HAT village but has fometime feen
W The clumfy fhape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and fhagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclip'd a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you fee;
Who with her plaftic tongue alone,
Produc'd a vifage-like her own.-
And thus they hint, in myftic fashion,
The pow'rful force of education *.
Perhaps yon crowd of fwains is viewing
E'en now, the strange exploits of Bruin;
Who plays his antics, roars aloud;
The wonder of a gaping crowd!
So have I known an aukward lad,
Whose birth has made a parifh glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home;
Who gives him many a well-try'd rule,
With ways and means-to play the fool.
In fense the fame, in stature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and fwears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares.
* Of a fond matron's education.
His tenants of fuperior fenfe
Carouze, and laugh, at his expence ;
And deem the pastime I'm relating,
To be as pleasant, as bear-baiting.
The CHARMS of PRECEDence.
IR, will you please to walk before?" No, pray Sir--you are next the door.--“Upon mine honour, I'll not stir-" Sir, I'm at home, confider, Sir"Excufe me, Sir, I'll not go firft"Well, if I must be rude, I mustBut yet I wish I cou'd evade it'Tis ftrangely clownish, be perfuaded— Go forward, cits! go forward fquires! Nor fcruple each, what each admires. Life fquares not, friends, with your proceeding; It flies, while you difplay your breeding; Such breeding as one's granam preaches, Or fome old dancing-master teaches. O for fome rude tumultuous fellow, Half crazy, or, at least, half-mellow, To come behind you unawares, And fairly push you both down stairs! But death's at hand-let me advise ye, Go forward, friends! or he'll furprise ye.
Befides, how infincere you are! Do ye not flatter, lye, forfwear, And daily cheat, and weekly pray, And all for this-to lead the way?
Such is my theme, which means to prove, That, tho' we drink, or game, or love, As that or this is moft in fashion, Precedence is our ruling paffion. When college-students take degrees, And pay the beadle's endless fees, What moves that scientific body, But the first cutting at a gawdy?
And whence fuch fhoals, in bare conditions,
That starve and languifh as phyficians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot?
But that, in CHARLOT's chamber (fee
MOLIERE'S Medecin malgré lui)
The leach, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before the apothecary.
FLAVIA in vain has wit and charms,
And all that fhines, and all that warms;
In vain all human race adore her,
For-lady MARY ranks before her.
O CELIA, gentle CELIA ! tell us,
You who are neither vain, nor jealous!
The fofteft breast, the mildest mien!
Wou'd you not feel fome little spleen,
Nor bite your lip, nor furl your brow,
If FLORIMEL, your equal now,
Shou'd, one day, gain precedence of ye?
First ferv'd-tho' in a dish of coffee?
Plac'd first, altho' where you are found,
You gain the eyes of all around?
Nam'd first, tho' not with half the fame,
That waits my charming CELIA's name?
Hard fortune! barely to inspire
Our fix'd esteem, and fond defire!
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The fource of univerfal love!-
Yet be content, obferving this,
Honour's the offspring of caprice :
And worth, howe'er you have purfu'd it,
Has now no pow'r-but to exclude it.
You'll find your general reputation
A kind of fupplemental station,
Poor SWIFT, with all his worth, cou'd ne'er,
He tells us, hope to rise a peer;
So, to fupply it, wrote for fame:
And well the wit fecur'd his aim,
A common patriot has a drift,
Not quite fo innocent as SWIFT:.
In BRITAIN'S cause he rants, he labours;
"He's honeft, faith"--have patience, neighbours! For patriots may fometimes deceive,
May beg their friend's reluctant leave,
To ferve them in a higher sphere;
And drop their virtue, to get there.—
AS LUCIAN tells us, in his fashion,
How fouls put off each earthly paffion,
Ere on ELYSIUM's flow'ry ftrand,
Old CHARON fuffer'd 'em to land;
So ere we meet a court's careffes,
No doubt our fouls must change their dreffes :
And fouls there be, who, bound that way,
Attire themselves ten times a day.
If then 'tis rank which all men covet,
And faints alike and finners love it;
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along;
For which fuch fervile toils are seen,
Who's happier than a king?-a queen.
Howe'er men aim at elevation,
'Tis properly a female paffion :
Women, and beaux, beyond all measure
Are charm'd with rank's extatic pleasure.
Sir, if your drift I rightly fcan,
You'd hint a beau were not a man:
Say, women then are fond of places;
I wave all difputable cases.
A man perhaps would fomething linger,
Were his lov'd rank to cost-a finger;
Or were an ear or toe the price on't,
He might delib'rate once or twice on't;
Perhaps ask GATAKER's advice on't.
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