Not register'd in Heav'n-he mocks at grace, And in his creed God never found a placeLook not for Conscience-for he knows her not, So long a stranger, she is quite forgotNor think thyself in law secure and firmThy master is a lord, and thou a worm, A poor mean reptile, never meant to think, Who, being well supplied with meat and drink, And suffer'd just to crawl from place to place, Must serve his lusts, and think he does thee grace. Fly, then, whilst yet 'tis in thy pow'r to fly: But whither caust thou go? on whom rely For wish'd protection? Virtue's sure to meet An armed host of foes in ev'ry street. What boots it, of Apicius fearful grown, Headlong to fly into the arms of Stone? Or why take refuge in the house of pray'r, If sure to meet with an Apicius there? Trust not old age, which will thy faith betray, Saint Socrates is still a goat, though grey; Trust not green youth; Florio will scarce go down, And, at eighteen, hath surfeited the town; Trust not to rakes-alas! 'tis all pretenceThey take up raking only as a fence 'Gainst common fame-place H

in thy view;

He keeps one whore as Barrowby kept two;
Trust not to marriage-T-took a wife,
Who chaste as Dian might have pass'd her life,
Had she not, far more prudent in her aim,
(To propagate the honours of his name,
And save expiring titles) taken care
Without his knowledge to provide an heir;
Trust not to marriage, in mankind unread;
S's a married man, and S― new wed.

Would'st thou be safe? Society forswear,
Fly to the desert, and seek shelter there,
Herd with the brutes-they follow Nature's plan-
There's not one brute so dangerous as man
In Afric's wilds-'mongst them that refuge find,
Which lust denies thee here among mankind;
Renounce thy name, thy nature, and no more
Pique thy vain pride on manhood; on all four
Walk, as you see those honest creatures do,
And quite forget that once you walk'd on two.
But if the thoughts of solitude alarm,
And social life hath one remaining charm,
If still thou art to jeopardy decreed
Amongst the monsters of Augusta's breed,
Lay by thy sex, thy safety to procure;
Put off the man, from men to live secure;
Go forth a woman to the public view,
And with their garb assume their manners too.
Had the light-footed Greek of Chiron's school
Been wise enough to keep this single rule,
The maudlin hero, like a puling boy
Robb'd of his play-thing, on the plains of Troy
Had never blubber'd at Patroclus' tomb,
And plac'd his minion in his mistress' room.
Be not in this than catamites more nice,
Do that for virtue, which they do for vice.
Thus shalt thou pass untainted life's gay bloom,
Thus stand uncourted in the drawing-room,
At midnight thus, untempted, walk the street,
And run no danger but of being beat.

Where is the mother, whose officious zeal
Discreetly judging what her daughters feel
By what she felt herself in days of yore,
Against that letcher man makes fast the door?
Who not permits, e'en for the sake of pray'r,
A priest, uncastrated, to enter there,

VOL XIV.

Nor (could her wishes and her care prevail)
Would suffer in the house a fly that's male?
Let her discharge her cares, throw wide her doors,
Her daughters cannot, if they would, be whores;
Nor can a man be found, as times now go,

Who thinks it worth his while to make them so.
Though they more fresh, more lively than the
Morn,

[care,

And brighter than the noon-day Sun, adorn
The works of Nature; though the mother's grace
Revives, improv'd, in every daughter's face;
Undisciplin'd in dull Discretion's rules,
Untaught, and undebauch'd by boarding-schools,
Free and unguarded, let them range the town,
Go forth at random, and run Pleasure down,
Start where she will, discard all taint of fear,
Nor think of danger, when no danger 's near.
Watch not their steps-they 're safe without thy
Unless, like jennets, they conceive by air,
And ev'ry one of them may die a nun,
Unless they breed, like carrion, in the sun.
Men, dead to pleasure, as they 're dead to grace,
Against the law of Nature set their face,
The grand primeval law, and seem combin'd
To stop the propagation of mankind;
Vile Pathics read the marriage act with pride,
And fancy that the law is on their side.
Broke down, and strength a stranger to his bed,
Old L-
, though yet alive, is dead;
T- lives no more, or lives not to our isle;
No longer blest with a Cz
-'s smile,
T is at P--
And M

