And, left the fulfome artifice fhould fail,
Themselves will hide its coarseness with a veil.
Not more industrious are the just and true
To give to virtue what is virtue's due-
The praise of wisdom, comelinefs, and worth;
And call her charms to public notice forth-
Than vice's mean and difingenuous race
To hide the shocking features of her face,
Her form with drefs and lotion they repair;
Then kifs their idol, and pronounce her fair,
The facred implement I now employ
Might prove a mischief, or at best a toy;
A trifle, if it move but to amuse:
But, if to wrong the judgment and abuse,
Worfe than a poignard in the baseft hand,
It ftabs at once the morals of a land.
Ye writers of what none with fafety reads,
Footing it in the dance that fancy leads:
Ye novelists, who mar what ye would mend,
Sniv'ling and driv'ling folly without end;
Whofe correfponding miffes fill the ream
With fentimental frippery and dream,
Caught in a delicate foft filken net
By fome lewd earl, or rake-hell baronet:
Ye pimps, who, under virtue's fair pretence,
Steal to the closet of young innocence,
And teach her, unexperienc'd yet and
To fcribble as you scribbled at fifteen;
Who, kindling a combuftion of defire,
With fome cold moral think to quench the fire;
Though all your engineering proves in vain,
The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again:
Oh that a verse had pow'r, and could command
Far, far away, these flesh-flies of the land;
Who fasten without mercy on the fair,
And fuck, and leave a craving maggot there.
Howe'er disguis'd th' inflammatory tale,
And covered with a fine-spun fpecious veil;
Such writers, and fuch readers, owe the gust
And relish of their pleasure all to luft.
But the mufe, eagle-pinion'd, has in view
A quarry more important still than you;
Down, down the wind fhe fwims, and fails away;
Now stoops upon it, and now grafps the prey.
Petronius! all the mufes weep for thee;
But ev'ry tear shall scald thy memory:
The graces, too, while virtue at their fhrine
Lay bleeding under that foft hand of thine,
Felt each a mortal ftab in her own breast,
Abhorr'd the facrifice, and curs'd the priest.
Thou polish'd and high-finifh'd foe to truth,
Gray-beard corrupter of our lift'ning youth,
To purge and skim away the filth of vice,
That, fo refin'd, it might the more entice,
Then pour it on the morals of thy fon,
To taint his heart, was worthy of thine own!
Now, while the poifon all high life pervades,
Write, if thou can'ft, one letter from the fhades;
One, and one only, charg'd with deep regret
That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet ;
One fad epiftle thence may cure mankind
Of the plague spread by bundles left behind.
'Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears,
Our most important are our earliest years;
The mind, impreffible and foft, with ease
Imbibes and copies what she hears and fees,
And through life's labyrinth holds faft the clue
That education gives her, falfe or true.
Plants rais'd with tenderness are feldom strong;
Man's coltish difpofition afks the thong;
And, without discipline, the fav'rite child,
Like a neglected forefter, runs wild.
But we, as if good qualities would grow
Spontaneous, take but little pains to fow;
We give fome Latin, and a fmatch of Greek;
Teach him to fence and figure twice a week;
And, having done, we think, the best we can,
Praise his proficiency, and dub him man.
From school to Cam or Ifis, and thence home; And thence, with all convenient speed, to Rome,
With rev'rend tutor, clad in habit lay,
To teafe for cafh, and quarrel with, all day;
With memorandum-book for ev'ry town,
And ev'ry post, and where the chaife broke down;
His ftock, a few French phrafes got by heart;
With much to learn, but nothing to impart,
The youth, obedient to his fire's commands,
Sets off a wand'rer into foreign lands.
Surpris'd at all they meet, the gofling pair,
With awkward gait, ftretch'd neck, and filly ftare,
Discover huge cathedrals, built with ftone,
And steeples tow'ring high, much like our own;
But fhow peculiar light by many a grin
At popish practices obferv'd within.
Ere long, fome bowing, fmirking, smart abbé,
Remarks two loit'rers that have loft their way;
And, being always prim'd with politesse
For men of their appearance and address,
With much compassion undertakes the task
To tell them-more than they have wit to ask:
|