But Delia and her nymphs, chaste sylvan queen,
By mortals prying eyes unseen, [green.
Bathe in her flood, and sport upon her borders
Here merchants, careful of their store,

By angry billows tost,
Anchor secure beneath her shore,

And bless the friendly coast.
Soon mighty fleets in all their pride
Triumphaut on her surface ride :
The busy trader on her banks appears,
An hundred different tongues she hears,
At last, with wonder and surprise,
She sees a stately city rise;
With joy the happy flood admires
The lofty domes, the pointed spires;

The porticos, magnificently great,

Where all the crowding nations meet;
The bridges that adorn her brow,

From bank to bank their ample arches stride,
Through which her curling waves in triumph glide,
And in melodious murmurs flow.
Now grown a port of high renown,
The treasure of the world her own,
Both Indies, with their precious stores,
Pay yearly tribute to her shores.
Honour'd by all, a rich, well-peopled stream,
Nor father Thames himself of more esteem.

MORAL

The power of kings (if rightly understood)
Is but a grant from Heaven of doing good;
Proud tyrants, who maliciously destroy,
And ride o'er ruins with malignant joy,
Humbled in dust, soon to their cost shall know
Heaven our avenger, and mankind their foe;
While gracious monarchs reap the good they sow:
Blessing, are bless'd; far spreads their just renown,
Consenting nations their dominion own,

And joyful happy crowds support their throne.
In vain the powers of Earth and Hell combine,
Each guardian angel shall protect that line,
Who by their virtues prove their right divine.

FABLE XIII.

THE BALD BATCHELOR:

BEING A PARAPHRASE UPON THE SECOND FABLE IN
THE SECOND BOOK OF PHEDRUS.

Frigidus in Venerem senior, frustraque laborem
Ingratum trahit : & si quando atprælia ventum est,
Ut quondam in stipulis magnus sine viribus ignis,
Incassum furit. Ergo animos ævumque notabis
Præcipuè.-
Virg. Georg. lib. iii.

A BATCHELOR, who, past his prime,
Had been a good one in his time,

Had scour'd the streets, had whor'd, got drunk,
Had fought his man, and kept his punk,
Was sometimes rich, but oftener poor,
With early duns about his door,
Being a little off his mettle,
Thought it convenient now to settle;
Grew wondrous wise at forty five,
Resolving to be grave, and thrive.
By chance he cast his roguish eye
Upon a dame who liv'd hard by;
A widow debonair and gay,
October in the dress of May;

| Artful to lay both red and white,
Skill'd in repairs, and, ev'n in spite
Of time and wrinkles, kept all tight.
But he, whose heart was apt to rove,
An arrant wanderer in love;
Besides this widow, had Miss Kitty,
Juicy and young, exceeding witty:
On her he thought, serious or gay,
His dream by night, his toast by day;
He thought, but not on her alone,
For who would be confin'd to one?
Between them both strange work he made;
Gave this a ball or masquerade;
With that, at serious ombre play'd:
The self-same compliments he spoke,
The self-same oaths he swore, he broke;
Alternately on each bestows

Frail promises and short-liv'd vows.
Variety! kind source of joy!

