Lo! pampered Catius lolling at his ease,
Gorging his maw with mystick rarities!
He holds Politeness is but eating well,
Then swallows down whole manors at a meal.
So strange each viand, and so strangely dress'd,
If fish, flesh, fowl, roast, boil'd, can ne'er be
guess'd:
Here hid in peacock's brains a squirrel lies,
With gravy drawn from twice twelve woodcock's thighs;
A larded badger there smokes high perfume,
And the green rabbits stink along the room.
Supreme in taste his table's still replete
With all that's rare, and is not to be eat.
Did not the side-board bear a sound Sir-loin,
Who with lord Catius could afford to dine!
In learning Curio places all good-breeding,
And rails at Dives dress'd, and Catius feeding.
He fasts and mortifies, and racks his skull,
But to appear more clasically dull :
For over-reading makes the dunce more seen,
As over-eating makes the glutton lean.
In his cramb'd crown you reconciled may view
The Babel of each tongue and science too :
Like Bacon's head, his mouth he ne'er can ope*
But strait out flies a sentence, or a trope:
Man, woman, child, alike he entertains
With the learn'd oozings of his addled brains;
And makes, as well as Pemberton, the fair
Know all Sir Isaac Newton to a hair.
Pedantick sot! cries Umbra-in a book,
Heaven, thank it, never gave me grace to look:
I've travell'd, been in France, at Rome, and then
What need I study books, who've studied men?
Besides, I've titles, places, wealth and land,
I wear a ribband, and expect a wand.
Let thread-bare blockheads study if they please,
What need of learning when a man's at ease?
I take a surer way to be polite,
I dress, game, wench, and dance,-not read or write.
Equal your merit, vain alike your aim,
Learn'd or unlearn'd, a coxcomb's still the same,
Sir John comes next with bow and fiddle graced,
Fiddling he thinks the very cream of taste;
Then fiddles on with such incessant care,
You'd think his soul breathed only at his ear.
Yet all the while, Sir John must own 'tis true,
He's doing what he least would wish to do.
Not Tattle less delights to hold his tongue,
Yet sits four hours to hear an Opera sung;
Nor less uneasiness does Embrio feel
In whalebone stays—yet bids the next be steel. For 'tis not what they like, or what they know, But as the fashion drives the fop must go.
Still braver lengths, cries Clodio, I have ran
To gain the prize-deny it me who can,
I've ravish'd virgins, and have kill'd my man;
And nicely versed in all the arts of play,
A thousand bubbled fools have fallen my prey.
The fruits which murder, dice, and rapes afford
Must sure be own'd politeness in my lord!
To be polite Lothario's still profane,
And treats whate'er is sacred with disdain :
The best-bred man to every mortal he,
And only to his God unmannerly.
Self-cozen'd wretch, let but the thunder roll,
He owns a God, and trembles for his soul;
In vain now strives to act the Atheist's part,
His forehead blabs the terrors of his heart.
Lothario, quit thy claim-'spight o' thy will,
Thou art an unpolite believer still.
The Life of a Beau. A Song.
How brim-full of nothing's the life of a beau ? They've nothing to think of, they've nothing
Nor they've nothing to talk of, for-nothing they know:
Such, such is the life of a beau.
For nothing they rise, but to draw the fresh air; Spend the morning in nothing but curling their
And do nothing all day but sing, saunter and ståre; Such, such is the life of a beau.
For nothing at night to the playhouse they crowd, For to mind nothing done there they always are proud,
But to bow, and to grin, and talk nothing-aloud: Such, such is the life of a beau.
For nothing they run to the assembly and ball;
And for nothing at cards a fair partner call,
For they still must be beasted who've-nothing
Such, such is the life of a beau.
For nothing on Sundays at church they appear, For they've nothing to hope, nor they've nothing to fear;
They can be nothing no where, who-nothing are here:
Such, such is the life of a beau.
The Life of a Fool. A Song.
A FOOL enjoys the sweets of life,
Unwounded by its cares;
His passions never are at strife
He hopes not, he, nor fears.
If Fortune smile, as smile she will,
Upon her booby brood, The Fool anticipates no ill,
But reaps the present good.
Or should, thro' love of change, her wheels
Her favourite bantling cross,
The happy fool no anguish feels,
He weighs nor gain nor loss.
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