THE TOWN.
A SATIRE.
Oh! that I'd had in those blest Times my Birth,
E'er Coxcomb Pies, or Coxcombs were on Earth.
POPE.
By
W. KENRICK.
LONDON:
Printed for R. GRIFFITHS, at the
Dunciad,
in
Ludgate-Street.
1748.
(Price, One Shilling.)
THE TOWN.
W ISE was the Clown who, when he first descried
London,
the Seat of Vanity and Pride,
And saw the Clouds that o'er it's Turrets spread,
Gravely stood still and shook his cautious Head:
What can this mean? the Portent is not good!
See, Heav'n has mark'd it with a sulph'rous Cloud!
Some Danger's near, this Warning is not vain!
Then turn'd him back, and travell'd home again.
How happy they who never yet have known
The num'rous Follies of the noisy Town,
Where Affectation joins to low Conceit,
And fills with Coxcombs ev'ry crowded Street;
All seek intent for what is new To-day,
And Noise and Nonsense bear them all away.
At
Paulin
's,
Long
's behold the glorious Trade,
How the Fools swarm to get in Masquerade;
That's done To-night—To-morrow something new
Again with equal Appetite pursue.
To
Broughton
's see the tender Stripling goes
To hear the Battle and to see the Blows.
Some
A Placè of Resort among some Wits.
H
—'s calls, where snuffing Punsters meet,
And all the Company is plagu'd with Wit:
So great the Virtue of the strong
Rappee,
That ev'ry Pinch creates a Repartee!
Strange Power in Dust! be
H
—'s all the Gain,
Whose wond'rous Art can thus affect the Brain;
Strait let his Shop commence a publick School,
To teach the Blockhead and instruct the Fool.
'Twas here the Player took his first Degrees,
Who wrote a Farce, then help'd his Farce to please;
Here, first establish'd, was he call'd a Wit,
And since has charm'd the World with what he writ.
In vain dull Songsters
A barbarous and favourite Song on Woman, at
Vaux Hall.
Woman
's Praise rehearse,
His
Peggy
proves the mighty Power of Verse,
His
Vocal Shell,
what Shell soe'er it be,
Speaks a just Taste of senseless Poetry:
Pleas'd may the
Mrs. W-f—g—n.
Fair review each charming Line,
By her inspir'd; and think herself divine:
Yet, Oh! how mortal on a sudden grown,
To be the sing-song Ballad of the Town.
Hail, mighty
G—k,
Chief amidst the Throng,
Of leading Nonsense and of Apish Song;
To thee, with Joy, the Herd of Fools submit,
And
Curse me Fellow
's current Coin for Wit,
Thy keenest Satire bears the silliest Phrase,
And, Oh! how much unworthy of our Praise:
Pleasing the Character you set to View,
(For Fools are ever pleas'd with what is new)
The mean Infection catches thro' the Street,
And see a
A Character too much known and practis'd to need Explanation.
Fribble
ev'ry Fop we meet:
So great the
Miss in her Teens.
fav'rite Work,
so learn'd, so wise;
One Fool is lash'd, and thence lo! ten arise.
A Fool's a resolute and sturdy Beast,
And thy weak Hand but tickles him at best;
How much we owe to such a Pen as thine,
Where Blockheads with the Satyrist combine,
First taught by thee, they boast the strange Pretence,
To satire Coxcombs, while they murder Sense;
Fondly they write each other's Follies down,
And quite forget those Follies are their own.
As once a Fool beheld his antick Face,
And saw his Visage in the Magick Glass,
Surpriz'd he saw, and this Construction made,
A Man is wond'rous strange with such a Head:
Then laugh'd to view the Oddness of the Phiz,
But little thought the monstrous Picture his.
So when a Fop 'gainst Fops a Satire reads,
He smiles whene'er he thinks the Victim bleeds,
Again the Tale insensibly pursues,
And struck afresh, afresh the Smile renews.
See 'mongst the Crowd new endless Follies rise;
Whilst all for Wit contend, a glorious Prize!