Without whose aid all pleasures cloy;
Without thee, who would ever prove
The painful drudgeries of love?
Without thee, what indulgent wight
Would read what we in garrets write?
But, not to make my tale perplex'd,
And keep more closely to my text;
'Tis fit the courteous reader know
This middle-aged man had been a beau.
But, above all, his head of hair
Had been his great peculiar care;
To which his serious hours he lent,
Nor deem'd the precious time mispent.
'Twas long, and curling, and jet black,
Hung to the middle of his back;
Black, did I say? Ay, once 'twas so,
But cruel Time had smok'd the beau,
And powder'd o'er his head with snow.
As an old horse that had been hard rid,
Or from his master's coach discarded,
Fore'd in a tumbril to go filler,
Or load for some poor rogue a miller;
On his grave noddle, o'er his eyes,
Black hairs and white promiscuous rise;
Which chequer o'er his reverend pate,
And prove the keffel more sedate:
So with this worthy squire it far'd,
Yet he nor time nor labour spar'd,
But, with excessive cost and pains,
Still made the best of his remains.
Each night beneath his cap he furl'd it,
Each morn in modish ringlets curl'd it;
Now made his comely tresses shine,
With orange butter, jessamine;
Then with sweet powder and perfumes
He purify'd his upper rooms.
So when a jockey brings a mare,
Or horse, or gelding, to a fair,
Though she be spavin'd, old, and blind,
With founder'd feet, and broken wind;
Yet, if he's master of his trade,
He'll curry well, and trim the jade,
To make the cheat go glibly down,
And bubble some unwary clown.
What woman made of flesh and blood,

So sweet a gallant e'er withstood?

They inclt, they yield, both, both are smitten, The good old puss, and the young kitten;

And, being now familiar grown,

Each look'd upon him as her own;

No longer talk'd of dear, or honey,
But of plain downright matrimony.
At that dread word his worship started,
And was (we may suppose) faint-hearted;
Yet, being resolv'd to change his state,
Winks both his eyes, and trusts to Fate.
But now new doubts and scruples rise,
To plague him with perplexities;
He knew not which, alas! to chuse,
This he must take, and that refuse.
As when some idle country lad
Swings on a gate, his wooden pad;
To right, to left, he spurs away,

But neither here nor there can stay;
Till, by the catch surpris'd, the lout
His journey ends, where he set out :
Ev'n so this dubious lover stray'd,
Between the widow and the maid;
And, after swinging to and fro,
Was just in æquilibrio.

Yet still a lover's warmth he shows,
And makes his visits and his bows;
Domestic grown, both here and there,
Nor Pug, nor Shock, were half so dear:
With bread and butter, and with tea,
And madam's toilet, who but he?
There fix'd a patch, or broke a comb;
At night, the widow's drawing room.
O sweet vicissitude of love!
Who would covet Heaven above,
Were men but thus allow'd to rove?
But alas! some curs'd event,
Some unexpected accident,
Humbles our pride, and shows the odds
Between frail mortals and the gods:
This by the sequel will appear
A truth most evident and clear.
As on the widow's panting breast
He laid his peaceful head to rest,
Dreaming of pleasures yet in store,
And joys he ne'er had felt before;
His grizly locks appear display'd,
In all their pomp of light and shade.
"Alas! my future spouse," said she,
"What do mine eyes astonish'd see?
Marriage demands equality.

What will malicious neighbours say,
Should I, a widow young and gay,
Marry a man both old and grey?
Those hideous hairs !"-with that a tear
Did in each crystal sluice appear;
She fetch'd a deep sigh from her heart,
As who should say, Best friends must part!
Then mus'd a while: "There is but one,
But this expedient left alone,

"

To save that dear head from disgrace;
Here, Jenny, fetch my tweaser-case.
To work then went the treacherous fair,
And grubb'd up here and there a hair:
But, as she meant not to renew
His charms, but set her own to view,
And by this foil more bright appear,
In youthful bloom when he was near,
The cunning gipsy nipt away
The black, but slily left the grey.
O Dalilah! perfidious fair!

O sex ingenious to ensare!

How faithless all your doings are!

Whom Nature form'd your lord, your guide, You his precarious power deride,

Tool of your vanity and pride.

The squire, who, thus deceiv'd, ne'er dreamt
What the deceitful traitress meant ;
Thrice kiss'd her hand, and then retir'd,

With more exalted thoughts inspir'd:

To his fair Filly next repairs,

With statelier port, and youthful airs.

"Lord! sir"--(said she)" you're mighty gay,

But I must tell you by the way,

That no brood goose was e'er so grey.

