A Satire Anthology

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,That other doctors gave me over:He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,And I was likely to recover.But when the wit began to wheeze,And wine had warm’d the politician,Cured yesterday of my disease,I died last night of my physician.Matthew Prior.

TWELVE ARTICLES

ILEST it may more quarrels breed,I will never hear you read.IIBy disputing, I will never,To convince you, once endeavour.IIIWhen a paradox you stick to,I will never contradict you.IVWhen I talk, and you are heedless,I will show no anger needless.VWhen your speeches are absurd,I will ne’er object a word.VIWhen you, furious, argue wrong,I will grieve, and hold my tongue.VIINot a jest or humorous storyWill I ever tell before ye.To be chidden for explaining,When you quite mistake the meaning.VIIINever more will I suppose,You can taste my verse or prose.IXYou no more at me shall fret,While I teach and you forget.XYou shall never hear me thunder,When you blunder on, and blunder.XIShow your poverty of spirit,And in dress place all your merit;Give yourself ten thousand airs:That with me shall break no squares.XIINever will I give advice,Till you please to ask me thrice:Which if you in scorn reject,’Twill be just as I expect.Thus we both shall have our ends,And continue special friends.Jonathan Swift.

THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN’S MIND

A SET of phrases learned by rote;A passion for a scarlet coat;When at a play, to laugh or cry,Yet cannot tell the reason why;Never to hold her tongue a minute,While all she prates has nothing in it;Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,And take his nonsense all for wit.Her learning mounts to read a song,But half the words pronouncing wrong;Has every repartee in storeShe spoke ten thousand times before;Can ready compliments supplyOn all occasions, cut and dry;Such hatred to a parson’s gown,The sight would put her in a swoon;For conversation well endued,She calls it witty to be rude;And, placing raillery in railing,Will tell aloud your greatest failing;Nor make a scruple to exposeYour bandy leg or crooked nose;Can at her morning tea run o’erThe scandal of the day before;Improving hourly in her skill,To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.In choosing lace, a critic nice,Knows to a groat the lowest price;Can in her female clubs disputeWhat linen best the silk will suit,What colours each complexion match,And where with art to place a patch.If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,Can finely counterfeit a fright;So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,She ravishes all hearts to hear her.Can dexterously her husband tease,By taking fits whene’er she please;By frequent practice learns the trickAt proper seasons to be sick;Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,At once creating love and pity.If Molly happens to be careless,And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,She gets a cold as sure as death,And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;Admires how modest woman canBe so robustious, like a man.In party, furious to her power,A bitter Whig, or Tory sour,Her arguments directly tendAgainst the side she would defend;Will prove herself a Tory plain,From principles the Whigs maintain,And, to defend the Whiggish cause,Her topics from the Tories draws.Jonathan Swift.

FROM “THE LOVE OF FAME”

BEGIN. Who first the catalogue shall grace?To quality belongs the highest place.My lord comes forward; forward let him come!Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:He stands for fame on his forefathers’ feet,By heraldry proved valiant or discreet.With what a decent pride he throws his eyesAbove the man by three descents less wise!If virtues at his noble hands you crave,You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.Men should press forward in fame’s glorious chase;Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?Nothing – but merit in a low estate.To virtue’s humblest son let none preferVice, though descended from the Conqueror.Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,Slight or important, only by their place?Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;The fool or knave, that wears a title, lies.…On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,But found, at length, that it reduced his rent;His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,A choice collection – what is to be done?He sells his last, for he the whole will buy;Sells even his house – nay, wants whereon to lieSo high the generous ardor of the manFor Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,Lorenzo signed the bargain – with his mark.Unlearned men of books assume the care,As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.…The booby father craves a booby son,And by Heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone.…These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,Though satire couch them with her keenest pen)Forever will hang out a solemn face,To put off nonsense with a better grace:As perlers with some hero’s head make bold —Illustrious mark! – where pins are to be sold.What’s the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined?The body’s wisdom to conceal the mind.A man of sense can artifice disdain,As men of wealth may venture to go plain;And be this truth eternal ne’er forgot,Solemnity’s a cover for a sot.I find the fool, when I behold the screen;For ’tis the wise man’s interest to be seen.…And what so foolish as the chance of fame?How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?…Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,To gain themselves, not give the writer fame.The very best ambitiously advise,Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fryBurn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.Edward Young.

