Or settling it in trust to uses
Out of his power, on trays and deuces ;
To put it to the chance, and try,
I' th' ballot of a box and die,
Whether his money be his own,
And lose it, if he be o'erthrown;
As if he were betray'd, and set
By his own stars to every cheat;
Or wretchedly condemn'd by Fate
To throw dice for his own estate;
As mutineers, by fatal doom,
Do for their lives upon a drum?
For what less influence can produce
So great a monster as a chouse,
Or any two-legg'd thing possess
With such a brutish sottishness?
Unless those tutelary stars,
Intrusted by astrologers
To have the charge of man, combin'd
To use him in the self-same kind;
As those that help'd them to the trust,
Are wont to deal with others just.
For to become so sadly dull
And stupid, as to fine for gull,
(Not, as in cities, to b' excus'd But to be judg'd fit to be us'd), That whosoe'er can draw it in
Is sure inevitably t' win,
And, with a curs'd half-witted fate,
To grow more dully desperate,
The more 'tis made a common prey,
And cheated foppishly at play,
Is their condition; Fate betrays
To Folly first, and then destroys.
For what but miracles can serve
So great a madness to preserve,
As his, that ventures goods and chattels
(Where there's no quarter given) in battles,
And fights with money-bags as bold
As men with sand-bags did of old;
Puts lands, and tenements, and stocks,
Into a paltry juggler's box;
And, like an alderman of Gotham,
Embarketh in so vile a bottom;
Engages blind and senseless hap
'Gainst high, and low, and slur, and knap, (As Tartars with a man of straw
Encounter lions hand to paw),
With those that never venture more
Than they had safely' insur'd before;
Who, when they knock the box, and shake,
Do, like the Indian rattle-snake,
But strive to ruin and destroy
Those that mistake it for fair play;
That have their Fulhams at command,
Brought up to do their feats at hand,
That understand their calls and knocks,
And how to place themselves i' th' box;
Can tell the oddses of all games,
And when to answer to their names;
And, when he conjures them t' appear,
Like imps, are ready every-where:
When to play foul, and when run fair
(Out of design) upon the square,
And let the greedy cully win,
Only to draw him further in;
While those with which he idly plays
Have no regard to what he says,
Although he jernie and blaspheme,
When they miscarry, heav'n and them,
And damn his soul, and swear, and curse,
And crucify his Saviour worse
Than those Jew-troopers that threw out,
When they were raffling for his coat;
Denounce revenge, as if they heard,
And rightly understood and fear'd,
And would take heed another time,
How to commit so bold a crime;
When the poor bones are innocent,
Of all he did, or said, or meant,
And have as little sense, almost,
As he that damns them when h' has lost;
Their judgment rather than his own;
And that it were their fault, not his,
That manag'd them himself amiss,
And gave them ill instructions how
To run, as he would have them do,
And then condemns them sillily
For having no more wit than he!
SATIRE: TO A BAD POET.
REAT famous wit! whose rich and easy vein,
Free, and unus'd to drudgery and pain,
Has all Apollo's treasure at command,
And how good verse is coin'd dost understand,
In all Wit's combats master of defence,
Tell me, how dost thou pass on rhyme and sense?
'Tis said they apply to thee, and in thy verse
Do freely range themselves as volunteers,
And without pain, or pumping for a word,
Place themselves fitly of their own accord.
I, whom a lewd caprich (for some great crime
I have committed) has condemn'd to rhyme,
With slavish obstinacy vex my brain
To reconcile them, but, alas! in vain.
Sometimes I set my wits upon the rack,
And, when I would say white, the verse says black;
When I would draw a brave man to the life,
It names some slave that pimps to his own wife,
Or base poltroon, that would have sold his daughter,
If he had met with any to have bought her.
When I would praise an author, the untoward
Damn'd sense says Virgil, but the rhyme-;
In fine, whate'er I strive to bring about,
The contrary (spite of my heart) comes out,
Sometimes, enrag'd for time and pains misspent,
I give it over, tir'd, and discontent,
And, damning the dull fiend a thousand times
By whom I was possess'd, forswear all rhymes;
But, having curs'd the Muses, they appear,
To be reveng'd for 't, ere I am aware.
Spite of myself, I straight take fire agen,
Fall to my task with paper, ink, and pen,
And, breaking all the oaths I made, in vain
From verse to verse expect their aid again.
22 Damn'd sense says Virgil, but the rhyme-.'] This blank, and another at the close of the Poem, the Author evidently chose should be supplied by the reader. It is not my business, therefore, to deprive him of that satisfaction.
my Muse or I were so discreet T'endure, for rhyme's sake, one dull epithet, I might, like others, easily command
Words without study, ready and at hand.
In praising Chloris, moons, and stars, and skies,
Are quickly made to match her face and eyes— 40
And gold and rubies, with as little care,
To fit the colour of her lips and hair;
And, mixing suns, and flowers, and pearl, and stones,
Make them serve all complexions at once.
With these fine fancies, at hap-hazard writ,
I could make verses without art or wit,
And, shifting forty times the verb and noun,
With stol❜n impertinence patch up mine own:
But in the choice of words my scrupulous wit
Is fearful to pass one that is unfit;
Nor can endure to fill up a void place,
At a line's end, with one insipid phrase;
And, therefore, when I scribble twenty times,
When I have written four, I blot two rhymes.
May he be damn'd who first found out that curse,
T'imprison and confine his thoughts in verse;
To hang so dull a clog upon his wit,
And make his reason to his rhyme submit!
Without this plague, I freely might have spent
My happy days with leisure and content;
Had nothing in the world to do or think,
Like a fat priest, but whore, and eat, and drink;
Had pass'd my time as pleasantly away,
Slept all the night, and loiter'd all the day.
My soul, that's free from care, and fear, and hope,
Knows how to make her own ambition stoop,
T'avoid uneasy greatness and resort,
Or for preferment following the Court.
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