Here, let this hand eradicate

Those foul dishonours of your pate."
For she, poor thing! whose virgin heart,
Unskill'd in every female art,

In pure simplicity believ'd

His youth might this way be retriev'd;
At least his age disguis'd, and she,
From spiteful prudes, and censure free;
With earnest diligence and care,
Grubb'd by the roots each grizzled hair;
Some few black hairs she left behind,
But not one of the silver kind.

But when she saw what work she'd made,
His bald broad front, without a shade,
And all his hatchet face display'd,
With scarce six hairs upon a side,
His large out-spreading luggs to hide ;
She laugh'd, she scream'd; and Nan and Bess,
In concert laugh'd, and scream'd no less.
Home skulk'd the squire, and hid his face,
Sore smitten with the foul disgrace:
Softly he knock'd, but trusty John,
Who knew his hour was twelve, or one,
Rubb'd both his eyes, and yawn'd, and swore,
And quickly blunder'd to the door.
But starting back at this disaster,

Vow'd that old Nick had hagg'd his master:
The landlady, in sore affright,

Fell into fits, and swoon'd out-right;
The neighbourhood was rais'd, and call'd,
The maids miscarry'd, children bawl'd,
The cur, whom oft his bounty fed,
With many a scrap and bit of bread;
Now own'd him not, but in the throng
Growl'd at him as he sneak'd along.
To bed he went, 'tis true, but not
Or clos'd his eyes, or slept one jot;
Not Nisus was in such despair,
Spoil'd of his kingdom and his hair:
Not ev'n Belinda made such moan,
When her dear favourite lock was gone.
He fun'd, he rav'd, he curs'd amain,
And all his past life ran o'er again;
Damn'd every female bite to Tyburn,
From mother Eve to mother Wyburn;

Each youthful vanity abjur'd,

Whores, box and dice, and claps ill-cur'd:
And, having lost by female art
This darling idol of his heart,

Those precious locks, that might out-vie
The trim-curl'd god who lights the sky;
Resolv'd to grow devout and wise,
Or what's almost the same-precise;
Canted, and whin'd, and talk'd most odly,
Was very slovenly and godly
(For nothing makes devotion keen,
Like disappointment and chagrin):
In fine, he set his house in order,
And piously put on a border.

SOME authors, more abstruse than wise,
Friendship confine to stricter ties,
Require exact conformity,

In person, age, and quality;

Their bumours, principles, and wit,
Must, like exchequer tallies, hit.
Others, less scrupulous, opine
That hands and hearts in love may join,
Though different inclinations sway,
For Nature's more in fault than they.
Whoe'er would sift this point more fully,
May read St. Evremond and Tully;
With me the doctrine shall prevail
That 's à propos to form my tale.

Two brethren (whether twins or no
Imports not very much to know)
Together bred; as fam'd their love
As Leda's brats begot by Jove:
As various too their tempers were;
That brisk, and frolick, debonair;
This more considerate and severe.
While Bob, with diligence would pore
And con by heart his battle-door

Frank play'd at romps with John the groom,
Or switch'd his hobby round the room.
The striplings now too bulky grown,
To make dirt-pies, and lounge at home,
With aching hearts to school are sent,
Their humours still of various bent:
The silent, serious, solid boy,
Came on apace, was daddy's joy,
Construed, and pars'd, and said his part,
And got Qua-genus all by heart.
While Franky, that unlucky rogue,
Fell in with every whim in vogue,
Valued not Lilly of a straw,
A rook at chuck, a dab at taw.
His bum was often brush'd, you'll say,
'Tis true, now twice, then thrice a day :
So leeches at the breech are fed,
To cure vertigos in the head.

But, by your leave, good doctor Freind,
Let me this maxim recommend;
"A genius can't be forc'd;" nor can
You make an ape an alderman;

The patch-work doublet well may suit,
But how would furs become the brute?

Hor.

In short, the case is very plain,
When maggots once are in the brain,
Whole loads of birch are spent in vain.