DR. DELANY’S VILLA

WOULD you that Delville I describe?Believe me, sir, I will not gibe;For who could be satiricalUpon a thing so very small?You scarce upon the borders enter,Before you’re at the very centre.A single crow can make it night,When o’er your farm she takes her flight:Yet, in this narrow compass, weObserve a vast variety;Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs,And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields,And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;All to your haggard brought so cheap in,Without the mowing or the reaping:A razor, tho’ to say’t I’m loth,Would shave you and your meadows both.Tho’ small’s the farm, yet here’s a houseFull large to entertain a mouse;But where a rat is dreaded moreThan savage Caledonian boar;For, if it’s enter’d by a rat,There is no room to bring a cat.A little rivulet seems to stealDown thro’ a thing you call a vale,Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,Like rain along a blade of leek:And this you call your sweet meander,Which might be suck’d up by a gander,Could he but force his nether billTo scoop the channel of the rill.For sure you’d make a mighty clutter,Were it as big as city gutter.Next come I to your kitchen garden,Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;And round this garden is a walk,No longer than a tailor’s chalk;Thus I compare what space is in it,A snail creeps round it in a minute.One lettuce makes a shift to squeezeUp thro’ a tuft you call your trees:And, once a year, a single rosePeeps from the bud, but never blows;In vain then you expect its bloom!It cannot blow for want of room.In short, in all your boasted seat,There’s nothing but yourself that’s GREAT.Thomas Sheridan.

THE QUIDNUNCKIS

“HOW vain are mortal man’s endeavours?(Said, at Dame Elleot’s, Master Travers)Good Orleans dead! in truth ’tis hard:Oh, may all statesmen die prepar’d!I do foresee (and for foreseeingHe equals any man in being)The army ne’er can be disbanded.I with the king was safely landed.Ah, friends, great changes threat the land!All France and England at a stand!There’s Meroweis – mark! strange work!And there’s the Czar, and there’s the Turk —The Pope – ” An Indian merchant by,Cut short the speech with this reply:“All at a stand? You see great changes?Ah, sir, you never saw the Ganges.There dwells the nation of Quidnunckis(So Monomotapa calls monkeys);On either bank, from bough to bough,They meet and chat (as we may now);Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug;And, just as chance or whim provoke them,They either bite their friends, or stroke them.There have I seen some active prig,To show his parts, bestride a twig.Lord, how the chatt’ring tribe admire!Not that he’s wiser, but he’s higher.All long to try the vent’rous thing(For power is but to have one’s swing);From side to side he springs, he spurns,And bangs his foes and friends by turns.Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces,Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces!Down the swift stream the wretch is borne,Never, ah, never to return!Zounds! what a fall had our dear brother!Morbleu! cries one, and damme, t’other.The nation gives a general screech;None cocks his tail, none claws his breech;Each trembles for the public weal,And for awhile forgets to steal.Awhile all eyes intent and steadyPursue him whirling down the eddy:But, out of mind when out of view,Some other mounts the twig anew;And business on each monkey shoreRuns the same track it ran before.”John Gay.

THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL

Is there no hope? the Sick Man said.The silent doctor shook his head,And took his leave with signs of sorrow,Despairing of his fee to-morrow.When thus the Man with gasping breath:“I feel the chilling wound of death;Since I must bid the world adieu,Let me my former life review.I grant, my bargains well were made,But all men overreach in trade;’Tis self-defence in each profession;Sure, self-defence is no transgression.The little portion in my hands,By good security on lands,Is well increased. If unawares,My justice to myself and heirsHath let my debtor rot in jail,For want of good sufficient bail;If I by writ, or bond, or deed,Reduce a family to need,My will hath made the world amends;My hope on charity depends.When I am numbered with the dead,And all my pious gifts are read,By heaven and earth ’twill then be known,My charities were amply shown.”An angel came. “Ah, friend,” he cried,“No more in flattering hope confide.Can thy good deeds in former timesOutweigh the balance of thy crimes?What widow or what orphan praysTo crown thy life with length of days?A pious action’s in thy power;Embrace with joy the happy hour.Now, while you draw the vital air,Prove your intention is sincere:This instant give a hundred pounds;Your neighbours want, and you abound.”“But why such haste?” the Sick Man whines:“Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?Perhaps I may recover still;That sum, and more, are in my will.”“Fool,” says the Vision, “now ’tis plain,Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain;From every side, with all your might,You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;And after death would fain atone,By giving what is not your own.”“Where there is life there’s hope,” he cried;“Then why such haste?” – so groaned, and died.John Gay.