Each Blockhead boasts how just his own Pretence,
And proves how much he wants of common Sense.
The spruce young Templar, or th'affected Cit,
Maintains his Title as a first-rate Wit,
Prates of the Play-house,—"I was there To-day,
"Saw the Rehearsal of a new writ Play,
"'Bout which the Manager's in Doubt perplex'd,
"To bring it out this Season, or the next."
Of all the Coxcombs that infest the Age,
None like the Politicians of the Stage,
Those Dupes to Wit, who ever boldly say
They know as much as others, wise as they.
Eternal Bablers! yet they boast to know
More than the Managers or Actors do.
Name but a Play, they've seen it o'er and o'er,
And Speeches could rehearse, if need, a Score:
Beg but the Favour they would one repeat,
Puff'd up with Vanity and loud Conceit,
With op'ning Lungs (for never they refuse
To tear the Product of a worthy Muse)
They plague your Ears, then fly the Place, or stay
To see a barb'rous Murder on a Play:
As soon I'd go to
Smithfield
's dirty Fair,
And bear the Gabbling of a stroling Player:
As soon I'd be in
James-street
Hovel seen,
Where low-liv'd 'Prentices play
Tamerlane:
Or at the
Wells,
where bawling Butchers wait,
And the fit Theme is wretched
Barnwell
's Fate:
As wou'd I go where Fools like these resort,
The Curse of Company, the Publick Sport.
Yet say what Place is free from Folly now,
Where do we lose the Fop's affected Bow,
Where doth the Dunce attentive silent sit,
Or where the Blockhead fear to trust his Wit?
At
W
—'s behold the Fools and Coxcombs there,
But Fools and Coxcombs in a higher Sphere,
There Lords and Knights fill up the crowded Room,
And Rakes polite that from the Bagnio come;
There Whisper, Nonsense, Apes, embroider'd Cloaths
Make up the sweet Society of Beaux:
Sense, scorn'd by all, the worthless House denies,
And
W
—'s remains a Box of Butterflies.
Hold, cries a Friend, that at my Elbow sits,
What meddle with the Great, you've lost your Wits!
Perchance some Lord your Verses may receive.
And when they've Money, Lords, you know, can give.
Besides, there's some may boast a good Pretence,
However strange it seem, to Wit and Sense.
Well, Sir, suppose your just Assertion true,
That some Great Man is near as wise as you;
If 'mongst the Fools,
St.
James
's Coffee-house.
St.
James
's constant Guest,
How shall we know to mark him from the rest?
But think not I wou'd e'er so meanly serve,
Shew Verses to my Lord, then hope and starve:
Such be the Fate of ev'ry rhiming Fool
Who learn'd to pen his wretched Lines at School.
Like
C
—'s self wrote Odes at Twelve to show,
Odes writ at Twelve are better Odes than now.
Dull Asses! void of Genius or of Thought,
And write (so Parrots prate) as once they're taught.
D—s
to those he had by Physick slain,
So sung to tell 'em how to rise again;
Finely describes how
Vide,
Dr.
D—s
Poem on the
Resurrection,
printed in Folio, 1747. Part 1st.
broken Members fly,
Odd Legs and Arms how bustle in the Sky:
(How vast the Genius that such Thoughts contains)
So then, if true be his prophetick Strains,
D—s
perhaps may find his scatter'd Brains.
To low Petitions can the Muses stoop!
See Invocations from a Baker's Shop.
To
Stanhope
's Name the
A wretched Poem (publish'd by Subscription by the Author) on the
Passions of Man.
Dedicated to the Earl of
Chesterfield.
mighty Work address'd,
But not by
Stanhope
's Name it's Worth confess'd:
Man's
dreadful
Passion was the
dreadful
Verse,
But
The Author of it.
R—d
's Passion was the greatest Curse.
He call'd the Muse, and begg'd her quick Relief,
In vain he call'd, for oh! the Muse was deaf.
Then down he sat and rack'd his brainless Head,
And swore to write, and writ without her Aid.