Now to pursue this hopeful pair
To Oxford, and the Lord knows where,
Would take more ink than I can spare.
Nor shall I here minutely score

The volumes Bob turn d o'er and o'er,
The laundresses turn'd up by Frank,
With many a strange diverting prank;
"Twould jade my Muse, though better fed,
And kept in body-clothes and bread,

When bristles on each chin began
To sprout, the promise of a man,
The good old gentleman expir'd,
And decently to Heaven retir'd:
The brethren, at their country seat,
Enjoy'd a pleasant, snug retreat;

Their cellars and their barns well stor❜d,
And plenty smoaking on their board:
Ale and tobacco for the vicar,
For gentry sometimes better liquor.
Judicious Bob had read all o'er
Each weighty stay'd philosopher,
And therefore rightly understood
The real from th' apparent good;
Substantial bliss, intrinsic joys,
From bustle, vanity, and noise;
Could his own happiness create,
And bring his mind to his estate;
Liv'd in the same calm, easy round,
His judgment clear, his body sound;
Good humour, probity, and sense,
Repaid with peace and indolence:
While rakish Frank, whose active soul
No bounds, no principle control,
Flies o er the world where pleasure calls,
To races, masquerades, and balls;
At random roves, now here, now there,
Drinks with the gay, and toasts the fair.
As when the full-fed resty steed
Breaks from his groom, he flies with speed;
His high-arch'd neck he proudly rears,
Upon his back his tail he bears,
His main upon his shoulders curls,
O'er every precipice he whirls,
He plunges in the cooling tides,
He laves his shining pampered sides,
He snuffs the females on the plain,
And to his joy he springs amain,
To this, to that, impetuous flies,
Nor can the stud his lust suffice;
Till nature flags, his vigour spent,
With drooping tail, and nerves unbent,
The humble beast returns content,
Waits tamely at the stable door,
As tractable as e'er before.
This was exactly Franky's case;
When blood ran high he liv d apace;
But pockets drain'd, and every vein,
Look'd silly, and came home again.
At length extravagance and vice,
Whoring and drinking, box and dice,
Sunk his exchequer; cares intrude,
And duns grow troublesome and rude.
What measures shall poor Franky take
To manage wisely the last stake,
With some few pieces in his purse,
And half a dozen brats at nurse?

Pensive he walk'd, lay long a-bed,

Now bit his nails, then scratch'd his head,
At last resolv'd: "Resolv'd! on what?
There's not a penny to be got;
The question now remains alone,
Whether 'tis best to hang or drown."
"Thank you for that, good friendly Devil!
You 're very courteous, very civil;
Other expedients may be try'd,
The man is young, the world is wide,
And, as judicious authors say,

Every dog shall have his day;'
What if we ramble for a while?

Seek Fortune out, and court her smile,
Act every part in life to win her,
First try the saint, and then the sinner;
Press boldly on; slighted, pursue;
Repuls'd, again the charge renew:
Give her no rest, attend, entreat,
And stick at nothing to be great."

Fir'd with these thoughts, the youth grew vain,
Look'd on the country with disdain;
Where Virtue's fools her laws obey,
And dream a lazy life away;
Thinks poverty the greatest sin,
And walks on thorns till he begin :
But first before his brother laid

The hopeful scheme, and begg'd his aid.
Kind Bob was much abash'd, to see
His brother in extremity,
Reduc'd to rags for want of thought,
A beggar, and not worth a groat.
He griev'd full sore, gave good advice,
Quoted his authors grave and wise,

All who with wholesome morals treat us,
Old Seneca and Epictetus.

