THE

BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

The Subject:-Poverty and Cunning described:-When united, a jarring Couple.-Mutual Reproof-The Wife consoled by a Dream.-Birth of a Daughter.Description and Prediction of Envy:-How to be rendered ineffectual, explained in a Vision.-Simulation foretells the future Success and Triumphs of Flattery. -Her Power over various Characters and different Minds ;-over certain Classes of Men;-over Envy himself Her successful Art of softening the Evils of Life;-of changing Characters;-of meliorating Prospects, and affixing Value to Possessions, Pictures, &c. -Conclusion.

Omnia habeo, nec quicquam habeo;

Quidquid dicunt, laudo; id rursum si negant, laudo id quoque : Negat quis, nego; ait, aio:

Postremò imperavi egomet mihi

Omnia assentari.

Terent. in Eunuch.

It has been held in antient rules,
That flattery is the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to taste a bit.

Swift.

MUSE of my Spenser, who so well could sing,

The passions all, their bearings and their ties; Who could in view those shadowy beings bring, And with bold hand remove each dark disguise, Wherein love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies :

Guide him to Fairy-land, who now intends

That way his flight; assist him as he flies,

To mark those passions, virtue's foes and friends, By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.

Yes! they appear, I see the fairy-train!

And who that modest nymph of meek address? Not Vanity, though lov'd by all the vain;

Not Hope, though promising to all success; Nor Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress; Thee, sprightly syren, from this train I choose,

Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess; "Tis not in thy mild nature to refuse,

When poets ask thine aid, so oft their meed and muse.

In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain,
Dwelt, in the house of Care, a sturdy swain ;
A hireling he, who, when he till'd the soil,
Look'd to the pittance that repaid his toil;
And to a master left the mingled joy,
And anxious care that follow'd his employ:
Sullen and patient he at once appear'd,
As one who murmur'd, yet as one who fear'd;

Th' attire was coarse that cloth'd his sinewy frame, Rude his address, and Poverty his name.

In that same plain a nymph, of curious taste,
A cottage (plann'd with all her skill) had plac'd ;
Strange the materials, and for what design'd

The various parts, no simple man might find;
What seem'd the door, each entering guest withstood,
What seem'd a window was but painted wood;
But by a secret spring the wall would move,
And day-light drop through glassy door above:
"Twas all her pride, new traps for praise to lay,
And all her wisdom was to hide her way;
In small attempts incessant were her pains,
And Cunning was her name among the swains.

Now, whether fate decreed this pair should wed, And blindly drove them to the marriage-bed; Or whether love in some soft hour inclin'd The damsel's heart and won her to be kind, Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match'd pair, But both dispos'd to wed-and wed they were.

Yet, though united in their fortune, still
Their ways were diverse; varying was their will;
Nor long the maid had blest the simple man,
Before dissentions rose and she began :-

"Wretch that I am! since, to thy fortune bound, "What plan, what project with success is crown'd? "I, who a thousand secret arts possess,

"Who every rank approach with right address; "Who've loos'd a guinea from a miser's chest, "And worm'd his secret from a traitor's breast; "Thence gifts and gains collecting, great and small, "Have brought to thee, and thou consum'st them all: "For want like thine-a bog without a base"Ingulphs all gains I gather for the place; "Feeding, unfill'd; destroying, undestroy'd; "It craves for ever and is ever void :"Wretch that I am! what misery have I found, "Since my sure craft was to thy calling bound?"

'Oh! vaunt of worthless art,' the swain replied, Scowling contempt, how pitiful this pride! 'What are these specious gifts, these paltry gains, 'But base rewards for ignominious pains? 'With all thy tricking, still for bread we strive, 'Thine is, proud wretch! the care that cannot thrive; By all thy boasted skill and baffled hooks, 'Thou gain'st no more than students by their books; 'No more than I for my poor deeds am paid, 'Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid. 'Call this our need, a bog that all devours,— Then what thy petty arts, but summer-flowers,