SANDYS’ GHOST

OR A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID’S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITYYE Lords and Commons, men of witAnd pleasure about town,Read this, ere you translate one bitOf books of high renown.Beware of Latin authors all!Nor think your verses sterling,Though with a golden pen you scrawl,And scribble in a Berlin;For not the desk with silver nails,Nor bureau of expense,Nor standish well japanned availsTo writing of good sense.Hear how a ghost in dead of night,With saucer eyes of fire,In woful wise did sore affrightA wit and courtly squire.Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth,Like puppy tame that usesTo fetch and carry, in his mouth,The works of all the Muses.Ah, why did he write poetry,That hereto was so civil,And sell his soul for vanity,To rhyming and the devil?A desk he had of curious work,With glittering studs about;Within the same did Sandys lurk,Though Ovid lay without.Now, as he scratched to fetch up thought,Forth popped the sprite so thin,And from the key-hole bolted out,All upright as a pin,With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,And ruff composed most duly.The squire he dropped his pen full soon,While as the light burnt bluely.“Ho! Master Sam,” quoth Sandys’ sprite,“Write on, nor let me scare ye;Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right,To Budgell seek, or Carey.“I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums;Poor Ovid finds no quarter.See first the merry P – comesIn haste, without his garter.“Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights,Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers;Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s,Beat up for volunteers.“What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,Tom Burnett or Tom D’Urfey may,John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.“If Justice Philips’ costive headSome frigid rhymes disburses,They shall like Persian tales be read,And glad both babes and nurses.“Let Warwick’s muse with Ashurst join,And Ozell’s with Lord Hervey’s;Tickell and Addison combine,And Pope translate with Jervas.“Lansdowne himself, that lively lord,Who bows to every lady,Shall join with Frowde in one accord,And be like Tate and Brady.“Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;I pray where can the hurt lie?Since you have brains as well as men,As witness Lady Wortley.“Now, Tonson, ’list thy forces all,Review them, and tell noses;For to poor Ovid shall befallA strange metamorphosis;“A metamorphosis more strangeThan all his books can vapour.”“To what” (quoth squire) “shall Ovid change?”Quoth Sandys, “To waste paper.”Alexander Pope.

FROM “THE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT”

“SHUT, shut the door, good John!” fatigued I said;Tie up the knocker; say I’m sick, I’m dead.The dog-star rages! nay, ’tis past a doubt,All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out;Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,They rave, recite, and madden round the land.What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.By land, by water, they renew the charge;They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.No place is sacred, not the church is free;Ev’n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,Happy to catch me – just at dinner-time.Is there a parson much bemus’d in beer,A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,A clerk foredoom’d his father’s soul to cross,Who pens a stanza when he should engross?Is there, who, lock’d from ink and paper, scrawlsWith desperate charcoal round his darken’d walls?All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strainApply to me, to keep them mad or vain.Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,Imputes to me and my damn’d works the cause;Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.Friend to my life (which did you not prolong,The world had wanted many an idle song),What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?Or which must end me, a fool’s wrath or love?A dire dilemma – either way I’m sped;If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.Seiz’d and ty’d down to judge, how wretched I,Who can’t be silent, and who will not lie.To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.I sit with sad civility; I readWith honest anguish, and an aching head,And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years.”“Nine years!” cries he, who high in Drury Lane,Lull’d by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,Oblig’d by hunger, and request of friends:“The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why take it;I’m all submission; what you’d have it, make it.”Three things another’s modest wishes bound,My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.Pitholeon sends to me: “You know his grace.I want a patron: ask him for a place.”Pitholeon libell’d me. “But here’s a letterInforms you, sir, ’twas when he knew no better.Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine;He’ll write a journal, or he’ll turn divine.”Bless me! a packet. “’Tis a stranger sues,A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.”If I dislike it, “Juries, death, and rage!”If I approve, “Commend it to the stage.”There (thank my stars!), my whole commission ends;The players and I are luckily no friends.Fir’d that the house reject him, “’Sdeath! I’ll print it,And shame the fools. Your interest, sir, with Lintot.”“Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much.”“Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.”All my demurs but double his attacks;At last he whispers, “Do, and we go snacks.”Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door:“Sir, let me see your works and you no more!”Alexander Pope.

