort he would not wish,
He takes what he at first profess’d to loath,
And in due time feeds heartily on both ; ;
let till o'erclouded with a constant frown,
He does not swallow but he gulps it down.
Your hope to please him, vain on ev'ry plan,
Himself should work that wonder if he can
Alas! his efforts double his distress,
likes yours little and his own still less, Thus always teazing others, always teazed, His only pleasure is—to be displeas’d.
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserv'd disdain,