The nightly scene of joy the Park was made, This said, on his red heel he turns, and then 130 140 "Well, now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly own "Your boasted London seems a country town: "Has Christianity yet reach'd your nation? "Are churches built? are masquerades in fashion? "Do daily soups your dinners introduce? "Are music, snuff, and coaches, yet in use ?” 150 Like you, our courtiers keep a num'rous train And, as in France, our vulgar crowd the church: Our ladies, too, support the masquerade; The sex, by nature, love th' intriguing trade. Straight the vain fop in ign'rant rapture cries, "Paris the barb'rous world will civilize!" Pray, Sir, point out among the passing band The present beauties who the Town command. "See yonder dame; strict virtue chills her breast, "Mark in her eye demure the prude profest; "That frozen bosom native fire must want "Which boasts of constancy to one gallant! "This next the spoils of fifty lovers wears, "Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears; "The necklace Florio's gen'rous flame bestow'd, "Clitander's sparkling gems her finger load; 160 170 "But how her charms grown cheap by constant use, "She sins for scarfs, clock'd stockings, knots, and "This next, with sober gait and serious leer, [shoes. "Wearies her knees with morn and ev'ning pray'r; "She scorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages, "But with three abbots in one night engages. "This with the cardinal her nights employs, "Where holy sinews consecrate her joys. "Why have I promis'd things beyond my pow'n? "Five assignations wait me at this hour: "The sprightly countess first my visit claim, "To-morrow shall indulge inferior dames. "Pardon me, Sir, that thus I take my leave, "Gay Florimella slily twitch'd my sleeve."' Adieu, Monsieur---The op'ra hour draws near. Not see the op'ra! all the world is there; Where on the stage th' embroider'd youth of France In bright array attract the female glance: This languishes, this struts, to show his mien, And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen. But, hark! the full orchestra strike the strings; The hero struts, and the whole audience sings. 190 My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound, Then turning round, he join'd th' ungrateful noise, 210 ! So strongly with this prejudice possest, He thinks French music and French painting best. Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives; 'Tis true, his country's love transports his breast With warmer zeal than your old Greeks profest. Ulysses lov'd his Ithaca of yore, Yet that sage trav'ller left his native shore. I'm not so fond. There are, I must confess, But let me not forget Corneille, Racine, 220 230 Boileau's strong sense, and Moliere's num'rous scene. 240 Hear, all ye Princes! who the world control, What cares, what terrors, haunt the tyrant's soul; His people he protects, their rights he saves, 250 You'll think 'tis time some other theme to chuse, And not with beaus and fops fatigue the Muse. Should I let satire loose on English ground, There fools of various character abound; But here my verse is to one race confin'd, All Frenchmen are of petit-maitre kind. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PAUL METHUEN, ESQ. THAT 'tis encouragement males science spread, When learning droops and sickens in the land, Volume 1. C 260 |