"What's my unhappy brother doing?
Whither rambling? whom pursuing?
An idle, tricking, giddy jade,

A phantom, and a fleeting shade;

;

Grasp'd in this coxcomb's arms a while,
The false jilt fawns, then a fond smile
On that she leers, he, like the rest,
Is soon a bubble and a jest ;
But live with me, just to thyself,
And scorn the bitch, and all her pelf;
Fortune 's ador'd by fools alone,
The wise man always makes his own."
But 'tis, alas! in vain t' apply
Fine sayings and philosophy,
Where a poor youth's o'erheated brain,
Is sold to interest and gain,
And pride and fierce ambition reign.
Bob found it so, nor did he strive

To work the nail that would not drive;
Content to do the best he could,
And as became his brotherhood,
Gave him what money he could spare,
And kindly paid his old arrear,
Bought him his equipage and clothes,
So thus supply'd away he goes,
For London town he mounts, as gay
As tailors on their wedding-day.

Not many miles upon the road, A widow's stately mansion stood: "What if dame Fortune should be there?" (Said Frank) " 'tis ten to one, I swear: 'll try to find her in the crowd, She loves the wealthy and the proud."

Away he spurs, and at the door
Stood gallant gentry many a score,
Penelope had never more.

Here tortur'd cats-gut squeals amain,
Guittars in softer notes complain,
And lutes reveal the lover's pain.
Frank, with a careless, easy mien,
Sung her a song, and was let in.
The rest with envy burst, to see
The stranger's odd felicity.
Low bow'd the footman at the stairs,
The gentleman at top appears:
"And is your lady, sir, at home?"
"Pray walk into the drawing room."
But here my Muse is too well bred,
To prattle what was done or said;
She lik'd the youth, his dress, his face,
His calves, his back, and every grace:
Supper was serv'd, and down they sit,
Much meat, good wine, some little wit.
The grace-cup drunk, or dance or play;
Frank chose the last, was very gay,
Had the good luck the board to strip,
And punted to her ladyship.

The clock strikes one, the gentry bow'd,
Each to his own apartment show'd;
But Franky was in piteous mood,
Slept not a wink; he raves, he dies,
Smit with her jointure and her eyes.
Restless as in a lion's den,

He sprawl'd and kick'd about till ten =
But, as he dreamt of future joys,
His ear was startled with a noise,
Six trumpets and a kettle-drum ;

Up in a hurry flies the groom,

Lord, sir! get dress'd, the colonel's come: Your horse is ready at the door,

You may reach Uxbridge, sir, by four."

Poor Franky must in haste remove,

With disappointment vex'd, and love;

To dirt abandon'd and despair,

For lace and feather won the fair.
Now for the town he jogs apace,
With leaky boots and sun-burnt face;
And, leaving Acton in his rear,
Began to breathe sulphureous air.
Arriv'd at length, the table spread,
Three bottles drunk, he reels to bed.
Next morn his busy thoughts begun,
To rise and travel with the Sun;

Whims heap'd on whims his head turn'd round,
But how dame Fortune might be found,
Was the momentous grand affair,

His secret wish, his only care.

Damme," thought Franky to himself,
"I'll find this giddy wandering elf;
I'll hunt her out in every quarter,
Till she bestow the staff or garter:
I'll visit good lord Sunderland,
Who keeps the jilt at his command;
Or else some courteous dutchess may
Take pity on a runaway."

Dress'd to a pink to court he flies,
At this levee, and that, he plies;
Bows in his rank, an humble slave,
And meanly fawns on every knave;
With maids of honour learns to chat,
Fights for this lord, and pimps for that,

Fortune he sought from place to place,
She led him still a wild-goose chase;
Always prepar'd with some excuse,
The hopeful younker to amuse;
Was busy, indispos'd, was gone
To Hampton-court, or Kensington;
And, after all her wiles and dodgings,

She slipp'd clear off, and bilk'd her lodgings.
Jaded, and almost in despair,

A gamester whisper'd in his ear; "Who would seek Fortune, sir, at court? At H-1's is her chief resort;

'Tis there her midnight hours she spends,
Is very gracious to her friends;

Shows honest men the means of thriving,
The best, good-natur'd goddess living."
Away he trudges with his rook,
Throws many a main, is bit, is broke;
With dirty knuckles, aching head,
Dsconsolate he sneaks to bed.

CANTO II.

