Every Man in his Own Way. AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
[]'T WERE well, my Laelius, if I could purſue,
That prudent Counſel which I had from You:
To quit the Muſe before her Spirits ſink,
Forſake my Rhymes, and waſh my Hands of Ink.
But, ſpite of all the Precepts You impart,
This Itch of Scribbling* clings about my Heart.
[2]'Tis a Diſeaſe above the Doctor's Skill,
Too ſtubborn to be cur'd with Drop or Pill.
AND yet, believe me, I have often try'd
To take your fav'rite Maxim for my Guide.
Nil admirari dwells upon your Tongue:
So Horace ſings, and I approve his Song.
But like Medea, frantic in her Love,
I cannot practiſe what I thus approve.
Too fond of Verſe, I waſte my precious Time
In Sounds, and Similies, and worthleſs Rhyme;
Mad as the Prieſt, who, in poetic Rage,
With Floods of Nonſenſe deluges the Stage:
What tho' you damn one Offspring of his Brain?
Prolific Dullneſs quickly ſpawns again:
This Monſter cruſh'd, another ſtrait appears,
Head after Head the ſprouting Hydra rears;
Deſpiſing all the Cenſures of the Town,
And ev'ry Perſon's Judgment, but his own;
[3]For tho' pronounc'd a Fool by all the Pit,
He impudently thinks himſelf a Wit.
A SOBER Countryman, as Stories ſay,
Would viſit Bedlam on a certain Day;
Where, as he pitied a poor Wretch's Caſe,
The merry Madman laugh'd him in the Face,
And cry'd, Alas! your Judgment's very bad,
Believe me, 'tis not I, but You, are mad!
Mankind are run diſtracted ev'ry where,
All but a few, who keep their Senſes Here.
You ſee our Madman, tho' prodigious ill,
Was happy in his own Opinion ſtill.
NOR lives a Wretch, ſo wretched in the Town,
But has ſome darling Pleaſure of his own,
Which he calls Happineſs. 'Tis my Delight,
My Pleaſure, and my Happineſs, to write;
For Happineſs we various Ways explore;
Some think it plac'd in Wealth, and ſome in Pow'r;
[4]Others believe in Luxury it lies,
In Women ſome, and ſome in Butterflies.
All other Gifts of Fortune are confin'd,
But Pleaſure's free, and common as the Wind:
The Cobler feels it often as the Peer;
One's drown'd in Politics, and one in Beer:
One's pleas'd with Honours, one with being drunk,
This fondly courts a Ribband, that a Punk.
THERE are who fix their Pleaſure in a Race,
Whoſe Acres leſſen, as their Steeds increaſe;
Some place their Joys in ancient Coins, and ſome
Admire the curious Buſts of Greece and Rome:
Others in Painting all their Fortune waſte,
While dunning Tradeſmen curſe their laviſh Taſte.
So much they honour the illuſtrious Dead,
They wrong the Living of their daily Bread.
In Building ſome conſume a vaſt Eſtate,
And only leave their Heirs the Walls to eat;
[5]Theſe for a Supper many Hundreds pay,
While thoſe in Muſic tune their Wealth away.
Thus diff'rent as our Faces are our Views;
Yet each this Harlot Happineſs purſues;
This common Strumpet is by all ador'd,
She's Miſtreſs to the Fidler, and the Lord.
ONE, whom her Charms unluckily delight,
Courts her at Gaming-tables ev'ry Night:
No matter what her ſaucy Favours coſt,
He will enjoy her till his Fortune's loſt;
Careleſs of what his Wife and Chidren do:
Let Wife and Children ſtarve, what's that to You?
YOU may condemn our Gameſters, if you pleaſe:
But is he more ridiculous than theſe,
Who count their glitt'ring Dirt eſſential Bliſs?
Umidius has no other Joy but this.
For Gold he ſtudies, ſtrives, and toils, and ſweats;
For Gold he ſwears, and lyes, and jobs, and cheats.
[6]Full fifty thouſand Pounds he has in Store,
And yet he covets fifty thouſand more.
No wild Profuſion waſtes his uſeleſs Hoard;
No Soups, or French Ragoûs, adorn his Board:
But, left ſuch Diet ſhould provoke his Luſt,
He dines, like Seneca, upon a Cruſt;
And thinks the Turks Religion moſt divine,
Becauſe it has forbid them drinking Wine.
ANOTHER, who Lucullus would excel
In the luxurious Arts of eating well,
Plump as a Swine of Epicurus looks,
His God his Belly, and his Glory Cooks.
So many Diſhes on his Board appear,
'Twould ſurfeit you to read his Bill of Fare:
And of one Dinner the Expence ſo large,
Not Peter often could ſupport the Charge.
THE gay Adonis, of a diff'rent Mind,
Counts Love the Summum Bonum of Mankind.
[7]Love is the great Employment of his Life,
A Paſſion very pleaſing to a Wife:
But Wife he is determin'd to have none;
For our penurious Laws allow but one.
Of willing Nymphs he keeps a mighty Store;
Not Solomon himſelf had many more:
Theſe are his Happineſs, tho' Goats may be
Much happier Animals, perhaps, than he.