THE THREE BLACK CROWS

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,One took the other briskly by the hand;“Hark-ye,” said he, “’tis an odd story, this,About the crows!” “I don’t know what it is,”Replied his friend. “No! I’m surprised at that;Where I came from it is the common chat;But you shall hear – an odd affair indeed!And that it happened, they are all agreed.Not to detain you from a thing so strange,A gentleman, that lives not far from ’Change,This week, in short, as all the alley knows,Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.”“Impossible!” “Nay, but it’s really true;I have it from good hands, and so may you.”“From whose, I pray?” So, having named the man,Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.“Sir, did you tell” – relating the affair.“Yes, sir, I did; and, if it’s worth your care,Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me.But, by the bye, ’twas two black crows – not three.”Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went;“Sir” – and so forth. “Why, yes; the thing is fact,Though, in regard to number, not exact;It was not two black crows – ’twas only one;The truth of that you may depend upon;The gentleman himself told me the case.”“Where may I find him?” “Why, in such a place.”Away goes he, and, having found him out,“Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.”Then to his last informant he referred,And begged to know if true what he had heard.“Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?” “Not I.”“Bless me! how people propagate a lie!Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one;And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none.Did you say nothing of a crow at all?”“Crow – crow – perhaps I might, now I recallThe matter over.” “And pray, sir, what was’t?”“Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,Something that was – as black, sir, as a crow.”John Byrom.

AN EPITAPH

A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes;She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil (sometimes);Her figure was good; she had very fine eyes,And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise.Her adorers were many, and one of them said“She waltzed rather well – it’s a pity she’s dead.”George John Cayley.

AN EPISTLE TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE

WHILE at the helm of State you ride,Our nation’s envy, and its pride;While foreign courts with wonder gaze,And curse those counsels that they praise;Would you not wonder, sir, to viewYour bard a greater man than you?Which that he is, you cannot doubt,When you have read the sequel out.You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,No great analogy betweenGreatness and happiness is seen.If, then, as it might follow straight,Wretched to be, is to be great,Forbid it, gods, that you should tryWhat ’tis to be so great as I!The family that dines the latestIs in our street esteem’d the greatest;But latest hours must surely fall’Fore him who never dines at all.Your taste in architect, you know,Hath been admired by friend and foe;But can your earthly domes compareWith all my castles – in the air?We’re often taught, it doth behove usTo think those greater who’re above us;Another instance of my glory,Who live above you, twice two story,And from my garret can look downOn the whole street of Arlington.Greatness by poets still is paintedWith many followers acquainted;This, too, doth in my favour speak;Your levée is but twice a week;From mine I can exclude but one day —My door is quiet on a Sunday.Nor in the manner of attendanceDoth your great bard claim less ascendance;Familiar, you to admirationMay be approached by all the nation;While I, like the Mogul in Indo,Am never seen but at my window.If with my greatness you’re offended,The fault is easily amended;For I’ll come down, with wondrous ease,Into whatever place you please.I’m not ambitious; little mattersWill serve us, great but humble creatures.Suppose a secretary o’ this isle,Just to be doing with a while;Admiral, general, judge, or bishop —Or I can foreign treaties dish up.If the good genius of the nationShould call me to negotiation,Tuscan and French are in my head;Latin I write, and Greek – I read.If you should ask, What pleases best?To get the most, and do the least.What fittest for? You know, I’m sure:I’m fittest for – a sinecure.Henry Fielding.

