Poetical Works. Charles Churchill

       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, It smirk'd, It wriggled to the chair;

       And, with an awkward briskness not Its own,

       Looking around, and perking on the throne,

       Triumphant seem'd; when that strange savage dame,

       Known but to few, or only known by name,

       Plain Common-Sense appear'd, by Nature there

       Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair,

       The pageant saw, and, blasted with her frown,

       To Its first state of nothing melted down. 170

       Nor shall the Muse, (for even there the pride

       Of this vain nothing shall be mortified)

       Nor shall the Muse (should Fate ordain her rhymes,

       Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after-times)

       With such a trifler's name her pages blot;

       Known be the character, the thing forgot:

       Let It, to disappoint each future aim,

       Live without sex, and die without a name!

       Cold-blooded critics, by enervate sires

       Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires 180

       Glimmer'd their last; whose sluggish blood,