Oh! could I hope to catch th' exalted Fires
(Which drop'd from Heav'n) the sacred Muse inspires,
Glad o'er the World, the noisy World I'd fly,
And taste the various Beauties of the Sky;
I'd seek the Groves and make the Dwelling mine
Where dwell the Graces and the tuneful Nine,
There wish to live in one continu'd Day,
Where bright
Urania
sings and heavenly Muses play.
How vain the Wish! the Prospect's vanish'd quite!
New Scenes of Folly rush upon my Sight.
What loads of Paper destin'd to the Press
To bear the dull Impressions of an Ass,
Who takes th' Advantage of a senseless Age,
And cheats the Reader with a Title Page.
Of such the
An Ode inscrib'd to
Ralph Allen,
Esq
of
Bath,
for which it's conjectur'd the Author has robb'd some poor Bell-man of his yearly Verses.
solitary,
tuneless Ode,
With nought of Solitude nor ought of Good.
Cease, worthless Tribe, and give your Scribbling o'er,
If you would gain Applause then write no more;
That Maxim's taught in all our publick Schools,
That Silence is the best Recourse of Fools:
Yet how perverse ye wander from the Right,
As if you would be Blockheads out of Spight,
Whilst all your Study and your utmost Care
Is to be viler Asses than ye are:
Yet each one thinks the more a Fool he grows,
The more he has of Wit, the more he knows,
Thus of all Follies that possess the Brain,
The Coxcomb's greatest Curse is to be vain.
E'en sacred Temples are not sacred now,
For Fops and Fools intrude where'er you go,
Tho' Coxcombs ever are too vain to pray,
They go for Company, as to the Play.
See
Clody
enter in the Velvet Pew
(He comes To-day, because his Cloaths are new)
His Head he turns, his Body turns withal,
Or else the Buckle of his Hair might fall;
He coughs aloud, to tell the Ladies by
Who plagues the Church—Hem!—Ladies see—'tis I.
Now down he sits, still peeping at the Fair,
Pulls out a Mirrour to adjust his Hair,
Lays out the
Dresden,
settles ev'ry Pleat,
Each Atom's set, his Lap-Dog's scarce so neat.
But on a sudden see the Mortal grieve,
For, oh! a dreadful Spot upon his Sleeve:
Pain insupportable! too much to bear;
But Thanks to Heaven, his Cordial Drops are near;
But see he goes, and leaves each sneering Fair,
Forsakes the Bishop, and the godly Pray'r.
E'en Priests themselves just Satire cannot pass,
Nor is the Bishop free if he's an Ass.
How oft the Chaplain flies from serving God,
Strips off his Gown and turns a Man of Mode.
The low Priz'd Reader skips the Collects o'er
To get a Breakfast with a gen'rous Whore.
In Brothels see the Priest a lech'rous Swine,
Dead drunk To-night, To-morrow's a Divine.
These,
Britain,
these your pious Teachers are;
If these not all, but others boast your Care;
How many such whom senseless Learning makes
As wretched Blockheads as the others Rakes.
Hold—hold—again thus interrupts, my Friend
Stop here, good Sir, and let your Satire end:
How vain, how needless! give the Purpose o'er,
Folly's a boundless Sea without a Shore;
As the light Bark is on the Waters tost,
Thy Pen's amidst the floating Billows lost,
As soon you might the Sea's mad Wave contain,
As Folly's wide Prerogative restrain;
Nor Fops, nor Fools you ever can destroy,
For who will mind the Satire of a Boy.
Yet still in vain I curb th' unruly Pen
Still it pursues and strikes at Fools again.
But what Misfortune has the Verse befell,
Convey'd, how sudden, to the crowded Mall.
Here Folly reigns, behold her num'rous Tribe,
Which Fool, which Coxcomb shall I first describe:
Lost in the thronging Tumult of Conceit,
The Verse relents, and Satire would retreat;
But now too late, no Way is left to go,
Plac'd in between a Blockhead and a Beau:
Here doom'd to bear the vast Impertinence
Of Wretches void of Learning as of Sense.