ACTEON rides the Fields with rapid Pace;
He feels no Happineſs, but in a Chace:
To him the Genius of his Hounds is known,
And Jowler's Nature, better than his own.
Ask him if Jowler ſtrives to ſtarve her Young?
He'll wonder at the Folly of your Tongue:
Yet he, more cruel, wickedly inclines
To ſtarve the native Iſſue of his Loins.
Go to thy Dogs, inhuman, thoughtleſs Elf!
Their Ways conſider, and be wiſe thyſelf.
[8]
LORD Fickle, with his virtuous Lady vext,
Weds her one Day, and widows her the next:
'Tis hard to ſay the Pleaſure of his Life;
'Tis plain, however, 'tis not in a Wife.
BIBLUS, with thirſty Throat, and firy Face,
Has fix'd his chiefeſt Pleaſure in a Glaſs;
Drinking and Dozing are his dear Delight;
All Day he dozes, and he drinks all Night:
His Wife and he alternate Watches keep;
At Morning when ſhe wakes, he falls aſleep.
FAR other Thoughts young Theron's Boſom fire,
Far other Joys his noble Breaſt inſpire:
No idle Pleaſure charms the youthful Peer,
Except the Pleaſure of a Charioteer:
Firm ſeated in the Box, he ſmoaks along,
The Jeſt and Wonder of the gazing Throng.
[9]Dextrous as Racers on Olympian Plains,
He ſounds the claſhing Whip, and ſhakes the looſen'd Reins:
Proud to ſurvey the Wheels impetuous roll,
While all the Coachman's Glory warms his Soul.
CHREMES, devoutly mad, forſakes his Wife,
His Friends and Children, for a future Life:
He follows Whitefield, by the Spirit driv'n;
And ſtarves himſelf on Earth, to feaſt in Heav'n.
To ſhun the fatal Rock on which he ſplits,
Diagoras employs his ſubtle Wits;
Denies the Being of a God by Rule,
And proves by Logic—that he is a Fool.
Is there no Mean, no Paſſage we can find
Safely to ſteer this Veſſel of the Mind?
Muſt we on Scylla or Charybdis run?
When Dead, be wretched; or alive, undone?
[10]
GRACCHUS, endow'd with admirable Parts,
Poliſh'd with Learning, Eloquence, and Arts,
Protects the People warmly in Debate,
And all his Pleaſure's to reform the State;
He could adjuſt all Buſineſs of the Crown,
And yet he never could adjuſt his own:
Not that he wanted Wit for ſuch Affairs;
He had too much for low domeſtic Cares.
His active ſcheming Head has always found
Too little Buſineſs, which has turn'd it round:
As pond'rous Ships, immoderately great,
For want of proper Ballaſt, overſet.
OTHERS there are, who uſe their utmoſt Skill
To climb Ambition's flatt'ring faithleſs Hill:
To Poſts and Dignities To-day they riſe;
To-morrow greater Honours tempt their Eyes:
For theſe they ſtruggle; next; they theſe acquire;
Greater appear, and greater they deſire:
[11]Thoſe too they gain: Well, now they have their Will,
Or is this happy Something farther ſtill?
Alas! my Laelius, you miſtake their Aim,
Their Pleaſure's in the Chace, not in the Game.
As arrant Sportſmen hunt thro' Bog and Brake,
Not for their Hunger, but Diverſion's ſake.
See Manlius, ſtriving for his Lordſhip's Place;
His Lordſhip very fain would be his Grace:
The Serjeant treads upon the Judge's Heels,
Th'impatient Judge anticipates the Seals.
Some, boldly vain, like Phaethon, aſpire;
And, if indulg'd, would ſet the World on Fire.
Ev'n Budgel hop'd to guide the Reins of State:
My Lord of Lambeth's miſerably great!
Oppreſs'd with Cares and Buſineſs all his Time,
And, harder ſtill! he can no higher climb.
THE Muſe, my Friend, might Thouſands more relate,
(Led either by their Folly, or their Fate)
[12]Who follow Pleaſures of another Sort:
Some go to Drury-Lane, and ſome to Court;
Theſe rake in Stews, thoſe ſhine in Drawing-rooms,
Proud of their Cloaths, as Peacocks of their Plumes;
Who in their Dreſs ſuch wond'rous Pleaſure take,
They wear their Happineſs upon their Back.
In Dreſs the gay Lord Fopling ſquanders more
Than would ſupport an Hoſpital of Poor.
For Dreſs in Debt Faſtidius yearly runs,
Patient of Scandal, negligent of Duns:
While Curius, lewd and laviſh on his Whores,
Brings Claps and Faſhions from the Gallic Shores:
Theſe have their Pleaſures: Is it then a Crime
In me to take the Privilege of Rhyme?
BUT now, methinks you whiſper in my Ear,
"This Itch of Rhyming carries you too far:"
What is't to me, you ſay, whoſe Plays are dull?
What is't to me, who's Fop, or Knave, or Fool?
[13]Who games, or ſwears, or lyes, or jobs, or cheats?
Who gain Preferments, or who loſe Eſtates?