THE PUBLIC BREAKFAST

NOW my lord had the honour of coming downpost,To pay his respects to so famous a toast,In hopes he her ladyship’s favour might win,By playing the part of a host at an inn.I’m sure he’s a person of great resolution,Though delicate nerves and a weak constitution;For he carried us all to a place ’cross the river,And vowed that the rooms were too hot for his liver.He said it would greatly our pleasure promote,If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat.I never as yet could his reason explain,Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain;For sure such confusion was never yet known;Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown;While his lordship, embroidered and powdered all o’er,Was bowing, and handing the ladies ashore.How the Misses did huddle, and scuddle, and run!One would think to be wet must be very good fun;For by waggling their tails, they all seemed to take painsTo moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains.And ’twas pretty to see how, like birds of a feather,The people of quality flocked all together;All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond,Just the same as these animals are in a pond.You’ve read all their names in the news, I suppose,But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes:There was Lady Greasewrister,And Madam Van-Twister,Her ladyship’s sister;Lord Cram, and Lord Vulter,Sir Brandish O’Culter,With Marshal Carouzer,And old Lady Mouzer,And the great Hanoverian Baron Panzmowzer;Besides many others, who all in the rain went,On purpose to honour this great entertainment.The company made a most brilliant appearance,And ate bread and butter with great perseverance;All the chocolate, too, that my lord set before ’em,The ladies despatched with the utmost decorum.Soft musical numbers were heard all around,The horns and the clarions echoing sound.Sweet were the strains, as odourous gales that blowO’er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses grow.The peer was quite ravish, while close to his sideSat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride.Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture surveyedAll the powerful charms she so nobly displayed;As when at the feast of the great Alexander,Timotheus, the musical son of Thersander,Breathed heavenly measures.The prince was in pain,And could not contain,While Thais was sitting beside him;But, before all his peers,Was for shaking the spheres,Such goods the kind gods did provide him.Grew bolder and bolder,And cocked up his shoulder,Like the son of great Jupiter Ammon,Till at length, quite opprest,He sunk on her breast,And lay there, as dead as a salmon.Oh, had I a voice that was stronger than steel,With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel,And as many good mouths, yet I never could utterAll the speeches my lord made to Lady Bunbutter!So polite all the time, that he ne’er touched a bit,While she ate up his rolls and applauded his wit;For they tell me that men of true taste, when they treat,Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat;And if that be the fashion, I never will giveAny grand entertainment as long as I live;For I’m of opinion, ’tis proper to cheerThe stomach and bowels as well as the ear.Nor me did the charming concerto of AbelRegale like the breakfast I saw on the table;I freely will own I the muffins preferredTo all the genteel conversation I heard.E’en though I’d the honour of sitting betweenMy Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen,Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine.Cries Peggy: “This place is enchantingly pretty;We never can see such a thing in the city.You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton Street,And never so civil a gentleman meet;You may talk what you please, you may search London through,You may go to Carlisle’s, and to Almack’s, too,And I’ll give you my head if you find such a host,For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast.How he welcomes at once all the world and his wife,And how civil to folks he ne’er saw in his life!”“These horns,” cries my lady, “so tickle one’s ear,Lord! what would I give that Sir Simon was here!To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go,For I find here are folks one may venture to know.Sir Simon would gladly his lordship attend,And my lord would be pleased with so cheerful a friend.”So, when we had wasted more bread at a breakfastThan the poor of our parish have ate for this week past,I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throngCome bustling, and rustling, and jostling along;For his lordship was pleased that the company nowTo my Lady Bunbutter should courtesy and bow;And my lady was pleased, too, and seemed vastly proudAt once to receive all the thanks of a crowd.And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adoredThis beautiful image set up by my lord,Some few insignificant folk went away,Just to follow the employments and calls of the day;But those who knew better their time how to spend,The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend.Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a cotillion,Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postilion;All the while her mamma was expressing her joyThat her daughter the morning so well could employ.Now, why should the Muse, my dear mother, relateThe misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great?As homeward we came, ’tis with sorrow you’ll hearWhat a dreadful disaster attended the peer;For whether some envious god had decreedThat a naiad should long to ennoble the breed,Or whether his lordship was charmed to beholdHis face in the stream, like Narcissus of old,In handing old Lady B – and daughter,This obsequious lord tumbled into the water;But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the boat,And I left all the ladies a-cleaning his coat.Christopher Anstey.

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