disgrac'd,

grown grey, perforce grows chaste;
Nor, to the credit of our modest race,
Rises one stallion to supply their place.
A maidenhead, which, twenty years ago,
In mid December the rank fly would blow
Though closely kept, now, when the dog-star's heat,
Inflames the marrow in the very street,
May lie untouch'd, left for the worms, by those
Who daintily pass by, and hold their nose.
Poor, plain Concupiscence is in disgrace,
And simple Letch'ry dares not show her face,
Lest she be sent to Bridewell: bankrupts made,
To save their fortunes, bawds leave off that trade,
Which first had left off them; to Wellclose Square
Fine, fresh, young strumpets (for Dodd preaches
there)

Throng for subsistence; pimps no longer thrive,
And pensions only keep L alive.

Where is the mother, who thinks all her pain,
And all her jeopardy of travail, gain,
When a man-child is born; thinks ev'ry pray'r
Paid to the full, and answer'd in an heir?
Short-sighted woman! little doth she know
What streams of sorrow from that source may flow;
Little suspect, while she surveys her boy,
Her young Narcissus, with an eye of joy
Too full for continence, that Fate could give
Her darling as a curse; that she may live,
Ere sixteen winters their short course have run,
In agonies of soul, to curse that son.

Pray then for daughters, ye wise mothers, pray; They shall reward your love, not make you grey Before your time with sorrow; they shall give Ages of peace and comfort, whilst ye live Make life most truly worth your care, and save, In spite of death, your mem'ries from the grave. That sense, with more than manly vigour fraught, That fortitude of soul, that stretch of thought,

B b

That genius, great beyond the narrow bound
Of Earth's low walk, that judgment perfect found
When wanted most, that purity of taste
Which critics mention by the name of chaste;
Adorn'd with elegance, that easy flow
Of ready wit which never made a foe,
That face, that form, that dignity, that ease,
Those pow'rs of pleasing with that will to please,
By which Lepel, when in her youthful days,
E'en from the currish pope extorted praise,
We see, transmitted, in her daughter shine,
And view a new Lepel in Caroline.

Is a son born into this world of woe?
In never-ceasing streams let sorrow flow;
Be from that hour the house with sables hung,
Let lamentations dwell upon thy tongue,
E'en from the moment that he first began
To wail and whine; let him not see a man ;
Lock, lock him up, far from the public eye,
Give him no opportunity to buy,

Or to be bought: B, though rich, was sold,
And gave his body up to shame for gold,

Let it be bruited all about the town, That he is coarse, indelicate, and brown, An antidote to lust, his face deep scarr'd With the small-pox, his body maim'd and marr'd, Eat up with the king's evil, and his blood, Tainted throughout, a thick and putrid flood, Where dwells Corruption, making him all o'er, From head to foot, a rank and running sore. Should'st thou report him as by Nature made, He is undone, and by thy praise betray'd; Give him out fair, letchers in number more, More brutal and more fierce, than throng'd the door Of Lot in Sodom, shall to thine repair, And force a passage, though a God is there.

Let him not have one servant that is male; Where lords are baffled, servants oft prevail. Some vices they propose, to all agree; Hwas guilty, but was M-free?

Give him no tutor-throw him to a punk,
Rather than trust his morals to a monk-
Monks we all know-we, who have liv'd at home,
From fair report, and travellers, who roarm,
More feelingly-nor trust him to the gown,
'Tis oft a covering in this vile town

For base designs; ourselves have liv'd to see
More than one parson in the pillory.
Should he have brothers, (image to thy view
A scene, which, though not public made, is true)
Let not one brother be to t' other known,

Nor let his father sit with him alone.