See now a Train of Ladies sailing by,
Strait whips the double Concave to the Eye;
The Laugh, the Sneer, the Look without the Glass
Denote the Blockhead and confirm the Ass:
There stalks a Creature some might call a Man,
Playing the Monkey with a Lady's Fan:
Lo! there a blust'ring Hector from the Wars,
Behind a Row of Smock-fac'd Sons of
Mars.
Here Fools of ev'ry Kind—Fops, Rakes, and Cits
Among the rest the worst of Fools, the Wits.
Say where shall those who Sense or Thought admire,
Free, undisturb'd, amidst the Town retire.
No—Here's no Safety, here no Refuge found,
Where Nonsense rules and Vanities abound.
Behold the Stage, where
Shakespear
once could charm,
And
Rowe
with sacred Fire each Bosom warm:
E'en there low Folly finds a kind Retreat,
Whilst
Shakespear
's trod beneath the Dancer's Feet.
To what low Ebb is Taste and Judgment grown,
That Sense must need a Dance, to please the Town.
Soft
Otway
's Lines sound tedious to the Pit,
And
expectant for
A favourite Dancer.
Auretti
sit.
Blush, senseless Audience, blush to see a Play'r,
(Whose Sounds of Sense should charm th' attentive Ear)
Go silent off, or seldom more can boast
Than the poor Gall'ry's half-strain'd Praise at most:
Yet if
Auretti.
Janeton
shakes her slender Feet,
How the loud Thunder clatters thro' the Pit:
How oft we see the Hero half divine,
In noble Worth and gen'rous Passion shine
We see him fetch the last dear parting Breath,
And greatly bear the Agonies of Death.
Lo! the Scene shifts and see the Hero pass,
A mimick Sir and now is turn'd an Ass.
How ill proportion'd! what a monstrous Thing!
Thus
Abel Drugger,
a low Character of Mr.
G—k
's in
Ben. Johnson's Alchymist.
It were to be wish'd that Persons of great Abilities for the Stage (instead of being seen in the mean Characters they often are) would study and play those more suitable to their Capacities, and to the Taste of Judges of Theatrical Performances.
Nab
To-morrow swells into a King:
No Wonder Follies thus o'er-run the Stage,
Since nought but Folly takes the senseless Age;
What Shame to see, as I myself have seen,
When well-play'd
An admirable Character in
Shakespear's Merchant of Venice,
then beautifully represented by Mr.
Macklin. Jan.
1st.
Shylock
grac'd the lively Scene;
A Stage-Box Beau, who sat a finish'd Ass,
And play'd at
Peep-bo
with a Spying-Glass,
Coxcomb! such Wretches would I more despise
Than Ideots Nature ne'er intended wise:
Expell'd the House was ev'ry Fool like these,
More Men of Sense would come, less Farces please.
F
— by himself had mimick'd o'er his Tea,
For
F
— and
At least in the Character of
Punch.
Fool alike in Sound agree.
But
B—n
calls, fly thither strait my Pen,
Again he calls, the Bull-Dog barks again—
The Kennel opens—see the wretched Crew—
How base the Scene presented to the View,
Among the Boxers see my Lord and 'Squire,
All Hounds alike, for all the Pack admire.
But lo! the Curs for bloody Fight prepare,
And roaring Oaths loud bellow desp'rate War;
Whilst all the Gall'ry is in Praises lost
On him, the worthiest Cur that worries most.
So when two Mastiffs, better Dogs than they,
In
James
's Market mix the noisy Fray,
Before the snarly Fight is half begun
Lo! hooting Butchers from the Shambles run,
Redoubled Noise promotes the fav'rite Cause,
Whilst the poor Curs lose Blood and gain Applause.
But see the Kennel turn'd a publick School,
Where 'Squires and Coachmen may be Brutes by Rule:
Mufflers for those the naked Fist may fright,
For here young Lords and Puppies learn to fight.
Did
Britain
boast no better Arts than these,
Let ev'ry worthless Art in
Britain
cease,
A Boxer be the Great Man's constant Guest,
And ev'ry Man of Fortune, turn a BEAST.
FINIS.