How humble, and how complaisant,
Is a proud man reduc'd to want!
With what a silly, hanging face,
He bears his unforeseen disgrace!
His spirits flag, his pulse beats low,
The gods, and all the world his foe;
To thriving knaves a ridicule,
A butt to every wealthy fool.
For where is courage, wit, or sense,
When a poor rake has lost his pence?
Let all the learn'd say what they can,
'Tis ready money makes the man;
Commands respect wheree'er we go,
And gives a grace to all we do.
With such reflections Frank distress'd,
The horrours of his soul express'd,
Contempt, the basket, and a jail,
By turns his restless mind assail;
Aghast the dismal scene he flies,
And Death grows pleasing in his eyes:
For since his rhino was all flown,
To the last solitary crown,
Who would not, like a Roman, dare
To leave that world he could not share?
The pistol on his table lay,

And Death fled hovering o'er his prey;
There wanted nothing now to do,
But touch the trigger, and adieu.
As he was saying some short prayers,
He heard a wheezing on the stairs,
And looking out, his aunt appears ;

Who from Moorfields, breathless and lame,
To see her graceless godson came :
The salutations being past,
Coughing, and out of wind, at last
In his great chair she took her place,
"How does your brother? is my niece
Well marry'd? when will Robin settle?"
He answer'd all things to a tittle;
Gave such content in every part,
He gain'd the good old beldam's heart.
"Godson," said she, "alas! I know
Matters with you are but so-so:
You 're come to town, I understand,
To make your fortune out of hand;

Your time and patrimony lost,
To beg a place, or buy a post.

Believe me, godson, I'm your friend;
Of this great town, this wicked end
Is ripe for judgment; Satan's seat,
The sink of Sin, and Hell compleat.
In every street of trulls a troop,
And every cook-wench wears a hoop;
Sodom was less deform'd with vice,
Lewdness of all kinds, cards and dice."
Frank blush'd (which, by the way, was mor●
Than ever he had done before);

And own'd it was a wretched place,
Unfit for any child of grace.
The good old aunt o'erjoy'd to see
These glimmerings of sanctity;

"My dear," said she, " this purse is yours,

It cost me many painful hours;
Take it, improve it, and become

By art and industry a plumb.

But leave, for shame, this impious street,

All over mark'd with cloven feet;

In our more holy quarter live,

Where both your soul and stock may thrive;
Where righteous citizens repair,

And Heaven and Earth the godly share,
Gain this by jobbing, that by prayer.
At Jonathan's go smoke a pipe,
Look very serious, dine on tripe;
Get early up, late close your eyes,
And leave no stone unturn'd to rise:
Then each good day at Salter's-Hall
Pray for a blessing upon all."

Lowly the ravish'd Franky bows,
While joy sat smiling on his brows;
And without scruple, in a trice,
He took her money and advice.
Not an extravagant young heir,
Beset with duns, and in despair,
When joyful tidings reach his ear,
And dad retires by Heaven's commands,
To leave his chink to better hands;
Not wandering sailors almost lost,
When they behold the wish'd-for coast;
Not culprit when the knot is plac'd,
And kind reprieve arrives in haste;
E'er felt a joy in such excess,

As Frank reliev'd from this distress.
A thousand antic tricks he play'd,
The purse he kiss'd, swore, curs'd, and pray'd,
Counted the pieces o'er and o'er,
And hugg'd his unexpected store;

Built stately castles in the air,

Supp'd with the great, enjoy'd the fair;
Pick'd out his title and his place,

Was scarce contented with Your Grace.
Strange visions working in his head,
Frantic, half mad, he stroles to bed;
Sleeps little; if he sleeps, he dreams

Of sceptres, and of diadems.

Fortune," said he, "shall now no more Trick and deceive me as of yore: This passport shall admittance gain, In spite of all the jilt's disdain: 'Tis this the tyrant's pride disarms, And brings her blushing to my arms; This golden bough my wish shall speed, And to th' Elysian fields shall lead."