Be all his servants female, young, and fair,
And if the pride of Nature spur thy heir
To deeds of venery, if, hot and wild,

He chance to get some score of maids with child,
Chide, but forgive him; whoredom is a crime,
Which, more at this than any other time,
Calls for indulgence, and, 'mongst such a race,
To have a bastard is some sign of grace.

Born in such times, should I sit tamely down,
Suppress my rage, and saunter through the town
As one who knew not, or who shar'd these crimes?
Should I at lesser evils point my rhymes,
And let this Giant Sin, in the full eye
Of Observation, pass unwounded by?
Though our meek wives, passive obedience taught,
Patiently bear those wrongs for which they ought,
With the brave spirit of their dams possess'd,
To plant a dagger in each husband's breast,.

[take

To cut off male increase from this fair isle,
And turn our Thames into another Nile;
Though, on his Sunday, the smug pulpiteer,
Loud 'gainst all other crimes, is silent here,
And thinks himself absolv'd, in the pretence
Of decency, which meant for the defence
Of real Virtue, and to raise her price,
Becomes an agent for the cause of Vice;
Though the Law sleeps, and through the care they
To drug her well, may never more awake;
Born in such times, nor with that patience curst
Which saints may boast of, I must speak, or burst.
But if, too eager in my bold career,
Haply I wound the nice and chaster ear,
If all unguarded, all too rude, I speak,
And call up blushes in the maiden's cheek,
Forgive, ye fair-my real motives view,
And to forgiveness add your praises too.
For you I write-nor wish a better plan,
The cause of woman is most worthy man-
For you I still will write, nor hold my hand,
Whilst there's one slave of Sodom in the land.

Let them fly far, and skulk from place to place,
Not daring to meet manhood face to face,
Their steps I'll track, nor yield them one retreat
Where they may hide their heads, or rest their feet,
Till God in wrath shall let his vengeance fall,
And make a great example of them all,
Bidding in one grand pile this town expire,
Her tow'rs in dust, her Thames a lake of fire;
Or they (most worth our wish) convinc'd, though
Of their past crimes, and dangerous estate, [late,
Pardon of women with repentance buy,
And learn to honour them, as much as I.

INDEPENDENCE.

HAPPY the bard (though few such bards we find)
Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind;
Dares, unabash'd, in ev'ry place appear,
And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear.
Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need
Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead
To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail,
When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail,
Quality, in full plumage, passes by;

He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye,
And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state,
And is above conversing with the great.

Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill, Who have conspir'd to seize that sacred hill Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain, And sunk the mountain level with the plain; Who, with mean, private views, and servile art, No spark of virtue living in their heart, Have basely turn'd apostates, have debas'd Their dignity of office, have disgrac'd, Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand, And caus'd their name to stink through all the land, Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen For the support of great but guilty men, Have made the bard, of their own vile accord, Inferior to that thing we call a lord.

What is a lord? Ďoth that plain, simple word Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard, Like an alarum-bell on Night's dull ear, Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear Than other words? Whether we will or no, Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd ge

Just at that time of life, when man by rule,
The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool,
He started up a fop, and, fond of show,
Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau.
A subject, met with only now and then,
Much fitter for the pencil than the pen;
Hogarth would draw him (envy must allow)
E'en to the life, was Hogarth living now.

With such accoutrements, with such a form,
Much like a porpoise just before a storm,
Onward he roll'd: a laugh prevail'd around,
E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound
(Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth
Himself he studied by the glass of Truth)
He join'd their mirth, nor shall the gods condemn,
If, whilst they laugh'd at him, he laugh'd at them.
Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace,
Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face,
And, from his hand receiv'd, with fair regard
Plac'd in her other scale the name of bard.

