EPISTLE TO THE READER.
AUTHORS, you know, of greatest fame,
Through modesty suppress their name;
And would you wish me to reveal
What these superior wits conceal!
Forego the search, my curious friend,
And husband time to better end.
All my ambition is, I own,
To profit and to please unknown;
Like streams supply'd from springs below,
Which scatter blessings as they flow.
Were you diseas'd, or press'd with pain,
Straight you'd apply to Warwick-lane ;*
The thoughtful doctor feels your pulse
(No matter whether Mead or Hulse),
Writes-Arabic to you and me,-
Then signs his hand, and takes his fee.
Now, should the sage omit his name,
Would not the cure remain the same?
Not but physicians sign their bill,
Or when they cure, or when they kill.
'Tis often known the mental race
Their fond ambitious sires disgrace.
Dar'd I avow a parent's claim,
Critics might sneer, and friends might blame.
This dang'rous secret let me hide,
I'll tell you every thing beside.
Not that it boots the world a tittle,
Whether the author's big or little;
Or whether fair, or black, or brown;
No writer's hue concerns the town.
I pass the silent rural hour,
No slave to wealth, no tool to pow'r.
* College of Physicians.
My mansion 's warm, and very neat;
You'd say a pretty snug retreat.
My rooms no costly paintings grace,
The humbler print supplies their place.
Behind the house my garden lies,
And opens to the southern skies:
The distant hills gay prospects yield,
And plenty smiles in ev'ry field.
The faithful mastiff is my guard,
The feather'd tribes adorn my yard;
Alive my joy, my treat when dead,
And their soft plumes improve my bed.
My cow rewards me all she can
(Brutes leave ingratitude to man),
She, daily thankful to her lord,
Crowns with nectareous sweets my board.
Am I diseas'd?-the cure is known,
Her sweeter juices mend my own.
I love my house, and seldom roam,
Few visits please me more than home.
I pity that unhappy elf
Who loves all company but self,
By idle passions borne away
To op'ra, masquerade, or play;
Fond of those hives where Folly reigns,
And Britain's peers receive her chains;
Where the pert virgin slights a name,
And scorns to redden into shame.
But know, my fair (to whom belong
The poet and his artless song)
When female cheeks refuse to glow,
Farewell to virtue here below.
Our sex is lost to every rule,
Our sole distinction, knave or fool.
'Tis to your innocence we run;
Save us, ye fair, or we 're undone;
Maintain your modesty and station,
So women shall preserve the nation.
Mothers, 'tis said, in days of old
Esteem'd their girls more choice than gold:
Too well a daughter's worth they knew,
To make her cheap by public view
(Few, who their diamonds' value weigh,
Expose those diamonds ev'ry day):
Then, if Sir Plume drew near, and smil'd,
The parent trembled for her child:
The first advance alarm'd her breast;
And fancy pictur'd all the rest.
But now no mother fears a foe,
No daughter shudders at a beau.
Pleasure is all the reigning theme,
Our noon-day thought, our midnight dream.
In Folly's chase our youths engage,
And shameless crowds of tott'ring age.
The die, the dance, th' intemp'rate bowl
With various charms engross the soul.
Are gold, fame, health, the terms of vice?
The frantic tribes shall pay the price.
But though to ruin post they run,
They'll think it hard to be undone.
Do not arraign my want of taste,
Or sight to ken where joys are plac'd.
They widely err, who think me blind,
And I disclaim a Stoic's mind.
Like yours are my sensations quite;
I only strive to feel aright.
My joys, like streams, glide gently by,
Though small their channel, never dry;
Keep a still, even, fruitful wave,
And bless the neighb'ring meads they lave.
My fortune (for I'll mention all,
And more than you dare tell) is small;
Yet ev'ry friend partakes my store,
And want goes smiling from my door.
Will forty shillings warm the breast
Of worth or industry distress'd?
This sum I cheerfully impart;
'Tis fourscore pleasures to my heart.
And you may make by means like these,
Five talents ten, whene'er you please.
'Tis true, my little purse grows light;
But then I sleep so sweet at night!
This grand specific will prevail,
When all the doctor's opiates fail.
You ask, What party I pursue? Perhaps you mean, Whose fool are you?' The names of party I detest,
Badges of slavery at best!
I've too much grace to play the knave,
And too much pride to turn a slave,
I love my country from my soul,
And grieve when knaves or fools control.
I'm pleas'd when vice and folly smart,
Or at the gibbet or the cart:
Yet always pity, where I can,
Abhor the guilt, but mourn the man.
Now the religion of your Poet-
Does not this little preface shew it?
My Visions if you scan with care,
'Tis ten to one you'll find it there.
And if my actions suit my song,
You can't in conscience think me wrong.
My lovely girl, I write for you;
And pray believe my Visions true;
They'll form your mind to every grace;
They'll add new beauties to your face:
And when old age impairs your prime,
You'll triumph o'er the spoils of time.
Childhood and youth engage my pen, 'Tis labour lost to talk to men.
Youth may, perhaps, reform, when wrong,
Age will not listen to my song.
He who at fifty is a fool,
Is far too stubborn grown for school.
What is that vice which still prevails,
When almost every passion fails,
Which with our very dawn begun,
Nor ends, but with our setting sun;
Which, like a noxious weed, can spoil
The fairest flow'rs, and choke the soil?
'Tis Slander,-and, with shame I own,
The vice of human-kind alone.
Be Slander then my leading dream,
Though you 're a stranger to the theme;
Thy softer breast, and honest heart,
Scorn the defamatory art;
Thy soul asserts her native skies,
Nor asks Detraction's wings to rise;
In foreign spoils let others shine,
Intrinsic excellence is thine..
The bird, in peacock's plumes who shone,
Could plead no merit of her own:
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