Poetical Works | Page 9

have
something smart,
Palmer! oh! Palmer[8] tops the jaunty part.
Seated
in pit, the dwarf with aching eyes,
Looks up, and vows that Barry's[9]
out of size;
Whilst to six feet the vigorous stripling grown,
Declares
that Garrick is another Coan.[10] 50 When place of judgment is by
whim supplied,
And our opinions have their rise in pride;
When, in
discoursing on each mimic elf,
We praise and censure with an eye to
self;
All must meet friends, and Ackman[11] bids as fair,
In such a
court, as Garrick, for the chair.
At length agreed, all squabbles to
decide,
By some one judge the cause was to be tried;
But this their
squabbles did afresh renew,
Who should be judge in such a
trial:--who? 60 For Johnson some; but Johnson, it was fear'd,
Would
be too grave; and Sterne[12] too gay appear'd;
Others for Franklin[13]
voted; but 'twas known,
He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own:
For
Colman[14] many, but the peevish tongue
Of prudent Age found out
that he was young:
For Murphy[15] some few pilfering wits declared,

Whilst Folly clapp'd her hands, and Wisdom stared.
To mischief
train'd, e'en from his mother's womb,
Grown old in fraud, though yet
in manhood's bloom, 70 Adopting arts by which gay villains rise,

And reach the heights which honest men despise;
Mute at the bar, and
in the senate loud,
Dull 'mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud;

A pert, prim, prater of the northern race,[16]
Guilt in his heart, and
famine in his face,
Stood forth,--and thrice he waved his lily hand,

And thrice he twirled his tye, thrice stroked his band:--
At
Friendship's call (thus oft, with traitorous aim,
Men void of faith
usurp Faith's sacred name) 80 At Friendship's call I come, by Murphy
sent,
Who thus by me develops his intent:
But lest, transfused, the
spirit should be lost,
That spirit which, in storms of rhetoric toss'd,

Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer,
In his own words his own
intentions hear.
Thanks to my friends; but to vile fortunes born,
No
robes of fur these shoulders must adorn.
Vain your applause, no aid
from thence I draw;
Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law? 90 Twice,
(cursed remembrance!) twice I strove to gain
Admittance 'mongst the

law-instructed train,
Who, in the Temple and Gray's Inn, prepare

For clients' wretched feet the legal snare;
Dead to those arts which
polish and refine,
Deaf to all worth, because that worth was mine,

Twice did those blockheads startle at my name,
And foul rejection
gave me up to shame.
To laws and lawyers then I bade adieu,
And
plans of far more liberal note pursue. 100 Who will may be a
judge--my kindling breast
Burns for that chair which Roscius once
possess'd.
Here give your votes, your interest here exert,
And let
success for once attend desert.
With sleek appearance, and with
ambling pace,
And, type of vacant head, with vacant face,
The
Proteus Hill[17] put in his modest plea,--
Let Favour speak for others,
Worth for me.--
For who, like him, his various powers could call

Into so many shapes, and shine in all? 110 Who could so nobly grace
the motley list,
Actor, Inspector, Doctor, Botanist?
Knows any one
so well--sure no one knows--
At once to play, prescribe, compound,
compose?
Who can--but Woodward[18] came,--Hill slipp'd away,

Melting, like ghosts, before the rising day.
With that low cunning,
which in fools[19] supplies,
And amply too, the place of being wise,

Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave
To qualify the
blockhead for a knave; 120 With that smooth falsehood, whose
appearance charms,
And Reason of each wholesome doubt disarms,

Which to the lowest depths of guile descends,
By vilest means
pursues the vilest ends;
Wears Friendship's mask for purposes of spite,

Pawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
With that malignant
envy which turns pale,
And sickens, even if a friend prevail,
Which
merit and success pursues with hate,
And damns the worth it cannot
imitate; 130 With the cold caution of a coward's spleen,
Which fears
not guilt, but always seeks a screen,
Which keeps this maxim ever in
her view--
What's basely done, should be done safely too;
With that
dull, rooted, callous impudence,

Which, dead to shame and every
nicer sense,
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares,
She
blunder'd on some virtue unawares;
With all these blessings, which
we seldom find
Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind, 140 A motley

figure, of the Fribble tribe,
Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen
describe,
Came simpering on--to ascertain whose sex
Twelve sage
impannell'd matrons would perplex.
Nor male, nor female; neither,
and yet both;
Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth;
A six-foot
suckling, mincing in Its gait;
Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate;

Fearful It seem'd, though of athletic make,
Lest brutal breezes should
too roughly shake 150 Its tender form, and savage motion spread,

O'er Its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red.
Much did It talk, in Its own
pretty phrase,
Of genius and of taste, of players and of plays;
Much
too of writings, which Itself had wrote,
Of special merit, though of
little note;
For Fate, in a strange humour, had decreed
That what It
wrote, none but Itself should read;
Much, too, It chatter'd of dramatic
laws,
Misjudging critics, and misplaced applause; 160 Then, with a
self-complacent, jutting air,
It smiled,