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WHAT village but has sometime feen
The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and shagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclip'd a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you see;
Who with her plastic tongue alone,
Produc'd a visage-like her own.-
And thus they hint, in mystic 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 parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind manma at home;
Who gives him many a well-try'd rule,
With ways and means—to play the fool.
In sense the fame, in stature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and swears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares
His * Of a fond matron's education.
His tenants of superior sense
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, consider, Sir
Excuse me, Sir, I'll not go first”-
Well, if I must be rude, I must-
But yet I wish I cou'd evade it-
'Tis strangely clownish, be persuaded
Go forward, cits ! go forward squires !
Nor scruple each; what each admires.
Life squares not, friends, with your proceeding i
It flies, while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or fome old dancing-master teaches,
O for some 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 handlet me advise
ye, Go forward, friends! or he'll surprise ye,
Besides, how insincere you are !
Do ye not Matter, lye, forswear,
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 most in fashion,
Precedence is our ruling passion.
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 such shoals, in bare conditions,
That starve and languish as physicians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot ?
But that, in CHARLOT's chamber (see
Moliere's Medecin malgre lui)
The leach, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before the apothecary.
Flavia in vain has wit and charms,
And all that shines, 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 foftest 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 sery'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 desire !
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The source of universal love!
Yet be content, observing this,
Honour's the offspring of caprice :
And worth, howe'er you have pursu'd it,
Has now no pow'r-but to exclude it,
You'll find your general reputation
A kind of supplemental station,
Poor Swift, with all his worth, cou'd ne'er,
He tells us, hope to rise a peer;
So, to supply it, wrote for fame;
And well the wit secur'd his aim.
A common patriot has a drift,
Not quite so innocent as Swift:
In BRITAIN's cause he rants, he labours ;
“He's honest, faith”--have patience, neighbours!
For patriots may sometimes deceive,
May beg their friend's reluctant leave,
To serve them in a higher sphere;
And drop their virtue, to get there.-
As Lucian tells us, in his fashion,
How souls put off each earthly passion,
Ere on Elysium's flow'ry strand,
Old CHARON suffer'd 'em to land ;
So ere we meet a court's caresses,
No doubt our souls must change their dresses :
And souls there be, who, bound that way,
Attire themselves ten times a day,
If then 'tis rank which all men covet,
And saints alike and sinners love it ;
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along ;
For which such servile toils are seen,
Who's happier than a king ?-- a queen,
Howe'er men aim at elevation,
'Tis properly a female passion :
Women, and beaux, beyond all measure
Are charm'd with rank's extatic pleasure.
Sir, if your drift I rightly scan,
You'd hint a beau were not a man:
Say, women then are fond of places;
I wave all disputable cases.
A man perhaps would something linger,
Were his lov'd rank to coft-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.