Men ever had their Pleaſures, ever will:
In God's Name let them have their Pleaſures ſtill!
But ſince in diff'rent ways they all incline
To have their Pleaſures, ſhall I not have mine?
THERE's Miſtreſs Drummond frequently will tell ye,
The Spirit ſwells her like to burſt her Belly;
How ſhall ſhe eaſe her Boſom of the Load?
How, but diſcharge and looſe the lab'ring God?
Shall Eaſe, my Friend, be found for her alone?
Shall ſhe have Remedy, and I have none?
WELL then, proceed, you ſay; but mark the End;
Writing will make you Foes, tho' not a Friend:
Beſides, 'twere Vanity to think your Lays
Should pleaſe a Critic's Ear, or merit Praiſe.
[14]
PRAISE is a Feather, foreign to my Hope:
Give it to THOMSON, WARBURTON, or POPE.
When urgent Nature calls, I write for Eaſe,
The Call of Nature ev'ry one obeys.
Alike the Learn'd, and thoſe who never learn,
Whether 'tis in a College, or a Barn;
Whether on Mincio's Banks, or in the Mint:
When Nature bids us write, we write and print.
I KNOW your Judgment, Senſe, and Taſte require
A Bard to ſing with Spirit, Force, and Fire;
Compoſe ſuch Numbers as the Ancients writ.
Are Ancients then the only Men of Wit?
Is Wit immutable? Is nothing ſo,
But what was writ Two thouſand Years ago?
Sure if it vary not, 'tis mighty ſtrange,
Since much more ſacred Things have ſuffer'd Change.
BEFORE King Harry (laſt of all the Name)
To good Queen Beſs's Mother told his Flame,
[15]What a myſterious Dreſs Religion wore!
What Crops of Superſtition England bore!
Our pious Sires implicit Faith receiv'd,
Believing what could hardly be believ'd.
'Twas Sin to think their Bread compos'd of Flour,
Or Two and Two equivalent to Four.
Nor dar'd they reaſon in their own Defence,
For the worſt Hereſy was common Senſe:
Or if they durſt eſpouſe the noble Cauſe
Of Nature's Right, and Truth's eternal Laws,
Bulls and Damnations thunder'd from the Preſs,
And curs'd as zealouſly as Chriſt could bleſs.
Now, thank Reformers of a later Age,
We can't complain of ſuperſtitious Rage;
No Flamen cheats us with his holy Wiles,
Nor Smithfield ſmoaks with frequent Fun'ral Piles.
No Royal Quixotes lead their martial Pow'rs
To fight for Lady Faith on Foreign Shores:
[16]Yet grant, Almighty Heav'n, we may not fall
From too much Piety, to none at all!
THUS Modes of Faith have chang'd, 'tis very plain;
And Wit has chang'd, and change it will again.
This comforts M—r; for we muſt allow,
Tho' his damn'd Comedies are Folly now,
They may be Wit, perhaps, to future Fools,
If they eſcape Trunks, Kitchens, and Cloſe-ſtools.
'TWERE hard, indeed, if nothing ſhould be writ,
But what was ſolid Senſe, or current Wit;
Such rigid Laws would ruin Authors quite,
Not One in Twenty would attempt to write:
But, as the Poets Caſe in Britain ſtands,
We ſcorn tenacious Wit ſhou'd tie our Hands.
We freely write whatever we deviſe,
No matter whether Wit, or Truth, or Lyes.
Thus bold Lucilius laſhes half the Town,
And teaches Manners, tho' himſelf has none;
[17]At Peers and Prelates darts his poiſon'd Stings,
Aſperſes Miniſters, and libels Kings;
Rakes up the ſacred Aſhes of a Queen
To vent his Spite, and gratify his Spleen.
Thus* He, who mimics POPE'S immortal Pen,
(Tho' awkwardly as Monkeys mimic Men)
With wicked Farce profanes the hallow'd Gown,
And to expoſe our Folly, ſhews his own.
Thus L—, when at Leiſure from the Stews,
Thro' Dirt and Dung whips a lame, jaded Muſe,
To number all would weary Whitefield's Lungs,
Who ſcribble Journals, and ſatiric Songs;
Who rail at WALPOLE, impotent and fierce,
Barren of Thought, yet prodigal of Verſe.
Guilty of Scandal, innocent of Wit,
They write worſe Stuff than Flecknoe ever writ:
And by the half-form'd Embryo's of the Scull,
Abuſe the Privilege of being dull.
[18]God ſave his Honour! while ſuch Authors write,
He ought to thank their inoffenſive Spite.
And ſhall not I indulge my harmleſs Pen?
And have my Way, as well as other Men?
YOU, worthy Laelius, have your Pleaſure too,
And, quitting Crouds, a nobler Way purſue;
The Way of Truth and Virtue you explore,
For this you turn the Grecian Sages o'er:
For this You read what Roman Authors writ,
Digeſt their Precepts, and improve their Wit.
In theſe, and true Philoſophy, you find
A Muſe, to tune and harmonize your Mind,
Who ſings, All Pleaſure, rightly underſtood,
Conſiſts alone in being Wiſe and Good.
FINIS.