Quick let me hie me to some calm Retreat,
And leave the Fopp'ries of the Vulgar Great;
Pleas'd in myself, and with my little Store,
I'll smile at Fools, however gilded o'er;
There at my Leisure, near a Brook reclin'd,
Refresh my Senses, and regale my Mind;
With Books, with Music, or the friendly Bowl,
Which tune and harmonize the ruffl'd Soul:
Cool Reason there shall teach me to deride,
This School of Folly, and this Source of Pride;
This Sink of Panders, Courtezans, and Cullies;
False Friends, Detractors, Sycophants, and Bullies;
Sharpers, and Lawyers, Stockjobbers, and Knaves;
Self-serving Patriots, ministerial Slaves;
Statesmen and Courtiers, and the motley Tribe,
Of those who give, and those who take the Bribe;
Tawdry lac'd Coxcombs, and insipid Beaus;
To Wit and Merit, those eternal Foes.
O! let me soon in sweet Oblivion drown,
The Noise and Nonsense of this madning Town;
Where upstart Beggars loll in Coach of State,
Advanc'd by Fortune, or Caprice, or Fate;
Where smiling Villains rise by coz'ning Tricks,
Who sneer, at Honour void of Coach and Six:
Where pow'rful Wealth perverts the rightful Case,
And strong Oppression grinds the needy Face:
Where retail Justice proves a thriving Trade;
And perjur'd Bankrupts the strict Laws evade;
With all the rest of the base cheating Crew,
The half-fac'd Christian, and the tricking Jew:
I hate a Villain of whate'er Degree,
Rich tho' he be as -- poor as --;
Illustrious Poverty's more splendid far,
Than all the Glories of a guilty Star:
Here Interest, vile Interest, bears such Sway,
Both Law and Gospel readily obey;
The courtly Prelate and the modish Judge,
That Point in view, incessantly will drudge;
This sooths the Audience with a pleasing Art,
Glosses the Text and does the Sense pervert;
With specious Form the other spies a Flaw,
While gaping Juries swallow all for Law:
The canting Cit ne'er thinks of what's to come,
But damns his Conscience to make up his Plum;
The supple Courtier with the Cit doth vie,
And pawns his Honour to a shuffling Lie:
See the gay Insects fly at Pleasure's Call,
To Routs, to Drums, to Ranelagh, Vauxball;
Where they display their Vanity, and Dress,
And ev'ry sauntring Attitude express;
They buz, they flutter round th'alluring Flame,
Who can th'enamour'd pretty Triflers blame?
See! pamper'd Actors vie with Lords in Wealth,
Cramm'd with the Pence of each mechanic Elf;
Sure they are right, who while they touch the Crown,
Laugh at the Folly of a play-mad Town:
See! mongrel Poets prostitute their Verse,
To please a Patron, or to deck a Hearse:
See! Tradesmen aping Gentry in their Dress,
The Gentry, Lords-where ends the mad Excess?
See! Lords Buffoons-O! 'tis in vain, no more
The endless Follies of the Town explore.
The grosser Vices I forbear to name,
Nor shall my Page be sullied with their Shame;
Say how they act whose Riches speak them blest,
Whose passive Virtues rank them with the best;
Their hoarded Wealth sequester'd, unemploy'd,
They nor enjoy, nor let it be enjoy'd;
Whose narrow Minds absorb'd in meanest Cares,
Ne'er think of making their own Hands their Heirs;
Contracted all in Self, or Second-self,
Dying, bequeath their aggregated Pelf,
T'enrich a Son, (O! high Pursuit in Life)
Or forward Daughter, or a selfish Wife;
To raise a Family, a Phantasm, Name,
Which oft the more perpetuates their Shame;
Or deaf to Cry of Relatives leave all,
Like pious -- -- to an Hospital;
Or else to load with their unweildy Store,
Those partial Fortune had enrich'd before,
For who would give to Merit when 'tis poor:
Their Pride they carry with them to the Grave,
And even there Appearances would save;
Thro' all the distinguish'd Items of their Will,
A Name undubb'd by Wealth would sound but ill;
Thus Young's Muse sings, and what she sings, is plain,
'To merit is but to provide a Pain,
'By Men's refusing what you ought to gain.'
Fools that are honest, if you mean to thrive,
Pimp, flatter, lie, supplant, nay --, --.
How great the Man that's gen'rous and humane,
Who dares be Proof against the Lure of Gain?
Whose Veins are fill'd with well attemper'd Blood,
Whose Virtue's fix'd, not whimsically good;
Fancy nor Fashion to direct the Deed,
But Love to Merit and the Man in Need:
Such is the rare, disinterested Friend,
One who unask'd will his Assistance lend;
Whose Bosom glowing with the heav'nly Flame,
Spares his Friend's Blush the grating Want to name,
But is beforehand with him in his Grants,
And, truly great, anticipates his Wants:
Hail! sacred Friendship, true celestial Fire!
Such as did once our Ancestors inspire;
Their dastard Sons have so refin'd a Sense,
They're tasteless to the Joys it does dispense:
Who'll now retrench from Equipage and Dress,
Curtail superfluous Folly and Excess?
Deny himself his Bottle and his Whore,
And nobly turn the Current of his Store?
Florio shall squander Hundreds on a Punk,
Or with bright Burgundy get madly drunk;
When one poor Moiety, one hundredth Part,
Would cheer the Afflicted, raise the drooping Heart:
Avidien sacrifice his Children's Ease,
A false insinuating Drab to please,
Who if she tells the old Fool that he's young,
What's sweeter than the Music of her Tongue?
Sons, such as these, O! London, thou hast Store,
Then who can say, Astræa is no more!
To what an Height their Virtues will thee raise?
Thrice happy Children who shall see the Days;
Go on and thrive, the same glorious Tracks pursue,
Contagion's dangerous, I bid ye all, Adieu.