CLAD ALL IN BROWN. TO DICK.
IMITATED FROM CQWLEY.
FOULEST brute that stinks below,
Why in this brown doft thou appear?
For would'ft thou make a fouler show,
Thou must go naked all the year.
Fresh from the mud a wallowing fow
Would then be not fo brown as thou.
"Tis not the coat that looks fo dun,
His hide emits a foulness out;
Not one jot better looks the fun
Seen from behind a dirty clout:
So t-ds within a glass inclofe,
The glass will feem as brown as those.
Thou now one heap of foulnefs art,
All outward and within is foul;
Condensed filth in every part,
Thy body's cloathed like thy foul
Thy foul, which through thy hide of buft
Scarce glimmers like a dying fnuff.
Old carted bawds fuch garments wear,
When pelted all with dirt they shine;
Such their exalted bodies are,
As fhrivel'd and as black as thine.
If thou wert in a cart, I fear
Thou would't be pelted worse than they're.
Yet, when we see thee thus array'd,
The neighbours think it is but juft,
That thou should'st take an honeft trade,
And weekly carry out the dust.
Of cleanly houses who will doubt,
When Dick cries, "Duft to carry out?"
DICK'S VARIETY.
DULL uniformity in fools
I hate, who gape and fneer by rules.
You, Mullinix, and flobbering C
Who every day and hour the fame are;
That vulgar talent I despise
Of piffing in the rabble's eyes.
And when I liften to the noise
Of ideots roaring to the boys;
To better judgment ftill fubmitting,
I own I fee but little wit in;
Such paftimes, when our tafte is nice,
Can please at most but once or twice.
But then confider, Dick, you'll find
His genius of fuperior kind;
He never muddles in the dirt,
Nor fcowers the streets without a fhirt;
Though Dick, I dare prefume to say,
Could do fuch feats as well as they.
Dick I could venture every where,
Let the boys pelt him if they dare,
He'd have them try'd at the affizes
For priests and jefuits in disguises;
Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender,
And lifting troops for the Pretender.
But Dick can fart, and dance, and frifk,
No other monkey half fo brifk;
Now has the speaker by the ears,
Next moment in the house of peers;
Now fcolding at my lady Euftace,
Or thrashing Baby in her new ftays.
Prefto! be gone! with t'other hop
He's powdering in a barber's fhop;
Now at the anti-chamber thrusting
His nose to get the circle juft in,
And d-ns his blood, that in the rear
He fees one fingle Tory there:
Then, woe to be my lord lieutenant,
Again he'll tell him, and again on 't.
GRAVE RAVE Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pafs,
That you, who know mufic no more than an afs; That you, who fo lately were writing of Drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers ? To act fuch an opera once in a year,
So offenfive to every true Proteftant ear,
With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and finging,
Will fure the Pretender and Popery bring in.
No Proteftant Prelate, his Lordfhlp or Grace,
Durft there shew his Right or Moft Reverend face:
How would it pollute their crofiers and rochets !
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets.
[ The reft is wanting. ]
S a thorn-bush, or oaken-bough,
Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow,
Above the door, or country-fair,
Betokens entertainment there ;
So bays on poets' brows have been
Set, for a fign of wit within.
And, as ill neighbours in the night
Pull down an ale-house bush for fpite;
The laurel fo, by poets worn,
Is by the teeth of Envy torn;
Envy, a canker-worm, which tears
Those facred leaves that lightning fpares.
And now t' exemplify this moral:
Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel,
(Which, measur'd on his head, was found
Not long enough to reach half round,
But, like a girl's cockade, was ty'd,
A trophy, on his temple-fide)
⚫ Dr. Sheridan was publisher of the "Intelligencer," a weekly paper, written principally by himself; but Dr. Swift occafionally fupplied him with a letter. Dr. Delany, piqued at the approbation thofe papers received, attacked them violently both in conversation and in print; but unfortunately ftumbled on fome of the numbers which the Dean had written, and all the world admired; which gave rife to these verses.
Paddy repin'd to see him wear
This badge of honour in his hair
And, thinking this cockade of wit
Would his own temples better fit,
Forming his Mufe by Smedley's model,
Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle,
Pelts him by turns with verfe and profe,
Hums like a hornet at his nofe,
At length prefumes to vent his fatire on
The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron.
The eagle, in the tale, ye know,
Teaz'd by a buzzing wafp below,
Took wing to Jove, and hop'd to rest
Securely in the thunderer's breaft:
In vain; even there, to spoil his nod,
The fpiteful infect ftung the god.
CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY.
Written in Latin by himself.
THE very reverend Dean Smedley,
Of dullness, pride, conceit, a medley,
Was equally allow'd to fhine
As poet, scholar, and divine;
With godliness could well difpenfe,
Would be a rake, but wanted sense;
Would ftrictly after Truth enquire,
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
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