We rise; our beards demand the barber's art;
A female enters, and performs the part:
The weighty golden chain adorns her neck,
And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck:
Smooth o'er our chin her easy fingers move,
Soft as when Venus strok'd the beard of Jove.
Now from the steep, 'midst scatter'd cots and
groves;
Our eye through Honiton's fair valley roves;
Behind us soon the busy town we leave,
Where finest lace industrious lasses weave.
Now swelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load
Stream'd down our hats, and smok'd along the
When (O blest sight!) a friendly sign we spied,
Our spurs are slacken'd from the horses' side;
For sure a civil host the house commands,
Upon whose sign this courteous motto stands,
'This is the ancient Hand, and eke the Pen;
Here is for horses hay, and meat for men.'
How rhyme would flourish, did each son of fame
Know his own genius, and direct his flame!
Then he that could not epic flights rehearse,
Might sweetly mourn in elegiac verse.
But were his Muse for elegy unfit,
Perhaps a distich might not strain his wit:
If epigram offend, his harmless lines
Might in gold letters swing on alehouse signs:
Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays,
And Tothill-fields record his simple lays;
Where rhymes like these might lure the nurses'
While gaping infants squall for farthing pies! Treat here, ye shepherds blithe! your damsels sweet,
For pies and cheesecakes are for damsels meet: Then Maurus in his proper sphere might shine, And these proud numbers grace great William's sign;
'This is the man, this the Nassovian1, whom
I nam'd the brave Deliverer to come.'
But now the driving gales suspend the rain,
We mount our steeds, and Devon's city gain.
Hail, happy native land!— but I forbear
What other counties must with envy hear.
RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.
PULTENEY! methinks you blame my breach of word;
What, cannot Paris one poor page afford?
Yes, I can sagely, when the times are past,
Laugh at those follies which I strove to taste,
4 Blackmore's Prince Arthur, Book V.
And each amusement, which we shar'd, review;
Pleas'd with mere talking, since I talk to you.
But how shall I describe, in humble prose,
Their balls, assemblies, operas, and beaux?
'In prose! (you cry) oh! no; the Muse must aid,
And leave Parnassus for the Tuilleries' shade.
Shall he (who late Britannia's city trod,
And led the draggled Muse, with pattens shod,
Through dirty lanes' and alleys' doubtful ways)
Refuse to write, when Paris asks his lays?'
Well, then, I'll try. Descend, ye beauteous
Nine !
In all the colours of the rainbow shine;
Let sparkling stars your neck and ear adorn,
Lay on the blushes of the crimson morn,
So may ye balls and gay assemblies grace,
And at the opera claim the foremost place.
Travellers should ever fit expression choose, Nor with low phrase the lofty theme abuse. When they describe the state of eastern lords, Pomp and magnificence should swell their words, And when they paint the serpent's scaly pride, Their lines should kiss, their numbers smoothly slide:
But they, unmindful of poetic rules,
Describe alike Macaws and great Moguls. Dampier would thus, without ill-meaning satire, Dress forth, in simple style, the petit-maitre: 'In Paris there's a race of animals, (I've seen them at their operas and balls)
They stand erect, they dance whene'er they walk,
Monkeys in action, paroquets in talk;
They're crown'd with feathers, like the cockatoo,
And, like chameleons, daily change their hue:
From patches justly plac'd they borrow graces,
And with vermilion lacker o'er their faces.
This custom, as we visibly discern,
They by frequenting ladies' toilettes learn.'
Thus might the traveller easy truth impart.
Into the subject let me nobly start.
How happy lives the man, how sure to charm,
Whose knot embroider'd flutters down his arm!
On him the ladies cast the yielding glance,
Sigh in his songs, and languish in his dance;
While wretched is the wit, contemn'd, forlorn,
Whose gummy hat no scarlet plumes adorn ;
No 'broider'd flowers his worsted ankle grace,
Nor cane emboss'd with gold directs his pace;
No lady's favour on his sword is hung:
What though Apollo dictate from his tongue?
His wit is spiritless and void of grace,
Who wants the assurance of brocade and lace.
While the gay fop genteelly talks of weather,
The fair in raptures dote upon his feather;
Like a court lady though he write and spell,
His minuet step was fashion'd by Marcell : 1
He dresses, fences. What avails to know?
For women choose their men, like silks, for show.
1 A famous dancing-master.
'Is this the thing, (you cry) that Paris boasts?
Is this the thing renown'd among our toasts?
For such a fluttering sight we need not roam;
Our own assemblies shine with these at home.'
Let us into the field of beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warm'd my heart.
Think not, ye Fair! that I the sex accuse:
How shall I spare you, prompted by the Muse?
(The Muses all are prudes) she rails, she frets,
Admidst this sprightly nation of coquettes;
Yet let not us their loose coquetry blame;
Women of every nation are the same.
You ask me if Parisian dames, like ours,
With rattling dice profane the Sunday's hours?
If they the gamester's pale-ey'd vigils keep,
And stake their honour while their husbands sleep?
Yes, Sir; like English toasts, the dames of France
Will risk their income on a single chance.
Nanette last night at tricking Pharaoh play'd,
The cards the taillier's sliding hand obey'd;
To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.
Why does old Chloris an assembly hold?
Chloris each night divides the sharper's gold;
Corinna's cheek with frequent losses burns,
And no bold trente la va her fortune turns.
Ah! too rash virgin! where's thy virtue flown?
She pawns her person for the sharper's loan,
Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid,
Whose debts of honour are so duly paid?
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