The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one,
Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun;
Majestic light his feeble art defies,
And for presuming, robs him of his eyes.
Then blame your power, that my inferior lays
Sink far below your too exalted praise :
Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain ;
No, we're sincere,-to flatter you were vain.
You spurn at fine encomiums misapply'd,
And all perfections but your beauties hide.
Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind,
Nor frown on those you see so well inclin'd
To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and
Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.
Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell,
Have we not play'd our parts extremely well?
We think we did, but if you do complain,
We're all content to act the play again:
'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most,
And time well spent in school cannot be lost.
But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above?
We guess'd long since you all desired to move:
But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir,
Who does not take up Plautus first, and construe. †
Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play;
He who does not, i'faith he's like to stay.
* Whimsical Medley, p. 371.
+ The author appears to have intended that the vulgar pronun ciation, conster, should be here adopted.
Tho' this new method may provoke your laughter,
To act plays first, and understand them after;
We do not care, for we will have our humour,
And will try you, and you, and you, Sir, and one or
Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge; How much they've read, I'll leave you all to judge.
A parody on the popular song beginning,
"My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent."
My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent, When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went ; For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest ; Was ever a toper so merrily blest ?
But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,
Because I must go to my wife back to town;
To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear,"
And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer.
My daughter I ever was pleased to see
Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee :
My wife, too, was pleas'd, and to the child said,
Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head:
But now out of humour, I with a sour look,
Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book;
And I'll give her another; for why should she play,
Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends are away.
Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become,
That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plumb?
* Whimsical Medley, p. 333.
Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile,
While we sit carousing and drinking the while?
Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done,
Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone.
Then since it is so, bring me here a supply ;
Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.
A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY
LET me thy properties explain :
A rotten cabin, dropping rain :
Chimnies, with scorn rejecting smoke;
Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
Here elements have lost their uses,
Air ripens not, nor earth produces;
In vain we make poor Sheelah* toil,
Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
Through all the vallies, hills, and plains,
The goddess Want, in triumph reigns:
And her chief officers of state,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE. 1725.
FAR from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
Nor seen by our betters.
*The name of an Irish servant.
THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
A COMPANION with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews; Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.
You will excuse me, I suppose,
For sending rhyme instead of prose.
Because hot weather makes me lazy,
To write in metre is more easy.
While you are trudging London town,
I'm strolling Dublin up and down;
While you converse with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease,
I choose companions as I please.
I'd rather have one single shelf
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be said,
Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you're in raptures with Faustina;
I'm charm'd at home with your Sheelina.
* Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.-Dubl, ed.
While you are starving there in state,
I'm cramming here with butchers' meat.
You say, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why so can we, as well as they.
No reason then, my dear good Dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you mayn't in Ireland hope
To find such folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would share
But half the wit that you can spare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,
You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.
Our weather's good, our sky is clear;
We've every joy, if you were here;
So lofty and so bright a sky
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I shall to Quilca go;
To see M'Faden's horny brothers
First suck, and after bull their mothers;
To see, alas! my wither'd trees!
To see what all the country sees!
My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves,
My servants such a pack of thieves;
My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks,
My house in common to all folks,
No cabbage for a single snail,
My turnips, carrots, parsnips, fail;
My no green peas, my few green sprouts ;
My mother always in the pouts;
My horses rid, or gone astray;
My fish all stol'n or run away;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry starv'd, the corn all sold.
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