Then (for she did as judges ought to do,
She nothing of the case beforehand knew,
Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws,
Nor, basely to anticipate a cause,
Compell'd solicitors, no longer free,

To show those briefs she had no right to see)
Then she with equal hand her scales held out,
Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt;
She held her scales out fair to public view,
The lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew,
More light than air, deceitful in the weight;
The bard, preponderating, kept his state.
Reason approv'd, and with a voice, whose sound
Shook Earth, shook Heaven, on the clearest ground,
Pronouncing for the bards a full decree
Cried-"Those must honour them, who honour me;
They from this present day, where'er I reign,
In their own right, precedence shall obtain:
Merit rules here; be it enough that birth
Intoxicates, and sways the fools of Earth."

Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord,
I've forg'd a tale, or alter'd a record;
Search when you will (I am not now in sport)
You'll find it register'd in Reason's court.

Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre,
That I depreciate what I most admire;
And look on titles with an eye of scorn,
Because I was not, to a title born.

By Him that made me, I am much more proud,
More inly satisfied to have a crowd

Point at me as I pass, and cry-" That's he-
A poor, but honest bard, who dares be free
Amidst corruption," than to have a train
Of flick'ring levee-slaves, to make me vain
Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly,
And live but in the motion of my eye;
When I am less than man, my faults t'adore,
And make me think that I am something more.
Recall past times, bring back the days of old,
When the great noble bore his honours bold,
And in the face of peril, when he dar'd
Things which his legal bastard, if declar'd,
Might well discredit; faithful to his trust,
In the extremest points of justice just,
Well knowing all, and lov'd by all he knew,
True to his king, and to his country true;
Honest at court, above the baits of gain,
Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain;
Mod'rate in wealth, gen'rous but not profuse,
Well worthy riches, for he knew their use;

Possessing much, and yet deserving more;
Deserving those high honours which he wore
With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame,
Which all men paid, because he did not claim;
When the grim war was plac'd in dread array,
Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey,

Or lioness of royal whelps foredone,
In peace, as mild as the departing Sun,
A gen'ral blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd,
Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd;
Ever awake at Pity's tender call,

A father of the poor, a friend to all;

Recall such times, and from the grave bring back
A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack,
My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim,
And ev'ry Muse conspire to swell his fame,
Till Envy shall to him that praise allow,
Which she cannot deny to Temple now.

This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget,
Delighted with the task, to pay that debt,
To pay it like a man, and in his lays,
Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise.
But let not Pride and Prejudice misdeem,
And think that empty titles are my theme;
Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth,
I rev'rence virtue, but I laugh at birth.
Give me a lord that 's honest, frank, and brave,
I am his friend, but cannot be his slave;
Though none indeed but blockheads would pretend
To make a slave, where they may make a friend.
I love his virtues, and will make them known,
Confess his rank, but can't forget my own.
Give me a lord, who, to a title born,
Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn.
What, shall my pride (and pride is virtue here)
Tamely make way, if such a wretch appear?
Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee
To such a shadow of nobility,

A shred, a remnant? He might rot unknown
For any real merit of his own,

And never had come forth to public note,
Had he not worn by chance his father's coat.
To think a M- worth my least regards,

Is treason to the majesty of bards.

By Nature form'd (when for her honour's sake She something more than common strove to make, When, overlooking each minute defect,

And all too eager to be quite correct,

In her full heat and vigour she imprest
Her stamp more strongly on the favour'd breast)
The bard (nor think too lightly that I mean
Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween
Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage,
The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age,
Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse)
The real bard, whom native genius fires,
Whom every maid of Castaly inspires,
Let him consider wherefore he was meant,
Let him but answer Nature's great intent,
And fairly weigh himself with other men,
Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen,
Would in full state, like a true monarch, live,
Nor 'bate one inch of his prerogative.

Methinks I see old Wingate frowning here,
(Wingate may in the season be a peer,
Though now, against his will, of figures sick,
He 's forc'd to diet on arithmetic,

E'en whilst he envies ev'ry Jew he meets,
Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets)